Ch.16

A melancholic and grey evening sky overlooked the horizon. Every Highland soldier was worried for their lives, and the future of their land. They were the only thing stopping the Seratholic's crusade on all of Highland, a holy war that would later be recorded in history as the Seratholic Crusade on Highland.

Across the plains, a constant cool breeze swept across the awaiting Highland army.

It was eerily silent as they awaited the enemy for what felt like tens of minutes.

Eventually, they began to feel an unsteadiness, a rumble, like thousands of stomps getting stronger and closer.

The hooves of the mighty war rams smashed against the dirt with each and every step, the weight of the paladins, the crusaders and the metal they carried on them only adding to the weight.

Over the horizon, a hundred soldiers mounted on war rams came into view; thousands more following behind.

Horns of war blared like thunder across the field, unnerving to the Highland levies. Even the veteran soldiers, mercenaries, and guilds felt the sinking feeling of death whisper at the back of their necks.

Erik, however, stood calm and resolute, unlike Devone standing next to him, barely able to keep his legs from trembling.

"Devone. Stop fucking shaking. Hold onto your blade properly. If you can't, drop it, wipe your hands, pick up another blade."

Devone raised his head up at Erik who hadn't bothered to look anywhere but ahead. He had known Erik for a long time, so was used to his brash tongue, and for some reason, he felt comforted by it.

Before he knew it, he was being pushed out of the way. The battle had begun and both sides had charged, meeting in a clash of hundreds dying instantly.

The battle was terribly one-sided, but the Seratholics were not without their own casualties.

On Highland's side, arrows shot from crossbows, and catapults launching massive boulders found their way across the battlefield.

The Seratholics did not use such methods of war, instead relying on their holy magic, the very lifeblood of their land and beliefs, which gave them strength and courage, even healing their wounds.

The Seratholic cavaliers rampaged across the battlefield, cutting down drove after drove of men with their silver spears, if their mounts themselves didn't completely trample over them, offering a quick death.

Utter chaos had broken out in only a matter of minutes, yet Erik was as calm as could be.

He wielded only a banded shield, and a short sword, with little armor weighing him down.

He was still yet to face any enemies, being behind so many of his own allies.

He raised his shield, blocking a stray arrow that happened upon his path. As it struck his shield and fell to the ground, he noticed the head was pristinely crafted from silver.

The ground was in a constant shake beneath his feet from the thousands that were trampling across the ground.

He was soon to reach the front line, his grip wrapped tightly around the handle of his blade, his breathing as calm as still water, and his eyes unblinking.

Men soon began to fall around him, but he continued to walk steadily ahead. He was unfazed by the death around him and the scent of blood being carried by the wind, as if he was used to it.

Another arrow blocked by his shield and a charging enemy soldier rushing toward him. The soldier, with both hands on his hands on the grip, swung his sword toward Erik. Even then, he was still calm, tilting his shield so that it may face the sky, and striking the soldier's clutched hands with the edge of his metal shield while delivering a fatal wound to the neck.

Highland was being pushed back on just about all other fronts, but Erik continued forth, cutting down soldier after soldier, always just out of range of the tips of their blades, and yet his own always found its way to their necks in a precise and swift manner, even tearing through the thin layer of chainmail that they wore.

Neither were their cavaliers an issue, as though they were inexorable, he easily avoided the path of the charging rams, and in that moment of passing, grabbing onto the rider's sabatons, and with a firm and unclenching grip paired with his raw brawn, he tore them from atop their saddles.

His foot held down the stunned crusader, and with his blade facing down, he plunged it through the gap in the helmet.

His onslaught did not go unnoticed, nor were the Seratholics so uncoordinated.

They encircled him in a formation, over a dozen paladins holding up tall shields in order to barricade him, to entrap him.

He whipped his blade, spitting off the blood that coated it, before sheathing it and tending to his hand. Pulling off the crusader had dislocated his thumb. He sucked in a whiff of air and then popped it back into place. He breathed out, the circle around him getting smaller at the rhythmic sound of their clanging movements.

He chuckled to himself, the first bit of emotion he'd shown since the battle began. He suddenly rushed towards one of the shields, a strong kick pushing back the paladin, something that should have been impossible to do with such a small frame, or at least should have been the least difficult.

The men flinched at the sight of the young lad breaking their formation with such ease, and faltered for just a moment, on what to do about it as he lunged forth, putting his sword through the head of one of their own.

With shouts and cries of battle, they attacked together, charging with their shields raised high. It was a brutal struggle, a constant clashing of iron, steel, and silver, a massacre that by the end of the first hour, hundreds lay dead on the ground, making up the graveyard around him; the only survivor. And yet, though his breathing was now heavy, he was not nearly close to being too tired to continue.

He was covered in blood, his boots in dirt, and his face in sweat and oil. He wanted to bathe as soon as possible.

The Seratholics didn't dare to step over the corpses of their allies, and before that, they feared even approaching the monster at the center. However, one man stood out among them, shouting to his comrades while raising a thick and pearl-white blade high in the air. "Do not falter men!! He is one man, one devil!! Smite him down, for the goddess!!"

Archers lined up at his side, kneeling down and aiming their bows, while others dragged the deceased away.

Erik quickly took for cover, but his shield wouldn't be enough to block the dozens of arrows aiming for his head.

He clicked his tongue, falling to the ground in cover behind one of the fallen crusaders.

"Craven!!" They cried out, seeing their fallen brethren being used as a means to block their arrows.

He raised up the dead man's arm, seeing them pulling the bodies away in order to clear a path. Behind him, he saw no allies coming for him, as a hard-fought battle was still taking place not too far away. He would receive help no time soon.

The sound of the arrows hitting the silver had stopped. He turned back, seeing the one wielding the unique pearl-white blade raising his arm to the side.

He managed to get a clear look of the weapon, and then he realized. That man was not just any high-ranking soldier, and his weapon was truly special, an artifact, a weapon of legend portrayed in history books. Even seeing it now, it was clearly divine in nature, emanating a soft and calming aura around it. It was enchanted, a divine artifact; the Holy Sword, Egsrinar, and that man, was one of the three saints.

"Be proud of your sinful accomplishments!" He shouted. "Though you have desecrated these grounds, you proved yourself a capable warrior in how many you have defeated! Truly..." He clasped both hands tightly around his blade. "...You have pushed me to grant you a proper death!" The Holy Sword, Egsrinar began to glow, soon erecting a beam of light like a geyser, stretching up to the heavens as a beacon that lit up the battlefield in bright light.

It was as if his blade became a furious light, and had grown in size and height, enough to tear through the clouds, a beacon that halted the war on both sides as they looked up at the sky at the miracle of might. Every Seratholic who saw the holy beacon of light. knelt down with their hands clasped.

Gerald wielded the sword as if it had not changed in weight, twisting his heel and bringing the entire cluster of light onto his lone enemy.

However, Erik was still as calm as ever. His hand, coated in an azure flame, reached out and intercepted the light, extinguishing it in an instant. The dispelled magic rippled acrossed the battlefield.

The Saint, Gerald, and those around him were blinded by the light and looked away as though they'd just stared at the sun.

By the time the Saint had opened his eyes, Erik was in front of him, and his blade found its way to through the bottom of his jaw, and up into his brain.

He kicked the now-dead man away and continued to slaughter the rest of them.

Despite such an invaluable accomplishment, the war would soon come to an end, with the Theocracy as the victors.

The King of Highland remained in his castle at the time of the battle. He and his court were uneasy about the outcome, waiting for yet another witch to tell them of the battle she saw.

"Your majesty... Your forces are being pushed back quite significantly. Their numbers are great, and hardly dwindling."

Her words unnerved the officials, and the king himself felt he'd gained a headache from the whole ordeal.

"Do you see now, father?" Voiced the prince with a tone of spite. "Our forces are being sacrificed for nothing! We should have given in so that we may have spared all of those men."

The king stood up from his throne and shouted at his son. "Damn you, Jacob!! What have I told you?!"

"Father!" The prince approached him. "How can you not see?! Your stubbornness will be the undoing of the kingdom!!" He turned around to the court in speaking to them. "Surely, you all can see this will be our undoing."

In a fit of rage, the king struck his son who then fell to the ground.

"Fool!!"

The court officials were shocked by the king's actions, while the king himself, in an attempt to calm himself, turned around. "For... Forgive me... Jacob. Perhaps I am stubborn, but all that I do is for our people. I hope you will someday see that."

"Yes... Father..." The prince stood up. "We, as leaders, do everything for our people."

A sharp pain in his back. The sound of gasps echoing through the hall.

"Your Highness!"

One of them pulled the prince away, a bloodied dagger dropping to the floor.

The king had fallen, his still-warm blood spilling out.

Guards, officials, and the princess, who cried out: "Father!" swarmed around the king while the prince pulled himself out of the grasp of those pulling him back.

"Enough!!" He shrieked. "My father is dead! He was a fool who would have killed us all! I am next in line for the throne, and as the new monarch, I decree that we will surrender to the north and convert to Seratholism! Those who would revoke, will be deemed traitors!!"

At that time, they did not know of the change in the tides of war that had occurred as Erik cut off the head of the fallen Saint and took up the holy sword, walking back through the graveyard of corpses he'd created and back to the castle they were defending.

The battle was begin to cease, with the Seratholic soldiers seeing the sword and their leader's head being taken by enemy hands, their moral began to fall apart.

At the gate of the castle, he plunged the blade into the ground, placing the severed head on the handle, before retreating further into the castle grounds to rest.