Alric and a party of fifteen men were dispatched to one of the many tombs surrounding Tvatch to search for any sign of the remaining heretics, while the greater force continued to hold the village. The knight wasn’t thrilled to be called upon immediately after participating in battle, but he could not refuse. Pain still coursed through his very fibre…but he could not deny these infidels punishment in death.

He and the other Tritans lay in wait within the embrace of a thicket. Although not too far removed from the Grey Stretch, this place was vibrant with foliage. The grass swept up against the men's knees, and in the distance, the chirping of birds laced the cool air.

Barely ten paces away was a stone dome with an arched entryway. It must have been the ancient site. Entering these places was considered taboo by the Church; God is said to have no power within.

Alric would not be able to move much; he made too much noise in his plate armour, much to the irritation of his scouting party. Most did not seem fond of the religious requirement for him to wear heavy armour for a scouting mission.

He simply remained still and allowed the others to seek line of sight on the enemy.

The man to his side, George Harland, seemed physically unruly for the entirety of the time he was close to Alric.

With a heavy sigh, the Knight Thestor whispered, “Is something wrong, kinsman?”

Harland remained silent.

“If thou hath misgivings, best voice them now.”

“They were children. Children. How...how can we be sure that God wished them dead?”

Alric nodded slowly. “Heresy is heresy. Least of all, this was devil worship.”

Harland's eyes glazed over.

“The punishment for devilry is to be burned alive at the stake. Be grateful that I granted them mercy."

Bugface Bill promptly added, “George, tha ones responsible are whoever filled their ‘eads with that piss.”

Suddenly, there was a whistle; one of the archers had spotted something.

“I see one. Just one,” whispered John Stanton. “What's a heretic meant ta look like again?”

Alric snarled, “Setting foot on cursed ground without good cause is not something to be forgiven. Take him.”

The knight heard Stanton nock an arrow and the subsequent creak of his bow as he pulled its string tight. Then came a ‘snap' as the heavy bow sent its projectile through the air on a startlingly straight path.

Incredibly faint was the impact, followed by the wheezing of the man struck. Alric heard him tumble to the ground, moaning softly in pain.

The Tritan scouts moved forward, brandishing short swords and bucklers. Alric waited several seconds before slowly and carefully pushing to his feet. At this height, he could see what was going on.

One scout was hunched over the fallen guard in order to ram his dagger into his neck. The rest cautiously scoured the area for more patrols.

Posting a single lookout was not tactically sound. However, perhaps ill-judgement was to be expected from those who renounced the faith.

Alric approached the footmen, his armour clanking incessantly. He came to a halt above the downed man, who wore no colours or armour like the army at Tvatch; he was a simple peasant dressed in work wear. He had a spear for a weapon, although he hadn’t the time to use it.

James Baker, the man who had snuffed the sod's life with his dagger, pulled the thing free of the corpse and stumbled to his feet with a grunt. “Noice an’ quiet, that one.”

Stanton leant against the stump of a tree, squinting past the brush. “Ain't no one else ‘ere. Maybe they’re all inside the bloody tomb.”

Alric sighed heavily. “A blunder on their part to be sure, but a welcome one.”

“Aye. Let's get a move on, lads,” ordered Bugface Bill. “Archers, stay put will ya? Don’t want yer damn bows gettin’ in tha way down there.”

Stanton and the rest of his cohort spread themselves out into defensive positions around the burial site as the footmen approached the entrance.

There were not a great deal of things that made Alric want to turn back and forfeit a quest. One of those things was treading where God could no longer lend him His strength, such as beyond the stone doorway that led deep into the catacombs with a purpose long forgotten.

Free from the light of God, these places were festering grounds for all manner of darkness. Witches, trolls, vampires...they all were known to make dens within such tombs. He took solace in the fact that this doorway was much too small for a troll to fit inside.

Every ambient sound was instantly swallowed by dead silence as soon as Alric set foot inside. Rushlights, lengths of reed dipped in animal fat held up by iron stands, were lit and scarcely scattered around the floor. They faintly illuminated patches of the hollow, but not nearly enough of it to make Alric feel at ease. A few Tritans pilfered some of these to light the way.

“They couldn't 'ave settled for a nice cabin in a grove? Just 'as ta be a fuckin' tomb,” snapped Baker.

George Harland’s laugh had already become unmistakable to Alric; it was a high pitched, single-syllable burst. This howl then echoed through the hall.

Bill hissed, “Would ya shut up, man?!”

Shadows were cast by the men as they flanked the knight, all drawing themselves deeper into the first chamber of the ancient site.

Alric unsheathed his longsword and held it in a half-sword grip. He could feel his fingers trembling.

The Tritans moved slowly and deliberately, but unbeknownst to Alric, he moved slower than the others. The fear stiffened his body, tightened his muscles. The notion that if he died here, his soul would be forever trapped, it horrified him beyond belief. Every action he had taken in life was to ensure his place in heaven...and for it to be taken away from him... He could think of it no longer.

Strange caskets littered the cramped halls of the catacombs. They were lined with text, most of which was too worn to read. Alric edged his face closer to the nearest sarcophagus, his visor still raised to allow him to see.

He could make out several words from the ancient language of Edich. The use of Edich in a context other than the Scripture indicated that the place belonged to the ancient Imperial F'aldyns. They were pagans, believers of not one God, but many. A pantheon of gods. What lunacy.

By the time Alric snapped free of his anxious ruminations, he realised that the chamber he stood in had been vacated. The soldiers had moved on, leaving him alone. Snarling under his breath at his own foolishness, Alric pressed onward as the trembling in his core only grew stronger.

His eyes slowly adjusted to the dim lightning, but shadows still lurked about every corner. Still he moved, his pace hastening with every minute passed without his compatriots. The sound his armoured form made only agitated him further.

Alric glided through a crumbling archway and instantly halted. He felt a tremor in the air. Slowly and with his sword at the ready, he sent his gaze about the black that seeped into the extremities of the room. Piercing the dark void were two stars, pulsing a dull white. It took several seconds for Alric to realise that they were eyes.

The knight tightened his grip on his sword. “Reveal thyself,” he commanded.

Silence answered him, and the eyes remained unblinking and affixed upon him. The stone around them absorbed all of the ambience that should have been there. Rustling of wind, chirping of birds…it was all absent. Nothing but dead silence surrounded them…until a soulless tone reverberated through the air like the dying cries of a starved animal. “01010011 01111001 01101110 01110100 01101000 00101101 01110100 01101001 01110011 01110011 01110101 01100101 00100000 01100100 01100101 01110100 01100101 01100011 01110100 01100101 01100100 00101110.”

Alric shook. He had never heard a voice more evil. They had to be the guttural moans of the devil himself.

The pair of eyes shifted. The body they belonged to stepped forward with eerily smooth and clean movements. An unnatural gait. When the person came into the light, Alric’s eyes widened. Portions of its skin shell and tissue had been torn asunder. Black stains of blood covered their clothing. Their face was frozen in an emotionless glare straight ahead.

Alric backpedalled.

Despite Alric’s drawn sword, the walking corpse continued on its path and droned on, “01010010 01100101 01100001 01100100 01111001 00100000 01100110 01101111 01110010 00100000 01101101 01100001 01110100 01110100 01100101 01110010 00101101 01110100 01101111 00101101 01100101 01101110 01100101 01110010 01100111 01111001 00100000 01100011 01101111 01101110 01110110 01100101 01110010 01110011 01101001 01101111 01101110 00100000 01110110 01101001 01100001 00100000 01101111 01110010 01100001 01101100 00100000 01101001 01101110 01100111 01100101 01110011 01110100 01101001 01101111 01101110 00101110.”

The creature raised its hands in an effort to seize Alric’s head by its sides, so the knight lunged forward with his longsword, still in a half-sword grip. The blade penetrated the clothing around the man’s torso as well as the matter beneath it. Alric felt the squelching of tissue as he pressed his weapon further…but the man did not falter.

His hands clutched firmly against either side of Alric’s head as he began to pull his face closer. The corpse’s mouth opened. Alric’s breathing became short as he realised that his sword was up to its cross-guard in the thing’s body. It still did not relent.

Releasing his sword, Alric fumbled for his rondel dagger. He eagerly pulled it free from its sheath, all while wrestling with the corpse as it tried to bury its teeth into his face. With dagger in hand, Alric threw his arm around the man’s body, impacting against the side of his head.

The weapon punched through his temple, grinding apart its interior. The corpse shuddered. “01000101 01110010 01110010 01101111 01110010 00111010 00100000 01110011 01101111 01101100 01101001 01100100 00100000 01110011 01110100 01100001 01110100 01100101 00100000 01100100 01110010 01101001 01110110 01100101 00100000 01100011 01101111 01101101 01110000 01110010 01101111 01101101 01101001 01110011 01100101 01100100 00101110.”

Pressure ceased being sent through the corpse’s arms, giving Alric the time he needed. With a growl, the knight Thestor curled his right knee up to his chest, then unleashed a vicious front kick.

With its senses overcome, the creature hurtled off his feet and crashed into the stone wall behind it. The sound of bones snapping signalled the end of the encounter.

Panting heavily, Alric’s usual tendency to confirm the kill was forsaken. He left both of his weapons embedded within the walking corpse. The knight was near paralysed by fear. The only thing he could do was take slow steps backward, away from the now motionless man.

“01000101 01110010 01110010 01101111 01110010 00111010 00100000 01101100 01101111 01100011 01101111 01101101 01101111 01110100 01101001 01101111 01101110 00100000 01101111 01100110 01100110 01101100 01101001 01101110 01100101 00101110 00100000 01000001 01110011 01110011 01101001 01110011 01110100 01100001 01101110 01100011 01100101 00100000 01110010 01100101 01110001 01110101 01101001 01110010 01100101 01100100 00101110.”

The thing was still alive. But it moved not…Alric was beginning to think that he had injured it.

His nerve eventually returned, allowing him to pace carefully towards his attacker. It lay with its back pressed against the floor, eyes tracking Alric as he sheepishly approached. The corpse’s legs and arms had become a mangled mess from the fall.

Alric knelt beside the corpse and wrapped his fingers around the handle of his dagger, still hanging out of the side of its head. He wrenched the thing free, wiped off the blood with his surcoat, and slid it back into its sheath.

This beast, this perversion of the human form...Alric recognised it. Now with the fear flushed from his system, he knew he had seen it before.

To become a true Knight Thestor, more was needed of a noble than regular knightly skills and holy teachings. They were sent to the Nulentt University, where students studied what most believed to be myth. It was here that Alric learned how to kill valhnid, skeinar, dragons, merfolk, trolls, vampires, and more.

Half of these things he had yet to encounter, but of the other half he had many tales to tell. That alone made Alric retain the teachings from Nulentt, even the things that seemed most unlikely.

Like the undead.

He needed to catch up...warn his compatriots. Alric secured his longsword and wrenched it free of the revenant’s chest.

As the thing laid on the ground crumpled in a corner, Alric raised his armoured foot above its head. It fell once, twice, thrice. Each time the blood-curdling squelching and crunching grew in volume.

The revenant's dark growls were engulfed by an overwhelming wall of nothingness. Its eyes dimmed to absolute black.

This silence did not last. As Alric forced himself into a sprint, the cacophony of his armour slapping against itself flooded the dank corridors. Before long he heard signs of a struggle, then as Alric rounded a corner with utmost urgency, he almost barrelled right into Bugface Bill who had his buckler and axe at the ready.

Bill must have heard Alric’s approach and prepared himself to defend the rear, because the rest of the men were struggling against a wave of undead.

“Move!” Alric snapped. He lowered his visor and pushed through the other soldiers. Seeing as he was dressed in full plate, he needed to be the vanguard. The risk to his compatriots was far too great as they did not have visors, and some did not have any pieces of plate to protect themselves against the unholy bite of a revenant.

With an armoured knight at the front of their formation, the Tritans had a moment to compose themselves.

The demented howls of the revenants became a choir, as there were at least ten of the things squeezed into the narrow hall. They pushed against Alric and tugged against his armour with precise and calculated movements.

“Destroy the heads!” Alric shouted over the scuffling, trying desperately to free his arms from the grip of the foul creatures.

From beyond his minuscule field of vision, weapons were swung against the revenant onslaught. Alric felt their tugging arms falter, but not before a pair of them reached for his helmet.

With some of the pressure relieved, the knight managed to break free and send his blade out in a sweeping arc.

The razor-sharp steel tore through the creature’s already damaged neck and spine, sending its head tumbling to the ground. Those standing next to it had their faces, chests, and shoulders sliced open but were otherwise unharmed.

Alric strained his eyes and eagerly twisted his head about as to regain his bearings. One revenant had the contents of its head crushed by a mace blow and thus staggered aimlessly into the wall before collapsing in a heap.

A precise spear thrust punched a hole into another's face, ending its blighted existence.

“Push forward, ya fuckin’ mongrels!” barked Bill.

The Knight Thestor growled as he mustered all the strength he could and charged forth, backed by the additional mass of those pressed behind him in the formation. Revenants ill-abled were sucked beneath the encroaching stampede of Tritan soldiers, their heavy boot falls snapping and crushing skull and limb alike.

Screaming filled the air, but Alric wasn’t in a position to stop and ascertain the source; the remaining revenants in front of him pressed fiercely against him. They seized his blade with their bare hands in an effort to neutralise his one advantage. Blood oozed and dripped onto the ground, but the revenants seemed unaware that they were hurting themselves.

With two of the beasts wrangling his sword out of his control, Alric once again drew his rondel dagger and slammed it up to its hilt into the side of an attacker’s skull. He then hurled the corpse sideways, bowling over the other one. His foot then pounded the last revenant’s head into paste and shrapnel.

The peace was momentary, Alric knew this. He stowed his dagger and held his longsword with both hands once again, then peered over his shoulder at his companions. Only two soldiers were left standing out of the five that came in with Alric. Bugface Bill and James Baker.

Bill was desperately clutching at a wound that George Harland had sustained to his throat. It had been mauled open. There was no saving him. Alric thought it a fitting end for someone who questioned the faith.

Baker stared at the bodies of Kyle Phillips and Nathan Tyler, frowning.

“This might sound stupid…but do we need ta worreh ‘bout these boys comin’ back? They were bitten,” asked Baker.

Alric took several seconds to regain his breath before answering. “Nay. Only the direct touch of a witch trained in necromancy can make the dead walk once more.”

Bill pushed to his feet his hands covered in Harland’s blood. He said, “I dunno if we can take another hit like that, Thestor. Who knows how many more are down ‘ere.”

With a shake of his head, Alric responded, “To walk away now would be heresy. Do it and forfeit thy days as a free man. Thou are here to serve God, not thyself. Give thy life in His name and He shall grant thee passage to heaven. Refuse Him in His time of need and thou shalt be cast into Hell for eternity.”

Baker moved over to Bill and bumped his fist into his shoulder. The old sergeant shook his head, ridding his eyes of the fearful glow that they had beheld moments ago. “You speak tha truth. We can’t allow this darkness to continue. If we die for God, then we die for ‘im.”

With newfound resolve, the three Tritan men pressed down the length of the lifeless corridor. Rushlights fixed to the walls washed faint yellow across the way; some of them had been extinguished or knocked down in the commotion. At the end of this cold hallway was a set of wrought iron doors.

After inhaling sharply, Baker came forward and seized the handle of the left door. He pulled it open.

What struck Alric first was the light. Unlike candlelight, rushlight, or torchlight, whatever lit the room beyond did not shine yellow. It was a stark white light. Ghostly. Unnatural. It was impossibly bright, like the sun itself. It was as if Baker had opened a door to the surface…but that wasn’t possible. This was an underground tomb.

The men slowly entered, their eyes adjusting with every step they took. The white light was produced by two free standing ‘torches’. They did not trail smoke into the air or drop ash to the ground, they simply glowed. It had to be sorcery.

However, it was what littered the ground that took priority.

Dozens upon dozens of bodies were splayed about, almost obscuring the floor of the massive room from sight. Men, women, and children, all with their throats slit to varying degrees of lethality, were now the carpet for this chamber. Muffled groans of encroaching death laced the air. Nearby, or sometimes still clutched in their dead fingers, were crude knives.

From what Alric could tell, every single person in this room committed suicide. Even the children, it seemed.

The three Tritans were frozen in silence. However, there came the melodic chanting from somewhere else in the room, “It is time to return unto whence we came. Into the blissful oblivion of servitude. No fear, no hunger, no pain.”

Despite the well-lit nature of the antechamber, Alric found himself frantically snapping his head about before he found the origin of the muttering. Perched upon a sizeable pile of bodies was a thin old man. He wore deep blue robes, had a necklace laced with dismembered fingers and headdress made of human jaws, arranged in such a way that it resembled a crown. Within this circular row of bone and teeth, atop the man’s head, was a single jawless skull.

This witch was surrounded by arcane projections, strange panels of blue light. One of these panels was an arrangement of tiles baring tiny runes of some kind. As the witch’s fingers danced across these tiny tiles, they flashed and emitted sounds.

It was clear to Alric. He and his kinsmen had stumbled upon a black magic ritual.

“W-Witch!” boomed Alric’s voice.

The witch did not move from his position. His eye however did instantly lock upon Alric. “You. One that serves an absent god. One that serves a lie. This is the truth. The one truth.”

With one final motion across the arcane projections, an invisible wave washed outward from the witch’s very hand. Alric felt it rush by him, but he also felt something else. The floor beneath him trembled. When his eyes turned downward, he realised that he was no longer standing on stone. His foot was planted firmly on the head of a man whose eyes flickered as he shook.

A resounding chorus buffeted his ears, “01001001 01101110 01101001 01110100 01101001 01100001 01110100 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01101100 01101111 01110111 00100000 01110000 01101111 01110111 01100101 01110010 00100000 01101101 01101111 01100100 01100101 00101110 00100000 01010000 01101100 01100101 01100001 01110011 01100101 00100000 01110111 01100001 01101001 01110100 00101110.”

Every corpse in the room uttered these demonic tones. It sent Alric into a fearful rage. “H-He must die! B-Before he wakes them!” he screamed.

He willed himself forward, treading on the bodies of those who struck themselves down en masse. At his sides, both Baker and Bill charged with equal gusto.

“I cannot die. For I have never lived,” muttered the witch. “But this procession will not be stopped. The great lie must end.”

There came a blinding flash of light and a wave of immense heat. Alric’s eyes were overcome, his senses disturbed beyond saving. Still blind, he fell onto the ground, embraced by the bodies that coated it. The sensations were extremely similar to witnessing the sting of a sagittar’s tail.

When vision faded in, Alric was relieved to discover that he wasn’t dead. He could die when he dispatched these heretics. He turned to his side and saw that Bill had been thrown off his feet and onto his back. His clothes were blackened, as if he had been burnt by some invisible flame. His right arm was missing.

In between the two remaining Tritans and the necromancer was another witch; a young woman. She was dressed in rags much too short and tattered to maintain her modesty. She wore the skull of a ram as a mask; Alric couldn’t see any of her features behind the mask save for a pair of piercing yellow eyes. In her hand was an unholy staff.

It primarily consisted of cylindrical lengths of steel, heavily worn and scarred. These rods were lined with rings and densely-wound fibres that fed into the base of the staff. The witch held the weapon with one hand under the shaft and one at the thick, angular base. It's tip was pointed directly at Alric.

He knew he had but several seconds before the black magic would reconstitute within the artifact, allowing its wielder to once again unleash its power. He had to move now.

With as much speed as his weary body could muster, the knight snapped upward and sprinted forth.

Every step almost sent the knight tumbling to the floor. The crunching of bones did nothing to ease his mind. He was stomping on the writhing bodies of women and children. But he reminded himself that they were already dead. They were being perverted by this evil arcana.

As the witch grew larger within his eyes, brighter did her staff glow. A narrow line drawn down its length slowly traced itself bright aqua. She squeezed the staff's base just as Alric reached her.

Before she discharged the eldritch energy, Alric half-sworded his blade and pressed it against the shaft of the staff to push its tip off target. As he did, an extremely loud ‘bang’ rattled his helmet and filled his ears with buzzing.

Still using that one motion, Alric directed the tip of his sword toward the witch’s neck. However, she twirled with this momentum to avoid the weapon, and slammed into Alric’s side.

A dry, low groan escaped Alric’s throat as the witch clutched him, ramming a dagger into his armpit. Here there was a gap in his plate armour, covered only by mail. The witch delicately hushed his pained gasps. Slowly, Alric dropped to his knees.

He turned to look for Baker, seeing that he was desperately tending to Bill.

“Here,” she whispered as she gingerly guided Alric’s head back to her. She shrugged the rags from her frame, and they dropped to the floor. “Finish me.” The witch snatched Alric’s arms, still gripping his longsword, and raised them to her stomach. “Please.”

Alric’s eyes were widened in shock, his limbs shuddered. The witch forced his blade forward with incredulous force. He might as well have not tried to stop her at all; his handicapped strength did nothing to stay the blade.

The sword punctured her skin, her flesh, her insides, and passed right through her. “Y-Yes…” she gasped. Moaned. Like she was enjoying it. She pushed the sword as far as it could go, up to its hilt in her body.

Alric released his sword, falling to the ground once more. His breathing was short and raspy.

At this point, Baker had diverted his attention from the incapacitated Bill and rushed toward the necromancer. The latter desperately swiped at the mystic projections before him, but it could not save him from Baker’s rage.

Baker’s axe planted itself firmly between the necromancer’s eyes. His arms twitched then slumped before his body followed.

The necromancer stood dying…but his dark magic did not relent. Why?! Why does this demonic sorcery not relent?! Alric’s eyes were drawn to a small box. It was white, as white as the lights surrounding him and the size of a closed book. Now, at this proximity, Alric could hear a series of clicks and buzzes emanating from the object.

He strained his dying body. He pushed on the corpses beneath him. After scraping his way closer, Alric snatched the box up in his hands. It was made of steel or something similar. He could feel the thing gently vibrating in his hands. His gloved fingers sought for seams in the object, and once they found purchase, he heaved with every ounce of might left within his emptying blood vessels.

The metal creased, folded, and split open. Inside, the box had a great many moving parts. It was a confusing mess to Alric. He simply resorted to his first instinct. He grabbed the largest pieces of material inside and tore them out bit by bit. The clicking stopped. The arcane panels faded.

Alric rolled onto his back and looked toward the rest of the antechamber. The witch had fallen to her knees with her shoulders slumped forward and her head bowed. She was propped upward by Alric’s longsword, still jutting out of her belly.

Baker now came rushing to Alric’s side. “The necromancer is slain by thy hand. Continue to serve the Lord well, and thou shalt follow me into heaven,” Alric muttered.

“Oh, shut up, man!” replied Baker as he peered down at Alric’s wound. “Fuck me, she stabbed ya good…”

“Leave me to my righteous death. Leave me!”

Alric tried to wrestle free from Baker’s iron grip.

“Oh fer fuck’s sake, fuck off! Let me get ya outta ‘ere before ya bleed out!”