Alric was not expecting to find a host of men to join him in his hunt for the heretics considering that his homeland of Tritham was locked in bitter war with their neighbours in Valtheaux. Despite his doubts, he rode to Rochester, the closest garrison of Tritan men, to solicit assistance in his pursuit. The master of Rochester was Antony of Kirshire, a rather wealth-hungry noble of middle status. He insisted that Alric pay the wages for the 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 man of the Order of Saint Thestus forbidden to possess his own wealth and sworn to poverty by the First Attestation, he was not exactly bursting at the seams with money. All that he carried came as charitable donations, only to be used for expenses and services during his travels.
Lord Franco di Lombardi was a vassal of a powerful duke and had been overseeing the defence of Rochester due to its proximity to the 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 of it all was that it was not the Valthois who were raiding his lands. When Alric came requesting aid, Lord Franco thought the heretics to be 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 Halsten had kidnapped the last surviving heretic, it was clear to Alric that the woodsman sought out the demonists for himself to find his son. His supposition was simple; find the heretics, find Halsten. Both parties would then be punished for their transgressions.
Alric trudged through the wood, his visor open. In his hands was a pollaxe. As its name alluded, it was an axe with a long shaft and a spearhead at its tip. On the backend was a spiked hammer. In massed combat, one would rather be armed with a weapon such as that than a sword. Despite their prevalence in tales and plays, swords were sidearms on the battlefield.
To his right was Lord Franco and his men-at-arms. Franco was the one of the few other men clad in full plate. Most of the soldiers only had portions of plate, whether a cuirass or vambraces. Unlike Alric’s rather simple armour that was naked steel and beheld no decorative shapings, Franco’s plate had been painted royal purple and was lined with gold flourishes.
Atop Franco’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. It bore a design featuring quarters of blue and white with a black crescent moon in the upper left quadrant. His men-at-arms brandished similar heraldry on their shields. However, since the garrison of Rochester consisted of men gathered from all across Tritham, a rainbow of heraldry painted the rest of 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, for thy quarry is near,” Franco called over the sound of his plated form rustling through the shrubbery. He spoke with a slight accent, one that, like his name, placed him as a native of Velinti. “No creature walks this grove. Some foreign power hath stirred them.”
Alric shook his head then cried back, “I shall cease my worrying when we have set ablaze their wretched hive.”
It had been the fourth hour of searching. Alric’s body began to feel the weight of his armour. Unlike Franco, Alric was bound by the Oath of Vigilance. Years of practising said Second Attestation was taking its toll on his body. He could feel every step becoming more and more difficult. The enduring form of self-flagellation was a test of each man’s endurance, both physical and spiritual. The pain one willingly endured was monument to his devotion. At least, that was what Alric thought to himself in an effort to push himself through the trial.
Unlike the forests surrounding Oak that were pathetic skeletons of flora, the trees in the Verdant Stretch glowed vibrant shades of green and full browns. The grass mirrored the trees in how they were saturated and lively. Tangled branches splayed out from the 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 Lord Franco, skidding to a halt by his side. “My lord, one of tha North parties found somethin’. A fort.” The man was James Baker, man-at-arms in Franco’s personal retinue. Franco nodded.
Baker cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “We go North! North!”
Several other infantrymen further down the line repeated Baker’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 people 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. 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 the promise of God’s disappointment always kept him on the righteous path.
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 on the walls and upon them were dozens of naked corpses. Impaled and left to die. Alric swallowed as he saw the dozens of people, men and women alike, stuck like pigs on a spit. Most of them did not move...but there were a handful of unfortunates that attempted to struggle free. Their distant screams made Alric tremble. In the face of such barbaric cruelty, Alric sighed as he gestured the Sign of the Pillar by tapping his forehead then his chest.
“T-Tha screamin’ drew ‘em closer,” reported Baker.
Alric averted his eyes and instead looked to Franco. He stared onward as he flexed his jaw. “I do not suppose that the Church was responsible for this?”
The withheld spite was not lost on Alric. “And what if it were?” he threatened.
Franco scoffed and ignored the provocation. “This is Chesterton…a hamlet under the ownership of Baron Antony. For it to have been overrun right under his nose…the fool needs to keep a closer watch on his fiefs. Prepare thyself for assault, Brother Alric. When we strike the heretics down, thou shalt immediately ensure that the slighted are properly committed to the next life.”
The knight nodded. 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 sought union beneath God’s eyes. As commanded the Third Attestation.
At first, it did not appear 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 loosed upon the Tritan men from the safety of the fort, but arrows were finite. It would have been a waste of ammunition on a foe that was well-armoured, well-covered, and out of effective range. The heretics were eventually alerted as the footmen began to gather dry sticks and bark. Since the fortress was wood, there was one weapon that would make short work of its defensive wall.
The North, West, East, and South scouting parties all converged and combined into one force of a hundred men. At that point, a watchman on the wall raised the alarm consequently allowing Alric to spot rows of heads emerging atop the battlements. Formed up on Alric’s left was a cluster of archers, each armed with a heavily-strung longbow. To have the skill, strength, and endurance to repeatedly loose arrows from a bow with a one-hundred and sixty pound draw weight required a lifetime of training. Alric could perhaps shoot two arrows with that kind of warbow before becoming fatigued and even then, he probably couldn’t even it nock it back the whole way. It was an altogether different kind of physical might than what was used in hand to hand fighting. The archers stood near one of the bonfires awaiting their orders.
Eventually, Alric took his position within the mass of infantrymen. At the front of the 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 formed the armoured section. Lord Franco was going to hold position in the forest with a reserve of troops 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, set them alight, then drew them against their bowstrings. 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 the defenders would hurl buckets of water onto the cancerous growth. All of it mattered not; the fire grew faster than the disorganised men could douse it and thus the gate began to blacken and crack. Alric had forgotten how much of battle was just waiting. He was reminded quite bluntly. For almost an hour, the Tritan army watched the fire crumple and fold the main gate. Then, 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 men had their point of entrance.
If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
“Advance!” cried Franco.
The Knight Thestor took that moment to lower his visor, surrounding himself in near-complete blackness. As if they were one, the mass of footmen marched forward. Alric walked shoulder to shoulder with other armoured fighters; they were bunched together so tightly that there was no room to fall. It gave him an odd sense of comfort despite the circumstances.
The approach was slow. Forty people striding together maintaining their formation and allowing no gaps between their bodies were sure to advance at a ‘leisurely’ pace. Alric's breathing was shallow and enveloped his hearing. Beneath it was the somewhat soft clacking 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. The somewhat subdued aural landscape suddenly spiked when an ocean of ‘bangs’, ‘crunches’, and grunts rang out across the field.
Arrows had finally come spearing into the mass of advancing men. They embedded themselves into shields and shattered into splinters against armour. Alric’s ears picked up some pained cries beneath the cacophony of shifting armour. Just as he lowered his head slightly to angle the sights of his helmet away from the incoming projectiles, a jarring impact slammed the upper right side of Alric's face. For a split second, he saw white fletching flash across his eyes before the arrow itself exploded into tiny shards of wooden shrapnel. As his head snapped back, he let out a sharp groan of shock. He forced himself to ignore the sudden jolt of fear that the strike injected into him and simply continue onward.
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 shooting back at the heretics. Some defenders dropped behind the battlements; it was unclear to Alric at that angle whether they were hit by arrows or simply sought cover. The attacking force had gotten close enough to the fort for Alric to gaze into the eyes of the defending infantry. They wore mail, gambeson, brigandine, and only a few were clad in plate. Shields were raised at the front of the regiment, but the rest of their formation appeared too spaced out.
Once more, arrows came down from the walls. When the shield formations collided, Alric was rammed into his allies and subjected to the occasional arrow impact. Those behind powered forward, shoving him 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. The arrows fell mainly on his head and shoulders, buffeting him like steel rain. He could be confident that they could not pierce his plate armour to the point of wounding him but after repeated shots, they certainly began to hurt. Also, they didn’t need to penetrate the plate to kill him; the gaps at his neck, armpits, as well as his visor’s sights and breaths, served as potential entry points. As a result of the ongoing barrage, his spine was sore and his ears were filled with ringing.
It 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 advanced, barging through the heretic assembly. The fortress walls grew larger and the wave of allied men wrapped around the fractured heretic line. Alric brought his pollaxe up and led with the queue, the spiked end on the bottom of its shaft. A demonist was unlucky enough to have turned his back on the knight. He swept the polearm 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. He didn't have time to take in his surroundings so he simply advanced, cutting down any other routed heretics 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 dozens.
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. 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. The hammer crashed into the steel helmet protecting the axeman's head. The man dropped to the ground instantly, not a single drop of blood in sight. Without hesitation, the Tritans lunged forward and harnessed the opening in order to lay waste to the rest of the men. 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.
Once within the embrace of his fellow Tritans again, Alric was able to send his eyes about the township of Chesterton. Modest homes lined the interior of the makeshift fortress. A number of them 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 church. It had one entrance which was covered by a dense ocean of fifty men. The holy building had been defaced with hanging dismembered body parts and smears of blood. The sight brought Alric’s already simmering blood to a boil.
Some men-at-arms had fallen during the approach, but Franco 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 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.
Alric’s entire being was already inflamed. 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 his stamina, little by little. Alric had arrived 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.
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 and 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 and 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 church, the heretics were flattened against the wall with no room to manoeuvre. He 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 opened the gate to the church and poured inside. Watching the infidels as they raised their hands in surrender, Alric kicked away what weapons he could. He glowered at them in furious silence for a time. “Brother Alric,” called a voice from behind him. Alric glanced over his shoulder to see that the party raiding the keep had emerged quite unceremoniously. “Ain't no one inside.”
“Art thou certain?”
“Aye, I swear it. Ain't a large place,” replied the soldier.
Alric turned back to the heretics who were being disarmed by the Tritans. As their helmets and armour 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. The quality of their training left much to be desired, but Alric knew that they were not the rabble of younger people he 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 blasphemous rhetoric. His blood freezing, Alric pointed at the bodies impaled on the wall. “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?”
“We cannot die, for we have never lived.” The child's voice lost the commoner accent that it held before, as if he was repeating something often said to him. They were adherent to such a profane doctrine…such a monstrous idea… Alric’s breaths became short and his lip quivered beneath the visor of his helmet. His duty as a Knight Thestor was clear; heretics and demonists were to be punished. God was watching. If the knight did not act, the Father would see his weakness…his lack of devotion…and damn him to Hell.
“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. End them.”
A few men around him hesitated, but others 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 while some began to sob incessantly, begging for mercy. “If thou shalt spurn Him so fervently, then so too shall He spurn thee,” Alric murmured.