Magebane crested the rocky peaks of the Old Hill, cursing that bear of a bartender with each painful step.
Magebane underestimated that dumb brute of a bartender. Turns out, he knew how to put his weight behind his punches, and was smart in his fighting. Who knew?
Magebane should. He should've known better. The war ravaged all corners of Nemesis, from the far freezing peaks of Helmman's End to the scorching desert of Baraby. From the sprawling metropolitan of Rakkendolf to the quietest Shepeste.
Every man and woman in the Empire suffered from the war. Every able bodied man or woman would've done something about it. That bear of a bartender was evidently able bodied. It wouldn't be an impossibility that he took up arms in his youthful days in the war.
Underestimating your enemies was a mistake, and oftentimes it could be your last.
Magebane found the skeleton of a once magnificent building, its walls jutting slanted from the earth. He sank to the ground and rested his weary head upon it, chest raising and falling as he caught his breath.
A distant clamour of sound rid him of any rest, however. Men working by the hundred, it sounded like. Tools banging, metal against rock. Mayhem in the night.
Magebane listened closely and recognized the sound of pickaxes hitting rock, shovels biting into soil, hammers pinning nails into place, and men shouting orders and taking orders.
He jumped to his feet, exhaustion gone from his systems, and he looked to the slopes of the hill. What he saw made his jaw slack.
The militia had made a barricade. At its front, stakes lined the whole length of the barricade. They were dug deep and steady like deep rooted trees. They were sharpened to fine points, all sticking out ready to skewer attackers. They were neatly lined like disciplined Nemesian legionnaires, unwavering, never breaking.
Behind them were a short wall of dug out earth and wooden supports. Magebane could see a hundred or so spears, the literal ones, poking out from behind. They were no doubt the militia waiting and resting in the safety of the barricade.
Flanking the barricade were raised platforms made of dug out earth and wooden planks. Hunters were placed there, their high elevation and abundance of torches giving them ample vision. Their arrows lay nocked on the bow, ready to be drawn and loosed at a moment's notice.
If Magebane dared to step foot into their circle of light, they would turn him into pincushion. If Magebane managed to get past them, he'd have to negotiate the spear-like stakes. If Magebane did get past them, he'd have to climb the wall and face a hundred spears ready and waiting. And there was no way around it. The barricade sat nice and neat at a chokepoint, hugged by impassable mounds of buildings and rocky hills.
It was an impregnable pass.
Magebane turned and left, climbing further into the Old Hill. No good comes from staying near the barricade. The enemy could mount a skirmish and harass him, while having a safe spot to retreat into.
Magebane crossed the Old Hill, towards the eastern passage, away from the accursed militia and their barricade.
However, he was greeted by a similar sight. Stakes, wall, spears, and platforms. All inside a chokepoint. All made in exactly the same order and fashion as the previous.
He was sweating profusely now, and it wasn't from his wound.
He crossed the hill again, towards the western face. His gait no longer paced, but impatient and careless. He nearly tripped on the uneven earth and had to right himself with the butt of his spear, as if he's an old man with a walking stick.
Again. Stakes, wall, spears, and platforms. All in a chokepoint. All identical to the rest.
Now he ran. He ran to the north. His heart leapt with joy when no torches lit the slopes of the north. It was safe and dark. No stakes, no walls, no spears, no platform. Nothing, not even a single soul in sight.
But Magebane began to doubt.
It was the perfect ambush. Close any possible escape save for one, and the enemy would surely take it.
Perhaps they hid in the shadows like wolves, waiting to pounce at him and rip him to shreds the moment he was foolish enough to step foot into their domain.
It would've been the perfect ambush.
Magebane swallowed, feeling his throat dry like the surface of the Old Hill itself.
He strained his eyes and stepped closer to the edge, trying to get a better look, trying to discern if any soul was there waiting for him.
There was none. No Shepestian lying in wait. Not a single soul in sight to keep the northern face secured.
Because they didn't need to.
Magebane looked down. The northern side of the hill was a sheer drop, more like a cliff's face than a hill's slope. It was made up of hard, sharp rocks. Steep, flat face from where he now stood to the bottom.
Magebane would never imagine challenging this cliff in his best state. And good luck carrying his weapons and equipment with him.
One wrong slip would send him into an unstoppable tumble down the cliff. The sharp rock would tear him apart along the way. The hard stones of dead buildings would break his bones and send him flying. The final drop would smother him, turning him into a splatter of blood on the earth.
Even watching the bottom made him sick. Magebane's mind flashed back to his tumble down a rocky hill fighting Corvus' men the first time. He had no intention of repeating it on a cliff.
Magebane stepped back from the cliff face. He felt nauseous. He felt like teetering and letting his body fall off the cliff.
His breath went quick and hissing. His eyes darted around, panic setting in his heart.
An impassable northern face, and the rest were choked by barricades. The Shepestians knew the Old Hill like the back of their hand. They knew every route negotiable and every route unnegotiable.
They saw their advantage and put good use to it.Now they had him penned in like a caged animal.
A cold wind swept by.
Magebane felt cold. Terribly cold. And it wasn't just from the wind. He was cold from the dreadful realisation that slowly descended.
A siege.
This was a siege.
He fucking hated sieges.
Give him pitched battles. Give him an impossible charge to enemy ranks. Give him the press of bodies as the forces clash at the centre. Give him the battlefield.
But don't give Magebane a siege.
Sieges. They're not the kind of battle that was resolved in an hour or two. It took months to conclude, years even. And it wasn't time spent happily.
Sieges meant sharing the air with a thousand unwashed bodies pressed into closed fortifications. Food supplies dwindled, forcing soldiers to ration, loot the populace, or eat things you shouldn't. Sometimes all of the above. Germs and viruses of all kinds mixing in the unsanitary enclosed space, infecting weak and wounded men. The defenders drier than a desert, their water sources poisoned by the enemy, or gone foul with the dead bodies.
He thought fighting for Nemesis would take him to sweeping adventures. To daring charges to the forces of evil. To impossible pitched battles. To glory. They all thought that, the Heroes.
But what they got was siege after siege after siege.
Magebane retreated into the safer part of the Old Hill. He broke away from the narrow alleys and winding paths of the broken buildings and into a wide, square space.
He reckoned it was a town square back in its glory days, where hawkers would clog up the square with their carts and stands and fill the air with their loud voices. Buyers would come and go, filling the place with life. The fountain at its centre would've sprayed fresh, cool water that would've sparkled under the glinting sun.
Now Magebane crossed the wide space, empty of life. His heavy footfalls echoed emptily. His shadow stretched long under the moonlight. The old fountain lay broken, drier than the surface of the moon, its water spent long ago.
Magebane walked towards a hollow chapel—his shelter. Chinks of pale moonlight spilled into the darkness of the chapel from the dozen holes on the roofs, the walls, and the gaping windows. The wide floor was lined with flagged stone, cold like the snows of the north. The high-reaching walls were made of plain and cold render. A great tapestry hung tilted at the far wall, the golden skull of Nemesis stitched into it, tattered and slashed. No moth or decay ate it. This chapel was as unnatural as the rest of the Old Hill.
On the corner of the chapel was a makeshift camp, and beside it Magebane's supplies, or rather all kinds of things he stole from the Shepestians during his unwanted stay.
He searched through them with little hope, feeling ill when he saw his dwindling supply.
His bag was filled with bloody rags and dried rags with brown dried blood. He was out of bandages. He was out of stitches.
He was out of food and water, most of all. The last of his food were spoiled, and his waterskin only held a small number of drops left.
Open wounds, little food, and a drying source of water. That could mean malnutrition. That could mean infection That could mean diseases.
If he caught a disease, he doubted a kind doctor in Shepeste would be willing to tend to his wound. He'd probably prescribe Magebane with a healthy dose of scalpel through the neck instead.
That is, if this sorry town would have a man literate enough to be a doctor in the first place.
It couldn't get worse than this.
Magebane paused.
It, in fact, could.
Skirmishers. A small group of Shepestians could venture from the safety of the barricade to hunt him down and retreat before he could even know what hit him.
That thought sent Magebane into an alert. His thoughts raced and bounced around in his head as he pondered about it.
There was a possibility the militia sent a skirmisher. But would they? They shouldn't have something like that.
The militia? He'd seen them in action. They lack discipline, breaking off formations, chasing after a fleeing foe. He'd cut them down like he did.
The hunters, maybe, but they were not experienced with real warfare. They never fought against something that fought back, that had a bigger brain than a deer, that had opposable thumbs that could hold a and throw a spear back. Additionally, the abundance of hiding places, behind jutting rocks, underneath crevices, and empty buildings would be heaven for Magebane and a nightmare to them.
Magebane had seen the Shepestian guards, too often and too closely than he'd like for the past few days of his hiding. They were heavily armed and armoured, with good ringmail, gambeson, and some even sporting plates. They would have a hard time negotiating the rocky hills, and when they do reach Magebane they'd already lose their breath and would be easy pickings for his spear.
The horsemen could be a powerful skirmishing unit in a plain field, but it would be deadly to them and the riders to gallop here. They'd be reduced to walking at the speed of men, and that would just put them at a disadvantage. At that point, the horse would only make a bigger target for Magebane's spear.
Ideally, the Shepestians would send skirmishers. But realistically, they were underhanded.
There was no chance they'd send skirmishers. He can rest—
Then he felt it. A prickle in the air. Like the calm before a storm. Or the smell before a rain. A stench. A sound. Electric.
Magic.
Magebane gripped the shaft of his spear until his knuckles went white.
There was one person that could be a skirmisher. One that could surpass human ability and limitations. One that could hit him with one good spell and end it all.
A sorcerer.