Terkias felt tired and drained from a long day and night. He had lost many lives, and sacrificed even more. The Bloodbath had moved quicker than he had anticipated, and he had turned The Merciless to his favour, even if only after her forces had been destroyed, along with The Gods' Chosen who had been defeated far too easily.

The Demon Knight had, overall, emerged victorious, though he had hoped to do it more conclusively. While other Warlords lived, he would still be at risk, but even so his chance to claim the Oaken Chalice was now. The keep was defended, but poorly, and Terkias still had two hundred men ready to sacrifice themselves in battle.

Despite his exhaustion, Terkias was ready. His men were ready, ladders prepared to scale the walls en masse. Unlike most of his raiders, these men were better armoured. Defenders hurling stones from the walls would have little luck knocking them from the ladders, unless they dropped burning oil.

"Warlord," said the lieutenant, "your men are ready. This is your chance to claim the Oaken Chalice, yours by right of power. No one will deny you once you possess it."

"Few deny me now," he grumbled. "Not to my face."

He removed his helmet and washed his face in a bowl of water. In the morning sun, he could see his reflection clearly in the water. Despite the dirt, he recognized the man looking back up at him, just barely. Those blue eyes that had once made him a coveted sight for young maidens seemed to have darkened to a shifting shadow, clinging to the light despite the bright sun. His jaw looked stiffer, his lips dry and cracked. He tried to smile, but only received a grimace in return from the man in the bowl.

"Very well," he said, putting his helmet back on. "It is time."

He walked slowly down the line of men, inspecting them as they stood tall, unmoving. His best, saved for last.

"The Oaken Chalice will be mine," he cried. "I alone can wield its power, its true strength. With it, I will change the world. And you, my elite, will be powerful and privileged. All that stands in our way is this feeble keep. To war!"

The soldiers burst into a war cry as they leapt forward, ladders held over their shoulders. Stones and arrows began raining down on them, but the thick helmets did well to protect his men.

They closed the gap to the walls quickly, and launched the ladders up the side of the keep, the weights clanging heavily as they fell onto the ramparts. Instantly, men began rapidly ascending the ladders, war cries still echoing.

In moments, buckets of viscous black liquid were being thrown over the wall, and the flames soon followed.

Terkias reflected that nothing on a battlefield could match the cries of a man burning alive. The dreadful horror of extreme pain as the flesh melted from the bone, the only release was death itself. He watched as several men caught fire, falling off the ladders and breaking bones. Those that could, tried to run, but with no moat in sight, there would be no reprieve.

Amongst the screams, some of his men reached the top and climbed over, and the initial defence was toppled in little time. Terkias followed them up the ladder, landing on the rampart and drawing his sword.

Defenders surrounded him, but fell quickly to his superior strength and training. He felt the power rushing though him, the demons' strength rising, the lust for blood increasing with every kill. He soon lost count of how many men he had felled, and pushed his way through, his own soldiers wiping out the defences.

The bodies littered the keep, blood seeping along the flagstones. He stood outside the doors to the inner keep, to the throne room, and to the Oaken Chalice itself. He had lost more than half his men to get there, and would lose more, but the power was within his reach, and nothing could stop him.

Crossbowmen lined the shuttered doors. Thirty in all, ready and loaded. Less than a hundred men stood ready to charge them. With a hundred yards to close, he would lose most of them if the crossbows were quick to reload.

"Shall we call the charge, Warlord?" asked the lieutenant.

"You will lead the charge yourself, lieutenant."

"And I will gladly die for your cause," he said stepping out ahead of the men. "Charge!"

At full pace, all the remaining soldiers raced towards the crossbowmen. Almost instantly the front row were killed, and those behind stumbled as they tried to avoid the injured and the dead. The crossbows were reloaded with surprising speed, and the second flight of bolts halved the roaring soldiers.

But it wasn't enough to stop them. The ground was closed and the crossbowmen were slaughtered, but at the expense of his surviving soldiers.

Terkias, The Demon Knight, stood alone facing the inner keep. Groans from the injured carried on the breeze, but it was nothing he would concern himself with. He neared the doors and, with all his strength, kicked them, snapping the locks as they swung open, inviting him.

"Halt!" came a cry from behind.

He turned to see two familiar faces in the courtyard, cautiously spread but keeping close for safety. The two had survived the battle then. No matter.

"It's too late," he called across the sea of corpses. "There is nothing The Bloodbath or The Merciless can do to stop me know. The Demon Knight has won."

"You do not yet possess the Oaken Chalice!"

"No. I don't. But I will."

Terkias turned and bolted for the throne room.