Alric was not expecting to find a host of men to join him in his hunt for the heretics considering that his homeland of Tritania was currently locked in bitter war with their neighbours in Lacreau. Despite his doubts, he rode to Rochester, the closest garrison of Tritan men, to solicit assistance in his pursuit. The master of Rochester was Baron Antony of Kirshire, a rather wealth-hungry noble of middle status. He insisted that Alric pay the wages for these men while they were in the Church's service, as well as direct some interest his way.

Alric was not pleased to deal with such affairs once again. Life in noble court did not suit him...it was partially why he turned his back on his family and devoted himself instead to God. As a servant of God forbidden to possess his own wealth and sworn to poverty by the First Attestation, he was not exactly bursting at the seams with gold. All the money he carried were charitable donations, only to be used for services during his travels.

Sir Olin of Eaglesham was a knight vassal serving the King of Tritania Roger IV and was overseeing the defence of Rochester due to its proximity to the current front. He also owned lands in the surrounding area.

It turned out that his fiefs were being pillaged, thus unable to steadily pay the rents owed to him. The interesting part was that it was not the Lacron who were raiding his lands. When Alric came requesting aid, Sir Olin thought the heretics the only explanation. He was hellbent on finding the culprits enough to lend himself and a fraction of the garrison to the quest without pay. Seeing as Ulvor had kidnapped the last surviving heretic, it was clear to Alric that the woodsman sought out their demonists for himself to find his son. His supposition was simple; find the heretics, find Ulvor.

Alric trudged through the wood, his visor open. In his hands was a pollaxe, a two-handed weapon that excelled in the battlefield. As its name suggests, it was an axe with a long shaft and a spearhead at its tip. On the backend of the axe blade was a spiked hammer; excellent for damaging plate.

In large-scale combat, one would rather be armed with a weapon such as this than a sword. Despite their prevalence in tales and plays, swords were secondary weapons on the battlefield. Especially in the modern age of warfare where brigandine or even sections of plate armour were affordable for common soldiers, swords simply did not possess the necessary raw impact to deal with these advanced armours unless they were used in close quarters to penetrate gaps.

The reverse hammer on a pollaxe could tear holes through plate armour if used correctly, and unlike when using a sword, injury to the wearer does not necessarily require piercing their harness.

To his right was Ser Olin and his men-at-arms. Olin was the only other man present clad in full plate. Some other wealthier soldiers had portions of plate, whether a cuirass or vambraces, but none were rich enough for a complete set.

Unlike Alric's rather simple armour that was naked steel and beheld minimal decorative shapings, Olin's plate was lined with gold flourishes and held a deep blue hue. An incredibly particular technique of heat treating allowed a master smith to colour steel this way.

Atop Olin's armour was a tabard; a short garment that extended down to his upper thighs and was tied around the waist with a leather belt. Olin's tabbard bore a design featuring quarters of green and gold with a black crescent moon in the centre. His men-at-arms brandished similar heraldry on their shields.. However, since the garrison of Rochester consisted of men gathered from all across Tritania, a rainbow of heraldry painted the small army.

The armoured men pushed through the branches and scoured the earth for any signs of activity. Alric could hear the shouting of others in the party as they attempted to coordinate themselves in the thickets.

"Worry not, thy quarry is near," Olin called over the sound of his plated form rustling through the shrubbery. "No creature walks this grove. Someone has stirred them."

Alric shook his head then cried back, "I shall cease my worrying when we have confiscated the heads of these demonists and set ablaze their wretched hive."

This had been the fourth hour of searching. Alric's body began to feel the weight of his armour. Unlike Olin, Alric was bound by the Rite of Arming. Until the moon was at its apex in the sky when he could recite the closing verse, it would be heresy for him to remove his harness.

Years of practising this Second Attestation was taking its toll on his body. He could feel every step becoming more and more difficult. This enduring form of self-flagellation was a test of each man's endurance, both physical and spiritual. The pain one willingly endures is monument to his devotion, Alric thought to himself in an effort to push himself through the trial.

Unlike the forests surrounding Oak that glowed vibrant shades of green and full browns, the trees in the Grey Stretch were wretched splinters; pathetic skeletons of flora that appeared to be coated in a thick layer of ash.

The grass mirrored the trees in how they were as dry as sand. Despite what the terrain would indicate, the air made Alric feel as if his blood was in the process of freezing.

Tangled branches splayed out from the spindly trees, easily snapped by Alric as he pushed his pollaxe's shaft onward. The crunching of sticks at his sides informed him that his compatriots were holding formation.

A hasty pair of footsteps grew in volume, causing Alric to slow and turn his head. A footman jogged over to Sir Olin, skidding to a halt by his side. "My lord, one of tha Northern parties found somethin'. A fort."

This man was William Taylor, Sergeant in Ser Olin's forces. Everyone called him 'Bugface Bill' for the nasally sound of his voice as well as his particularly squashed face. The man cared not, he appeared too preoccupied with running the army to be distracted by crude words.

Olin nodded. Bill Taylor cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, "We go North! North!"

Several other infantrymen further down the line repeated Olin's orders to ensure that the entire group received word that they were redirecting. When men were spread dozens of metres apart from each other, it would be easy for one to get lost or left behind.

Much to his dismay, Alric turned with the rest of the band and went back toward where they came.

The only time his piety was tested was in times like these, where he could feel his body failing him. He wanted the aching to stop. He wanted the strain on his joints to end. He desperately wanted to give up...but memories of harsher things inched him further away from the edge. Strolling the woods is a game compared to watching men, women, and children die on the road to the Holy Land. If I surmounted that labour, this one shall fare no better.

Eventually, the West detachment carved around and flanked the subject of the North team's message. In the pockmarked flat up ahead that had been cleared of trees was a wooden fortress. Thick logs of timber were strung up tightly by rope and lined into tall battlements that stood five metres tall.

Wooden pikes were mounted upon the upper walls and upon them were dozens of naked corpses. Impaled and left to die. Over the course of hours, the spike slowly works its way up the anal or vaginal orifice, through the insides, and eventually penetrates outward via the mouth, chest, or back.

Alric swallowed as he saw the dozens of people, men and women alike, stuck like pigs. Most of them did not move...but there were a handful of unfortunates that attempted to struggle free. Their screams scraped at Alric's bones. In the face of such barbaric cruelty, Alric trembled as he gestured the Sign of the Pillar by tapping his forehead then his chest.

"T-Tha screamin' drew 'em closer," reported Bugface.

Alric averted his eyes and instead looked to Olin. He was frozen in sheer terror. He could tell that the old knight had not seen too many horrors in his time.

Alric gently nudged an elbow into the Olin's side. "There is good fortune to be found in this abhorrence, kinsman. If not for their pained wails, perhaps we would not have stumbled upon them."

Olin eventually came around. "They have taken Tvatch...cursed fools. Prepare thyself for assault, Ser Alric. When we strike the apostates down, thou shalt immediately see to it that the slighted be committed to the next life."

The holy knight nodded sombrely. As Knight Thestor, Alric was bound to nurture the faith as a holy man. As well as persecuting the criminals of the Church, he would lead sermons, commit the dead to the earth, preach the Scripture, and marry those who seek union beneath God’s eyes.

It did not appear to Alric that the heretics knew of the hostile force gathering in the forest. Even had they known, there was not much to be done. Archers could have fired upon the Tritan men from the safety of the fort, but arrows are finite. It would be stupid to waste arrows on a foe that is well-armoured, well-covered, and out of range.

However, the heretics would eventually be alerted when the footmen began to gather dry sticks and bark. Since the fortress was wood, there was a weapon that would make short work of its main gate.

The North, West, East, and South scouting parties all converged and combined into one army of a hundred men. At this point, a watchman on the wall raised the alarm consequently allowing Alric to spot rows of heads emerging atop the battlements.

Despite its intimidating stature, Alric's war-tested eye could ascertain that the fort was not built by anyone who had a rounded understanding of defensible structures. There were no crenellations atop the walls; the gaps on castle walls that allowed archers to easily peek out of cover to fire at attackers. The small portions of wall that divided each crenel, the merlons, would have been excellent pieces of cover for the heretics but unfortunately for them, the fort was ill-conceived. When each side's archers would begin to fire off at each other, Alric wagered that the lack of crenels and merlons would cripple the heretics' efficiency.

Formed up on Alric's left was a cluster of allied archers, each armed with the impressive Tritan longbow. This weapon possessed an average draw weight of one hundred and eighty pounds or eighty kilograms. To have the skill and endurance to repeatedly fire such a bow required a life of training and impressive strength. Alric could perhaps loose two arrows with that kind of warbow before becoming fatigued; it was an altogether different kind of physical might than what was used in hand to hand fighting.

These archers stood near one of the bonfires awaiting the order to fire.

"Thestor," bellowed one of them.

Alric cocked his head as he approached. The archer was a wide, muscular man. He needed to be if he was going to put that bow to use effectively.

With a nod, Alric asked, "How may I be of service?"

"I was wonderin' if you could be so kind as ta bless my bow before the battle."

The knight rested his pollaxe against a nearby tree, then removed a vial of holy water from his belt pouch. "Certainly, my son. Thy name?"

"John Stanton, brother."

Other archers gathered around as Alric pulled the plug on his holy water vessel and dabbed some onto his finger. He extended his hand, gesturing for Stanton's bow. The archer quickly handed it over without delay.

As he took the yew bow in his left hand, Alric ran the fingertips of his right hand, damp with holy water, down the bowstring. "Lord, we are gathered here to enforce thy almighty will upon those who have slighted thy children. Grant this bow, the instrument of John Stanton, strength enough to smite the infidels who spit upon your creation."

Stanton eagerly received his bow, but before he could say anything, more Tritans edged in and asked for blessings, both archers and infantrymen He continued to sanctify their weapons with the same prayer he uttered to Stanton, whether they were bows, hammers, maces, halberds, bardiches, or pollaxes.

When the deeds were finally done, the Knight Thestor took solace in the fact that many of his countrymen had the desire for the Lord’s comfort. Oftentimes I lose hope in the future of my fellow man...then I am reminded of his ongoing devotion to God. I see again that he deserves life for he is grateful to He who is supreme.

After the crowd of devotees around him dispersed, Alric returned to his position within the mass of infantrymen. At the front of this formation was a wall of shield-bearing soldiers who covered the pikemen and halberdiers standing behind them. Alric and the other more well-equipped men-at-arms comprised the armoured section. Ser Olin was going to hold position in the forest in case the plan failed.

"Loose!"

Alric didn't know who called the order, but it promptly travelled down the line and every pocket of archers repeated it aloud.

They brandished their specialised incendiary arrows, dunked the heads in oil, set them alight, then nocked them against the bowstring until it was taught.

Some found their aim faster than others but soon enough, dozens of bright yellow specks travelled the vast field between the tree line and the fort. As they impacted on the gate of the fort, their fire became contagious.

The archers only had so many incendiary arrows so once they had been expended, the men had no choice but to wait and see if their flaming barrage was enough to soften the hardwood logs.

It ate away at the pillars of timber and periodically some defenders would hurl buckets of water onto this cancerous growth. All of this mattered not; the fire grew faster than the disorganised men could douse it and thus the gate began to blacken and crack.

Alric often forgot how much of battle was just waiting. Now though, he was reminded bluntly. For almost an hour, the Tritan army watched the fire crumple and fold the main gate. Now, the Tritans had to allow it to die out so they could attack. Surely, the defenders managed to quench the fire but its work had been done; a portion of the barricade had fallen, and the army had their point of entrance.

"Infantry, advance!" cried Bugface.

The knight took this moment to lower his visor, surrounding himself in near-complete blackness. As if they were one, the mass of footmen began to march forward. Alric walked shoulder to shoulder with other armoured fighters; they were bunched together so tightly that there was no room to fall. If you stumbled, your allies would prop you upright. It gave him an odd sense of comfort despite the circumstances. For years he had mostly been fighting alone on his aimless quest...now to have brethren in arms once again, steeled his resolve.

The approach was slow. Forty people striding together, maintaining their formation and showing no gaps between their bodies, were sure to advance at a 'leisurely' pace.

Alric's breathing was shallow and the loudest thing his ears beheld. Beneath it was the somewhat soft clanking of his plate armour and the rustling of his mail. Softer still were the same sounds repeated tenfold, once for each soldier in the detachment.

Arrows finally came spearing into the mass of men from the surviving battlements. They slammed into shields and pinged off armour. Grunting and some pained cries could be heard beneath the cacophony of shifting armour. Some lucky shots must have found areas covered only by mail or gambeson; a heavily strung bow could pierce either.

A jarring impact slammed the upper right side of Alric's face, snapping his head backwards and flinging him back into the body of the man behind him.

"C'mon, up you get...!" grunted the soldier.

Pain seared Alric's face and neck as he was righted by his fellow Tritan. He had felt that before; the pounding of an arrow.

The characteristic 'thump' of arrows embedding themselves into wood filled the air. Alric could barely see what was happening up ahead as the shoulders and weapons of his brothers in arms encapsulated his field of view. He could only assume that the Tritan archers had started firing back at the heretics, with some stray arrows lodging themselves into the timber log wall.

Some defenders dropped behind the battlements; it was unclear to Alric at this angle whether they were hit by arrows or simply sought cover. It was logical to assume it to be a share of both.

The attacking force was now close enough to the fort for Alric to gaze into the eyes of the defending infantry. They wore mail, gambeson, leather, and some brigandine. Shields were raised at the front of the regiment, but the rest of their formation appeared too spaced out. They were evidently not well-trained.

Once more, arrows came downward from the walls as well as from through the gap in it that the fire had gouged.

When the shield walls collided, Alric was rammed into his brothers and subjected to the occasional arrow impact. Those behind thrust him forward, causing him to shove against the man in front. Every soldier in the formation lent their mass to the push while the men with spears and halberds jabbed at the heretics from behind the shield wall. Simultaneously, the enemy was handing out attacks of their own to anyone within range.

It seemed that the only sensation that Alric's body was capable of processing at that moment was pain. The arrows fell mainly on his head and shoulders, buffeting him like steel rain. They would not pierce his plate armour but they still hurt, especially after repeated shots. Also, they needn't penetrate his armour to kill him; the natural gaps at his neck, armpits as well as his visor slits served as potential entry points for the missiles. As a result of this ongoing fire, his spine was sore. His ears were filled with ringing.

This continued for twenty minutes. Of course, the arrows slowed, but the crushing tug of war only intensified. There were no duels on the battlefield. It was a place for the contest of army against army, not man against man; a measure of endurance and cohesion. Alric had not even faced an enemy combatant yet and he was fatigued from the constant pushing and incoming missiles.

Eventually, after what felt to be an eternity, Alric felt the tide of men shift. His weight began to teeter forward. The Tritan men began to advance, barging through the heretic assembly. A rousing chorus of roars was thrown forth by the Tritan invaders, lighting a fire within Alric's heart.

The fortress walls grew larger and the wave of allied men wrapped around the heretics that were lost when their line was routed.

Alric brought his pollaxe up and led with the queue, the bottom of its shaft. An apostate was unlucky enough to have turned his back on the knight. He swept the pole arm around, hurling the razor-sharp axe blade into the man's back. The weapon dug deep but didn't make a sound amidst the screaming, roaring, and smashing of the battle around Alric. He pulled the pollaxe free, causing the soldier to fall onto his face.

Alric didn't have time to take in his surroundings, he simply advanced, cutting down any other routed apostates on his way to keep up with the rest of the formation. In large-scale combat, it didn't matter how skilled you were. If you fell behind, you became one man fighting against dozens. On an open field, an elite knight would always be gutted by ten peasants, no matter what the tales say. Ten men would not take turns to attack if they had adequate space; it is a fantasy to expect them to do so. The greatest knight of all time could be struck in the back of the neck as he defended his front.

The vanguard was struggling against a handful of defenders who managed to hold back their charge. All the while, the heretics lashed out with axe strikes which caught allied shields and spat splinters over the immediate area. Alric and his line crept up behind the friendly shield formation. The soldier in front of him nodded and pulled to the side, allowing Alric the space he needed.

Twirling the pollaxe in his hands, Alric readied the hammer end of the deadly weapon. Several bruising strikes rammed into Alric's plated shoulders, head, and mid-section but he continued forward and swung his weapon in an overhead arc.

With a crunch, the spikes punched through the steel helmet protecting the axeman's head. Without hesitation, the Tritans lunged forward and harnessed the opening in order to lay waste to the rest of the men in the line that was now broken.

The enemies who focused on attacking Alric were dispatched by the Tritan footmen who hacked at their armpits, necks, and groins in an attempt to bypass their armour.

Alric wrenched his pollaxe free of the mutilated helmet and pressed the advantage alongside his kinsmen.

Once within the embrace of his fellow Tritans, Alric was able to send his eyes about the township of Tvatch. Wattle and daub structures with straw roofs lined the interior of the fortified walls. A number of these had burned to the ground during the incendiary arrow barrage. Pigs and chickens ran madly about, freed from their pens by the commotion.

The heretic forces had regrouped around the central structure; a keep made of stone. It had one entrance which was now covered by a dense ocean of fifty men.

Some Tritans had fallen during the approach, but Ser Olin had sent several archer detachments forward as relief. Their presence was evident when arrows descended from the timber battlements and found their marks on several of the lowly armoured defending heretics.

Judging by how no more arrows were flung his way, Alric concluded that the heretics had depleted their reserves.

The two sides hesitantly inched towards each other. Contrary to popular belief, most people did not want to die. That fact dictated the flow of combat; it could become incredibly meticulous. Both forces were winded; not a condition that promoted aggressive charges into the enemy's striking range.

Alric's entire being was already enflamed. His skull ached, his muscles felt loose, and his fingers trembled. With each pulse of pressure applied to his back by his compatriots, his endurance drained. Even the blows that were diverted by his armour had their toll. They all chipped away at him, little by little.

Alric was now at the front line, flanked by the shield-bearers and backed up by spearmen and halberdiers. The Tritan force slowly advanced, causing the heretics to do the same.

The influence of fear started to flow through the knight's veins like poison. It was human nature to avoid death. A soldier's purpose was to defy this, to willingly approach it.

When the enemy was within reach, Alric lashed forward with his pollaxe. The blade found the helmet of an opposing soldier, glancing off its curved surface. It briefly stunned the heretic but did not deal any notable damage.

Clanks denoting more blows catching shields or armour permeated the air. Alric managed to parry several strikes with the shaft of his weapon, the ones he didn't were softened to futility by his plate. The pain from the percussive damage began to mount, however.

Alric's grasp on the world around him began to slip. He felt only the enemy before him and the weight of the pollaxe in his arms. Time became a misty blur.

He didn't know if he killed anyone else in the remainder of the battle. It became so chaotic, so fierce, that the people around him morphed into one titanic tide of human bodies. Faceless, shapeless. Alric struck again and again, neither aware nor caring if his blows were fatal. He could feel his knees buckle beneath him, his fingers threatening to loosen and forsake the shaft of his weapon.

As he was upon the verge of collapse, Alric finally returned to his body. With their backs against the keep, the heretics were flattened against the wall with no room to manoeuvre.

Alric watched as the pinned enemies were squashed by the unrelenting advance of the Tritan army. He was swept forth within the ocean of soldiers, thrusting the spearhead of his pollaxe into the shapeless cloud of bodies.

Weapons fell to the ground with staccato clangs and pleads for mercy were made.

At that point, men from the Tritan front line pried open the gate to the keep and poured inside.

Watching the infidels as they raised their hands in surrender, Alric kicked away what weapons he could; he was not willing to trust the honour of those who had renounced God.

"Thou hath betrayed the faith and committed crimes against heaven. What say thee?" Alric pressed.

There was naught but silence in response.

The Knight Thestor huffed in frustration.

"Milord," called a voice from behind.

Alric glanced over his shoulder to see that the party raiding the keep had emerged quite unceremoniously. "Ain't no one inside."

"Thou art certain?"

"Aye, I swear it. Ain't a large place," replied the soldier.

Alric turned back to the heretics who were now being disarmed by the Tritans. As their helmets and armor were removed, it was evident that what was left was no real army.

They were teenagers. Children. Girls included. One of the older ones, a young man, sneered at the knight.

The vanguard and the bulk of the defence were men. Adults. The quality of their training left much to be desired, but Alric knew that they were not the rabble of younger people he now saw before him. Those men, those who should be responsible for the safety of the children, placed weapons in their hands and clouded their minds with lies so they would die for heretical rhetoric.

His blood freezing, Alric was left reeling from the revelation.

Alric pointed at the impaled bodies. "Is this thy doing?"

"They were liars. Like you and yer bloody church," spat the heretic. "If we are to return to what we were meant to be, it all must be wiped clean."

"Thou hast been...led astray."

"No. You're the lost one. Scared of everythin' yer don't understand. Us? We fear nothing."

"Not even death?"

"What is death to one who has never lived?" The child's voice lost the commoner accent that it had held before, as if he was repeating something often said to him.

"So be it. I see that thou art beyond redemption," Alric muttered coldly. He turned his attention to his fellow soldiers. "These children have been seduced by the devil. They serve Hell, and Hell alone. Take their heads; that is God's command!"

The men around him hesitated. Some were already convinced by the sight of impaled civilians littering the battlements. They readied their blades.

The majority of the heretic children showed no fear. Some began to sob incessantly, begging for mercy. "'Tis time to receive the fate of those who betray our faith."