In the Middle-Ages, ranks are not as developed as in modern times. A captain is an army chief. As for a lieutenant... it takes place (lieu-tenant) of king, it is an official charged by the king to represent him in the army.

Traction trebuchets are ancient siege weapon with comparable range and power than torsion-powered artillery, and far higher rates of firing and accuracy

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Goblins moved along the river. Sheltered behind the curtain of firs and bushes, a hand on the muzzle of his mount, Artoria detailed the appearance of the creatures. Seen from profiles, the goblins' faces had a definite resemblance to a caricature of a crescent moon. The nose was as crooked as the chin was prominent. The narrow, green face was covered with pustules. The orange eyes with yellow sequins were split like a cat's. The mouth with thin lips, almost non-existent, revealed in a permanent rictus a row of yellow fangs, badly implanted, bent, similar to rock needles cracked by the gel.

They were wearing improbable breastplates made up of patches of chainmail recovered from corpses, smelly, barely tanned skins, shabby furs, and rusty metal pieces. All held in place by straps and ties. The disparity of the armor only mirrored that of the weapons. Impossible to qualify the… things they held in their hands under one name or another. They were just pieces of metal that were corroded. Some had some kind of spears or halberds, some of the shields on which a clumsy hand had drawn a drawing that could be interpreted as a screaming face. A part of the troop used small arches of bad craftsmanship. From their wicker quivers, protruded arrows impaled with crow's feathers

The Saber of the Fifth Grail War did not need to imagine the smell of filth and body never lifted that was stagnant near these creatures. She had placed herself under the wind to escape their developed sense of smell and began to regret having one.

For three days, this troop -or another just like it- reappeared on its heels no matter what she did. If she had been able to gallop her great steed on one of the roads of Menevia, Artoria Pendragon would certainly have quickly gotten rid of this cumbersome company. However, the main roads were crowded with refugees and debris from the army of Prince Pélage, impossible to move there otherwise than at the pace. Not to mention the raids of winged horrors that served as aerial mounts for green skins. The secondary routes were even more dangerous because goblin scouts used them.

Guided by a taller orc, who pushed his warriors forward with a whip, the troop passed quickly without suspecting the presence of Saber. She waited a long time without daring to let her guard down. However, apart from the torrent's lapping, the wind in the conifers, she heard nothing. Hoisted into the saddle, she climbed up the creek to a small waterfall and resumed the dirt road that had led her here. The call of a raven made her head stand up, a superb black bird hooped above her. The teenager, warned by her supernatural instinct - so useful in combat - felt that the animal facing her was not really what he appeared to be. With one wing stroke, the bird went downriver, the direction taken by the goblins.

In the shade of the forest, Saber was advancing southwesterly. His progression was uninterrupted for a long and uniform time. However, when she reached a crow's foot, she discerned wolf footprints in the mud, large and deeply imprinted. The canines that had passed there were of a totally unusual size in this region. In addition, they carried a weight that could only be explained by the presence of a rider. The teenager mentally drew two lines in the ground, corresponding to a step of wolf, and then divided the tracks by four. She acquiesced. Six wolves and their goblin riders had come from the north-east before descending by the road leading to Wayrest. Artoria had no choice but to take the same road… or more exactly a parallel road. Fortunately, Prince Pélage's white horse was advancing almost as fast in the middle of the woods as on the road. And he was almost silent.

At the end of two leagues, the young squire slowed down and listened. Three wolves passed on the road. As she thought, they were really huge and carrying goblins on their backs. Not really a good thing— whatever was the reason that caused some scouts to retrace their steps, it was now between the two groups. Artoria Pendragon thought for a moment to cut south through the forest. However, she knew nothing of the terrain and could not follow the sun because the branches of trees hid it from her eyes.

So he had to continue along the road.

The hours passed and the night was now near. To complicate things, the squire felt his hunger returning.
The only village she discovered, simple coalmen huts, was abandoned. The place had undergone a familiar visit… A goblin spear forgotten at the scene clearly identified the invaders. The only bodies she found at the scene were old peoples. Goblins seized all the villagers in their prime, as well as the children, and took them elsewhere. What they intended to do with it, Artoria preferred not to imagine it.

The prince's great steed had gone his way. On his back, Saber was still advancing southwesterly, by small shady trails, well protected from a possible aerial patrol. She had not met anyone since the day before, good or bad, but remained cautious.

A confused rumor suddenly broke out about his gloomy mood. Artoria pulled on the reins of her mount and listened attentively. It seems, yes… a battle! Neighing, metal clashes, cries, war horns, these almost inaudible distant noises signaled the presence of two armies in full combat. The squire hesitated, torn between curiosity and caution. On the one hand, learning more about the invasion was all part of his mission. On the other hand, getting closer presented very significant risks. Frustrated, Artoria turned her head in every direction, the echoes echoed, sent back by the trees of the forest. Unable to orient herself, she could as well throw herself on goblins by wanting to move away, as well as go in the distance.

The first thing to know is to know your position before making a decision. The young squire set foot on the ground and set out to climb on the highest tree at the edge of the road. There were some advantages to having lived a second childhood recently. Saber had been able to practice this activity. Arriving at the highest branches, she turned on one side and on the other. A shimmer drew her a small stroke of heart. It was the Bjousae. There could be no other river of this size flowing from north to south in that area. According to the map, the royal road crossed the river twice before reaching Wayrest, the capital of Menevia. The second bridge was not to be very far away. Further south, but still on the stream, was climbing a column of smoke. Nothing else could be seen at this distance. Nevertheless, there was no doubt; the origin of the fighting had to be there.

Artoria Pendragon hurried back to the ground. She took her horse by the bridle and sank into the forest in a westerly direction. For now, he had to avoid the hordes of green skins that were trying to cross the Bjoulsae. There was certainly no shortage of passable roads further down the river. Ferries or, if not, fishing boats— in any case other than the point chosen by the goblins to pass into force.

After only a few kilometers, the apprentice knight fell on a path more important than the one she had so far followed. The dirt road was not empty… bodies littered it. Goblins, orcs and even a dead troll leaning against a tree. They were surrounded by Breton soldiers with broken armor and broken shields. A groaning made her flinch. Not everyone had died there. A young man was lying on the ground. Artoria turned him over, his right arm formed a grotesque angle… broken and an open fracture from the blood flowing. He also had a wound on his side. Saber raised his head, stroking his forehead.

- What the hell happened?

The man pounded eyelids and opened feverish eyes.

- We… (coughed) were leading a group of refugees to Wayrest and the… orcs attacked us… it was horrible. The people with us…

- Yes?

- Have they managed to escape?

- I don't know…

In the middle of bodies of all origins, the apprentice knight saw a little woven straw doll. There was no other evidence that non-combatants have been through this.

- What's your name, soldier?

- Oct… Octavian…

- I'm sorry, I can take you with me. I will treat your wounds as well as I can and take you away from the trees. I don't have any food either, I don't have it myself. If I could, I would find the refugees and save them.

Affected by the situation, Artoria got back into the saddle once the soldier had been treated and headed south.

The horse howled with pain and rolled to the ground. His rider fell on his back and only a reflex allowed him to prevent his horse from crushing him in his agony. Artoria Pendragon folded her eyes at the sight of the arrow sticking out of her stallion's chest. An instant later, she was standing and running to the shelter of the trees of the forest. Other traits began to whistle at her ears. The shooters were hardly experienced and their projectiles got lost in the antlers or stuck in the nearby trunks.

The squire turned to see goblins come out of the groves. Their leader was a huge orc, armed with a whip. He beat his subordinates mercilessly, insulting them, because they did not run fast enough to pursue her. Artoria was not yet ready to die. She set out among the wood, tearing her clothes in the brambles, slapped by the low branches. The apprentice knight emerged on the hillside, her foot slipped and she rolled down the slope, amidst a rain of gravel. Without taking the trouble to check her injuries, the teenager resumed her course. She waded in a creek and climbed up to the next hill.

A croak rang above her. Turning around, Artoria Pendragon saw that a raven was hulling. With a wing stroke, he set off again towards the goblins deployed on the other side of the narrow valley. As one of the green skins turned to him, he turned around to spin like an arrow towards Saber, again pushing his cry by making a turn over her head. No wonder goblins always find her. The crow acted as a kind of guide.

Hunted, the squire suddenly saw a narrow tunnel. The stones that formed the frame were clearly the work of intelligent beings. However, the frost had cracked the rock and roots were spreading in fan. If there had ever been a door to close the passage, it had long since disappeared.
Saber hesitated for a brief instant. For the moment, she was hidden from the eyes of the goblins by the trees and the rugged terrain. However, the creatures had to continue their way to expand and fold it. The top of the hill was bare. She would be exposed on all sides to the eyes and projectiles of the green skins. Artoria therefore had no choice.

She used her wimple to repel the spider webs and the root curtain that hung from the vault. The interior was totally obscure. However, her senses were very developed. The floor was flat, paved… it was a neat job. Probably a passage built by the Dwarves. Artoria pressed the pace to get away from the entrance. She was walking maybe half a league when she noticed something on the ground. The teenager approached and recognized a skeleton, probably a remnant of a traveler. The teen girl knelt down to search the body. He had a full purse and a dagger that would probably no longer be useful to him. She appropriated them with a closed face.

The corridor widened there, probably to form a large room. However, her sight bore only a few meters in such deep darkness. The girl picked up some small stones and threw them one after the other. The stones hit the walls in all directions. With caution, Saber followed the wall to his right. After a dozen steps, his fingers found only the void. There was a passage. The air there was the cold, moist breath of the undergrounds insufficiently ventilated. The skimmer saw only a corridor on a very slight slope. She continued on her first road another ten meters and ran into a new void.

In fact, the hall was the crossing of several dozen galleries. After a long time, Saber felt a draft of air coming from one of the passages. She pressed the pace and soon saw the light of day.
Artoria emerged by a passage exactly similar to that by which she had accessed the underworld. As for the latter, the entrance was located on the hillside. The sun that welcomed her was low because the skimmer had walked long hours, probably travelling ten leagues.

Despite her fatigue, Artoria had progressed all night. The loss of her stallion was a very hard blow. Her saddlebags and blanket were gone with him, which was annoying. More seriously, the only way she had left to progress was the march. And to make matters worse, she emerged from the hills in the early morning to meet the plain of the Bjoulsae.

The man had marked the region with his hand. He had laid out roads and fields raised the farmhouses and hamlets that stretched at her feet. Everything was lit by a beautiful summer sun. It would be a pleasant day for the inhabitants. Only, the nearest village was abandoned, doors smashed, furniture and everyday objects, broken, abandoned in the street, destroyed for the taste of destroying.

The vanguard of the orc army had passed. Yet it was not the most serious. It could see the great royal road to the northeast; it described a wide curve before continuing to the south. Despite the distance, the apprentice knight could see the horde advancing along the entire width of the roadway.
Without stopping, it resumed its course due south.

Luck smiled on her when she found a brook encased, hidden on both sides by hedges of trees. The goblins scouts could not see it and the stream would necessarily lead it to the Bjousae. There, it would have to be notified.

After an hour of walking, she reached the corpse of a winged lizard, like those who served as an aerial mount for goblins. The monster had been pierced by an arrow that protruded into his chest. Then, he fell to the ground and in the convulsions of agony turned to drown his rider. Artoria only saw the goblin's arm under the remains.

It was her only encounter with the enemy and she reassured her a little. On the second night, since the loss of her mount, the apprentice knight reached a small fishing village on the Bjoulsae. The houses on stilts had been looted, abandoned. Again, there were only corpses of elderly people abandoned on the spot. She had to cross the river. However, there were no boats left of any kind.
In spite of this, Saber descended the stream. The sickle moon dimly illuminated the bank of the river. The wind was silent, and the fauna disturbed by the events of the last days was hiding. The peace and calm of the landscape appeased the girl somewhat.

An impeccably sawn and deprived trunk of its banks had touched the shore here, probably a forgotten cargo of driftwood bound for the downstream.

Despite her pale porcelain and her frail young figure, Artoria Pendragon had an immature dragon's core in her chest. The latter gave her a terrible strength. She pushed the trunk, engaging in her follow in the fresh water. The wave happily kept some of the heat of the summer sun.
Attached to the trunk, the squire listened with all his ears. If the east shore – where it came from- was perfectly silent, horse neighing came from the west. Carefully, Saber turned to this side. There was the brightness of a camp fire.

The riders who had settled there were surprised in the middle of the night. Silhouettes clashed in Chinese shadows amidst the screams, the clashes of steel. The skimmer was doubly happy with the darkness of the night. The absence of light concealed the trunk to which she was clinging. In return, she hid a new horror scene from him.

At sunrise, Saber touched the ground in a muddy cove. The morning fog masked the groves that were growing by the water's edge. There were no signs of life around it, although the ground has a footprint of thousands of steps heading west. A few hours later, when she was stranded on the lower side of a road, the girl saw goblins passing by on a supply cart pulled by oxen. It was raging. Whatever Artoria did, she remained behind enemy positions. One thing, however, had improved. She was now near Wayrest, on the good shore of the river. The purpose of her journey was not very far away.

Artoria Pendragon ran when the captain of the crossbowmen told him. The passage was indeed delicate. Both sides were on both sides of the Osma, a tributary of the Bjoulsae. To cross the river, one had to cross a buoyant and fortified bridge which was, in fact, the raison d'être of these wooden forts. The chains that connected the small boats were responsible for stopping the long war canoes of the goblins.

As the girl ran, bent in half, to reach the other shore, she could see the many archers at their posts. These men had circular helmets with a point and a fur border from which hung an iron camail that left only their faces visible. A green brigantine decorated with the coat of arms of the three roses of the Menevia clothed them, arms and legs covered with mesh. They used yew bows as big as a man. At the waist hung a quiver with long arrows.

Saber clung to a stake when the bridge began to pitch, shaken by the fall of heavy stones lifting high bundles of water. She turned in the direction of the shots to discover a stretch of raised ground reinforced with mantelets protecting a battery of Breton traction trebuchet. After their salvo against the goblin canoes, they were being reloaded.

- Come on, Officer, we're under fire!

Indeed, one could hear the sound of the arrows hitting the palisade suspended above the water. It was reminiscent of hail, but the Bretons archers who hid behind the trunks did not lead wide.

Artoria pressed her teeth and tried to get ahead. They arrived at the door of the wooden fort. The entrance on the river side was open, although it was guarded by a section of voulgiers wearing brigantines, the head topped with a salad with a fixed visor and neck cover.
They entered at the same time as light riders sitting on decorated high stools. These men were impregnated with the smell of perspiration, smoke and the copper of blood. Their weapons were dull and some mounts carried the corpses of their horsemen lying by the side.

The camp, despite its small size, was swarming with people. There was an atmosphere of precipitation, of violence. At the foot of the north wall, men were busy reloading their crossbows, before climbing the ladder to the round road. They joined with other defenders who threw stones at invisible... but noisy opponents... that one guessed rushed on the other side of the wooden wall.
Hundreds of mats were stretched out, on the ground, to receive the wounded. The good priestesses of Kynareth took care of them. An Arkay priest with a long white beard, surrounded by two assistants armed with censers, was in charge of giving the ultimate sacrament to the dying.

- Come, continue his guide, the captain will see you.

In the midst of the round tents that lined up against the west wall, one of them was particularly remarkable for its size. This real canvas castle was centered on a vast table surrounded by knights in armor, helmets in the hollow of the arm, leaning over the maps that were spread there. Artoria was led before a noble lord dressed in a silk-fringed doublet scarlet hood and zibeline. The waistband held a sword sheath decorated with silverware plates where a rainbow of precious stones shone.

- Welcome, I am Captain de Hauteclair. My mission is to evacuate all the inhabitants I find and food supplies from nearby villages.