Every man in The Order stood in an open field, facing north toward the Frostwood. Every tent had been taken down. Every man was fully equipped for the march. And Quill stood with them, his armor and pack already weighing heavy on his shoulders. The sword strapped to his side felt strange. He was used to carrying only a small knife in his left boot. He was beginning to feel like a true soldier now.

A makeshift platform of crates and barrels had been erected at the front of the congregation. Slim had told Quill he'd see the High Captains today and that Commander Gareth Halvon would speak before the Crusade began. As he looked across the ranks of The Order, he saw the distinctive banners of each of the three regiments. His squad stood before the Scouts' banner on the far left. It was the same banner that had been planted in front of Captain Todd's tent, three black feathers in a row on a large piece of cloth billowing in the cold wind. In the middle stood a banner bearing the sigil of a red tower shield representing the Vanguard. On the far right flew the banner of the Field Operations Division, depicting a crimson anvil.

Well over a thousand men stood gathered here. The Vanguard seemed the largest by far, while the Field Ops Division was clearly the smallest. Quill was surprised to see the true force of The Order on full display. They were not some small group of specialized hunters as rumors would have people believe. They were an army. And if every squad had men like S-22 did... then how many Hallowbound waited in the Frostwood?

The entire procession was near silent. No loud joking. No idle chatter. Most stood expressionless, smoke wafting from their pipes. 

After a few minutes, five men made their way through the crowd. Each wore a grim expression and carried enough presence to make every man stand aside without barking commands.

The first was a man clad in full plate mail armor, helm and all. The armor itself resembled that of Storovan knights but bore one distinct difference: a flaming blue sword emblazoned on his chest plate instead of The Order's usual red one. 

"Arden Kael," Slim whispered to Quill. "Sergeant of the first vanguard squad—the Emberblades. They fight with flaming swords of blue fire that lets them slice through steel like butter."

"Why don't we all have flaming swords, then?"

"Not so easy to make the flame itself. Only Old Silver knows how to make the substance, and he ain't keen on letting the rest of the world in on it."

Slim pointed at one of the five men as he spoke. This one looked more like a distinguished scholar than a soldier, long silver hair slicked back, a finely trimmed mustache, no armor, no weapon at his hip. He had one leather glove on his left hand, covered in strange markings Quill didn't recognize.

Deckard spoke up next. "They say High Captain Elrick Tresh shook hands with an ancient power that revealed to him the secrets of Ember Oil and left his hand cursed, thus the one glove."

The old man strode to the banner of the Field Ops Division before turning to face the crowd. Quill couldn’t help but stare at the glove. its strange markings making his skin crawl. He wondered what they meant, but from this distance, there was no hope of deciphering them.

Another man walked alongside Arden Kael to stand beneath the Vanguard's banner. This one had wild eyes and more scar tissue than skin on his face. His scalp was half covered with grotesque burns, the other half a mess of dark hair. An iron shield was strapped to his back, and a fine longsword hung from his belt.

"Who's he?" Quill asked Slim.

"Alor Thorne. I've heard him called Captain Iron. Leads the vanguard from the frontline."

Wil stepped forward, reverence in his eyes. "He is one of the greatest soldiers in Storovan's history. Thirty years ago, at the siege of Dorst, he held the breach for six whole minutes. Alone."

Quill had heard of the Siege of Dorst, it was the stuff of legends. The tale of 'The Knight Who Held the Breach' was a tale heard in every tavern in Storovan, but he'd never expected to ever see the man in the flesh.

The man who took his place beneath the Scout banner was younger than the others. His sleek black hair and beard showed no signs of gray. He wasn’t as scarred or weathered as the other High Captains and of course, he wore a cloak of black feathers and fur. He was the only man in all of The Order who did not wear white. Quill noticed three large black feathered birds far above him, circling as if waiting for his command.

"Is that him?" Quill asked. "The Crow?"

Slim nodded, "High Captain Corvus Kast. Leader of the Scouts."

Quill was unnerved looking at the man. His eyes were a dark black, and seemed to be scanning the entire division of scouts lined up before him with eerie percision. For a moment, Quill swore the man looked directly at him. Then Quill saw the High Captain give a respectful nod to Sergeant Cross. Cross bowed his head ever so slightly in response. 

Quill needed no introduction to the final man who strode through the crowd and climbed to the makeshift platform. It was the Commander. The way he walked, the way every soldier regarded him, even the look in his eyes, told Quill this was a man of purpose and duty of the highest order. He stood nearly two heads taller than Quill, a mountain of muscle and armor. His face bore a single diagonal scar. It looked as though an axe had been swung into his face, but his very flesh had stopped it short of ending his life. He was old, older than any other man in The Order, and it was clear he had been fighting since long before Quill was even born.

When he stepped onto the platform, he took his time, scanning the crowd and taking a breath. Every man stood in rapt attention, awaiting the words of Commander Gareth Halvon.

And when he spoke, his voice boomed like thunder. 

"Eight years ago, two-hundred men limped out of those woods like injured dogs.
Eight years ago I became the first Commander in The Order's long history to signal a retreat.
Eight years ago, The Order broke.
Eight years ago, we lost. 
Eight years we have sat here, like fickle farmers awaiting the harvest.
Eight years in the making... and today..." 

He paused, scanning the crowd before giving a solemn nod.

"Today we are ready.
There is a Totem that lies deep within the Frostwood—
No...within these Hallowed Marches.
Today, we have but one goal. One purpose.
Destroy that Totem. No matter the cost.
Today, we march to certain death.
Today, we give up whatever lives and dreams we had.
Today, we are men of The Order, and nothing more."

Quill felt a nervousness in his stomach. He felt like he was looking over the edge of a very high cliff. Like if he took one more step forward, he would begin to freefall.

"I ask of you one thing, this day—
Fight.
Fight until you draw breath no longer."

With that, Commander Halvon stepped down off the platform. There were no cheers or rallying cries. No horns blew. No drums beat. The men of The Order simply began their march toward the Frostwood. 

Quill fell into line, but noticed something strange. There was no cavalry. No horses at all, even Field Ops carried all equipment with man power alone.

He leaned over to Slim and whispered, "Where are the horses? Shouldn't command at least be mounted?"

"No horses," Slim replied. "In the last Crusade, every animal they took either died or went mad within a few days. Terrain's too treacherous, and horses ain't got the stomach to face Hallowbound."

"I see." 

Every new piece of information seemed to add to the height of the cliff he stood on.

Quill and his squadmates followed Sergeant Cross to reach their place in the formation. The formation itself was simple: three layers, one for each division. The Field Ops Division made up the central nucleus. It carried the essential materials, food, and equipment for The Order to succeed and needed to be protected at all costs. The middle layer was the Vanguard was made up of the most veteran soldiers. They were reserved for the deadliest Hallowbound, fighting only at crucial moments to preserve their strength. The outer layer was the Scouts. They were the most active of the three and would be the first to engage any Hallowbound The Order encountered. The Scouts were divided into three types of squads: pathfinders, wardens, and drifters.

Pathfinders led the Crusade from the front, finding the safest routes and reporting them to command. Drifters were the rarest and most valuable of the scout squads. They served as the link between the front line and command. They spread out across the formation, watching for smoke signals or delivering commands by hand. The smoke signals were one of four colors: green, red, yellow, or black. Green meant the squad planned to engage with Hallowbound, usually the drifter squad that saw it would reinforce if available. A red signal meant that a large force of Vanguard squads were needed to deal with the threat. Yellow was a signal to indicate the threat was cleared. And black meant the threat was dangerous enough to demand the entire order's attention.

Wardens made up the flanks and the rear of the formation. They were most likely to encounter Hallowbound and were responsible for dealing with them. Either eliminating the enemy, or signaling for aid. S-22 was a warden squad stationed at the front right of the formation. Deckard had explained that this made them one of the likeliest squads to encounter the enemy.

Quill couldn't help but strike up conversation as the march began.

"So... how far into the Frostwood are we expected to go?"

"All the fuckin' way," Vardok spat.

Deckard placed a hand on Vardok's shoulder. "During the last Crusade... before the Breaking, we made it all the way to Grelneer's Pass. A few of the Bloodletters went even farther. Blade even did battle with a Black Knight on the very doorstep of the Totem."

Quill had read about Black Knights in the Codex. They were listed as catastrophic threats, ones only the Bloodletters could hope to contend with. 

The cliff grew ever higher.

Stevan seemed to sense Quill's anxiety, clapping him on the back hard enough to send him stumbling.

"Do not worry, my friend. No matter what malombra awaits us, Stevan will do away with them, mighty spear in hand."

Stevan did a theatrical thrust with the spear in his hand, grimacing as if he'd struck some foul beast. The spear was finely made—a polished length of steel taller than Quill. A bronze serpent coiled up its shaft, the spearhead protruding from the snake’s gaping maw.

Stevan was the only man in the squad with any liveliness. The rest marched with a grim silence, smoking their Kindleroot and keeping their eyes fixed on the distant Frostwood.

The next several hours of marching seemed to pass in an instant, the dread in Quill growing with each step closer to the Frostwood. 

They stopped just before the tree line. The entire procession of The Order coming to a halt, awaiting orders to enter. Quill heard Deckard whisper a passage of scripture, rubbing his holy symbol. Trevin mumbled a small prayer to the Fate Mother. Quill’s brother had once told him of similar moments before an all-out charge. These were men who expected to die the moment the order came.

Quill looked into the silent forest ahead. The trees were dead, leafless and rotting. Snow had begun to fall, covering the lifeless branches and forest floor. There was no sign of animals... no sign of life at all.  The trees weren’t so tightly packed that they formed an impenetrable canopy, but Quill couldn’t see more than a few steps past the tree line. A foreboding darkness gripped the land ahead, hiding whatever horrors lay within. He felt like he was staring into a different world, a world that would consume all who dared enter.

A pillar of smoke rose up from the center of the formation. The Crusade had begun.

Sergeant Cross glanced over his shoulder at the smoke and spoke one word in a deep, commanding voice:

"Move."

And Quill stepped off the cliff.