Heinrich stood shield to shield with the man next to him, trying desperately to wipe the sweat out of his eyes his the back of a gloved hand. He raised it to his eye and saw that it was shaking, rightly so, he was terrified.

The bastardly inquisition had attacked in the night, managing to push their drunk sentries off the wall and force the bulk of the fighting into the courtyard. Now the bandit force had been reduced to isolated pockets of resistance. His guarded the entrance to the tavern, they stood around the large double doors clutching shields defiantly as the watched the enemy jeer, it seemed like they were trying to psyche themselves up to a charge.

Contrary to popular belief shield combat was often quite static, with both sides pushing each other hoping for a break, it was a type of combat in which if a single man broke the line the entire formation would dissolve, it was risky business involving much trust. He could see why so many of his brothers got drunk before battle.

Heinrich was broken from his inner tirade as one of the enemy sergeants yelled something derogatory toward his group's mothers. He was attempting to get them to charge, it was true that 2/3 charges never actually met the enemy line as either the attackers or defenders would break and run. Fighting was dirty, brutal and thankless work. Especially for a grunt.

Heinrich turned backwards, disdain clear in his eyes as he watched the man, Cursac standing leisurely in the back line, his eyes scanning the enemy formations. Heinrich hated him, he was the one who had convinced him to join these bastards, to leave the farm and his family for a chance at adventure. Heinrich scowled, all he had ever found was blood and death.

Heinrich saw as Cursac's eyes began to widen he then turned back to the enemy and noticed why.

"Steady men they're charging!" Bellowed Cursac from the tavern steps, his hand was unconsciously twitching toward his sword belt. A habit he had developed in the army.

Heinrich braced himself against both the ground and the man behind him, trying hard to ignore how the other man's breath smelt of beer and rot.

The inquisition charged home, their griffin tabarded troops clashing against a wall of mismatched armour, shields and spears. Heinrich ducked his head and held his shield with every ounce of might that he had. His place was not to attack, he was the front line. His lot was just to defend, defend and pray. He closed his eyes in terror, hoping to ignore the deadly dance of steel above his head.

"Hold, hold!" Repeated Cursac as he shifted uncomfortably, unused at being so close to the fighting.

"Aim for the legs, the legs!" Yelled a weasel voiced inquisition commander from behind the enemy lines. His words elicited a round of screams from the bandit line as the first row of the enemy lashed out with daggers and short swords at the bandit shield bearers unprotected legs.

Heinrich was not exempt from this treatment, feeling his leg go numb as a short sword cut deep into his knee. He went down no longer knowing which way was up, he heard screaming before being surprised that it was his own. He fell into the mud, one of the worst places for a soldier to be in a battle, the reason. Trampling.

Heinrich lived for 40 more minutes, watching grimly as the bandit lines slowly became smaller and smaller. Only making a sound when another armoured foot landed on him.

He fell unconscious from the pain, killed later when the victors cleaned the battlefield. A stab under the armpit and into the heart, it was a quick death. His last thoughts were of home.

-----

Cursac POV

Cursac cursed as he watched the front line of shields fall, the battle was now over. He knew it, the men knew it. The only thing keeping them from running was the knowledge that majority of casualties happened in a rout. That and having nowhere to go. Cursac had no such problems.

He turned back and walked briskly into the tavern, closing the large wooden doors and placing the plank over them, locking them in place.

That should hold them for a time. He thought, showing no remorse in the face of abandoning his men and the occasional death scream.

Some would call this act cowardice, Cursac would call it a father's love. He had to save his son. Cursac was under no illusion on what they would do to the boy if they found him. They thought him evil. They thought him unholy! Cursac spat, the only evil here was they who come between a father and his son.

Cursac walked into the room urgently calling for his boy.

"Viktor, we need to leave, those bad people I told you about are here and..." He trailed off as he saw what was left of the room Viktor had once resided in. The pedestal was cracked, there was a hole in the wall and the ground was disturbed and covered in deep furrows. There had been a struggle here.

Cursac fell to his knees, coming to the conclusion that they had sent an assassin here to kill Viktor. Coming in through a hole in the wall before fighting with any creation Viktor might have made in his defence. Then they... Then they killed him.

Cursac wept bitter tears. Cursing his men, for how else could the inquisition have known Viktor's location. Cursing himself for not arriving in time and most of all? Most of all he cursed the world for taking Viktor away from him a second time. Cursac didn't move as he heard the door being smashed open. He didn't care when he heard foot-steps begin to descend the stairs. All he did was kneel and weep for his son.

Cursac was killed by a sword strike from behind, he never saw his assailant, his eyes were closed in acceptance. As he died he had one final thought. I'm coming Viktor. I'll meet you in hell my son.