A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

As the others fought, he'd battled as well. The moment the villagers hit their charge, and he felt the wall crumble in their favour, he'd turned on his foot and pressed through the sea of corpses that he'd left. He caught those men that pursued him from behind off guard.

His timing was so perfect, that he hardly needed to put any force into his blade to behead the leading man – the Yarmdon's own momentum had seen to that.

And so the villager's first charge and their first blooding was rendered unsullied. They did not have to deal with the threat of an enemy from the side, for Beam was already dealing with them.

Their battle ended before his did. As their cries died down, and the last Yarmdon was killed, their attention turned towards the noise of battle that came from their side. Discover exclusive content at m,v l'e|m-p y r

They watched, dumbstruck, as a bloodied phantom dismantled a group of fifteen men. Half the Yarmdon's size, it was like a goblin had descended onto the field. His movements were ruthlessly efficient, yet still animalistic. His shoulders hunched, and more than once did he fall onto all fours to dodge and attack, and then slice open the calve muscles of his enemy.

One by one, they fell.

Worse than that – they broke.

When Beam got to the fifth man, after killing ten already, and with an army of blood-crazed villagers staring at his back, the Yarmdon man caught sight of his eyes. A wave of fear passed through him, and slowed the axe that he'd been sending down.

Before Beam had even begun to retaliate, the man took his first step back, a fearful step. The other four men behind him did the same. They stepped back away from the stakes in the ground that marked the outskirts of the fort, and instead ran back into the sea of flames, where Gorm's men were still wreaking havoc.

To see them break, it was a more powerful thing than seeing them die. To crush their will like that – to crush the will of any Yarmdon man, so that he would rather retreat than do battle. It was a monstrous thing.

Jok tutted as he saw them turn to run away.

He looked upon the men that he had gathered behind him. A hundred and fifty. Gorm's men that had been busy attacking the walls had heeded his call, and returned to him. There seemed to be an understanding that had passed over the battlefield – that Jok would take care of strategy.

Gorm was still busy anyway, as they saw. He was enjoying picking apart that stern-faced Yarmdon commander, or at least he had been. The sounds of the fight had grown awfully quiet.

The giant Gorm would have no interest in the likes of villagers, regardless. He'd sooner watch than take part, at least until something caught his interest. Gorm was after the mighty, after all. If a worthy foe did not present itself, then he was merely stealing away glory from his underlings.

His open palm when it came to leading was what made his men such a force to be reckoned with. He left them to their own devices, once victory was assured, and though he had never said as much, it was clear that he was manoeuvring himself such that his troops got as much battle experience as possible.

Battle experience that they gleaned without his leadership – he would merely watch from a distance, as he pursued his own things, ensuring that the men did not dishonour themselves.

When it came to dishonour, it was as though he had a nose for it.

There was a mighty bellow that resounded across the field.

"COWARDS!" Gorm roared. It was impossible to tell how the giant had seen his men fleeing, despite the flames that stood in his way, and the duel that he was in the midst of with Lombard.

Suddenly, he appeared, as though the flames were the medium that manifested him. His axe flashed. He could have killed those cowardly men without them ever having sensed his approach – but he made sure that they saw him. He made sure that the last thing that was engraved on their souls was the towering figure of Gorm, the anger on his face, and the axe that came their way.

Their heads went flying, along with the rest of their torsos.

Gorm made eye-contact with Beam, as he stood a distance away. Beam could hardly make out the man's figure. He still had not recovered his breath. He'd been locked in relentless combat for nearly half an hour.

"He's dangerous, Jok. Can you deal with him?" Gorm asked. His voice was level. There was none of his usual barbaric excitement, where he would shout every word. Instead, these were the cold calculating eyes of a commander, more similar to a strategist than the picture Gorm painted of himself, as a manic glory-hunting warrior.

"I CAN!" Jok had to shout back, for his words to reach Gorm. He didn't have that resounding booming voice that Gorm had, where his voice could reach anywhere, with hardly an effort.

"Then deal with it," Gorm said. "And become stronger."

With those words, he walked back into the flames, leaving the battlefield to just the two of them. It was obvious to Jok what Gorm meant.

'Kursak's dead. Use the opportunity to become strong enough for the two of you.'

In that, Jok saw another implicit meaning. He's seen the seriousness on Gorm's face as well. The giant must have begun to sense the same thing that Jok had, that foreboding nature of the future to come. That darkness that was weighing down on them, threatening to crush them.

Despite all that, he'd stuck to the usual strategy of forcing responsibility onto his subordinates, to force them into growing stronger. He'd done that despite the situation that they were in. That could only mean…

Jok felt his skin tingle. "Crushing this boy… He thinks it will be enough to get me my Third Blessing."