A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

Of course, just burning the houses wouldn't be much good. It would merely create a bit of chaos on the battlefield – the houses weren't so tightly packed that they'd form a wall to trap the inhabitants in.

It would have merely turned their battle into a long one, a battle of endurance. The Yarmdon would have been forced to tackle the soldiers in much the same way as they had been forced to tackle the fort – up close and personal. The only difference would have been in the efficacy of their arrows.

It was a trade-off, there. Arrow cover, versus more effective utilisation of the infantry, with the help of the fort's stakes and trenches. With the Stormfront soldiers in question, trained in group combat as they were, and proficient with the lengthy spear, it was obvious that the fort would be more effective.

But for the villagers? That wasn't the case. Especially now that the fort had been breached. They couldn't hold a line like the Stormfront soldiers could. Nor would they have easily been able to recapture a fort that was already filled with flames.

Fighting in the village put the Yarmdon infantry in their natural habitat, where they fought best, as disorganized skirmishers that prioritised individual might over group tactics. But now, in these circumstances, it also saved the villagers from outright and immediate death, by giving them the same advantage of chaotic battle, and freeing them from the worry of arrow fire. Continue your journey on m|v-l'e m,p| y- r

If Jok had more time, he could have tackled it more easily, over the course of several days, he'd have raided them sporadically, and burned their houses down, until he'd ground them to dust completely. Unlike the fort, the village was not a location that could be defended long-term.

For a last stand, a short-term stand-off, it functioned annoyingly well, though. Jok was in a rush, as was Gorm now. They couldn't afford to merely wait back from a distance, and expose the weakness in the enemy's positioning, by picking them off bit by bit.

They were forced to make the irritating choice of following, to do battle on the enemy's terms.

Jok didn't give any further orders. He allowed his troops to continue marching forwards, towards the edge of the village, where they promptly paused to await further instruction.

The villagers were hidden from sight now. There was torchlight closer to the centre of the village. No doubt they'd all hidden themselves sporadically amongst the rows of houses, hiding behind walls for surprise attacks.

It was a troubling place to battle for a man that wanted to conserve as many men as possible. A place rife with far too many potential tactics. Again, Jok found himself tutting in annoyance.

"But there is nought to be done about it, I suppose…" he said at last. "In the end, this is still advantageous ground for any Yarmdon. Had their commander decided to do this from the start, I would have laughed in delight… but…"

But with that boy in the picture, any further elements of unpredictability became sparks that Jok did not want to have to deal with. The boy should have been dead an hour ago, yet something kept him moving, and now, by that boy's command, he'd turned those two hundred and fifty villagers into something that approached a true problem.

Before, the villagers had been mere pebbles. Annoying, capable of damage, but not capable of victory. Now, they were closer to a sizable rock. It was obvious to Jok that he had to play this carefully, should he want to keep his men.

"But how carefully to play it…" He considered. His heart thumped against his ribcage in response, reminding him of the approaching danger. Not carefully enough that they were stabbed in the back by that unknown danger before they could even deal with this one, it seemed.

He gave the order for those bowmen to requip their melee weaponry. And then he bled his group back together, merging them into one section of a hundred and fifty hard and eager men.

There was one road that led into the village from the east – but that was not the only route a man could take. There were sizable gaps between the houses. He could just as easily march his men through there. There was enough room for five or even ten men, depending on how tightly he wanted to squeeze them.

It was those gaps in the houses that would be of benefit to the defending party. They had the chance to get themselves into position for surprise attacks, long before the enemy came. Even a single weed-armed villager could land a fatal attack on one of his men like that.

As Jok carefully considered the tactical implications of the nearby buildings, and plotted his course of action, the villagers themselves sprinted further into the village, disorganized, unmotivated, and unsure.

They soon ended up almost exactly in the same spot that they had started at, with the village Elder's house looming off a little ways behind them.

'If only there was some way to make use of that Elder's magecraft…' Nila thought as she passed it. Beam had mentioned seeing crystals, crystals that he thought might be used for creating the monsters that continually attacked the village. She wondered if they might create an explosion, or something of the like, if they used them properly.

But alas, such opportunities seemed far from everyone else's minds. They were anxiously looking around, for places to hide, places to attack from. Even as their eyes darted to the buildings, it seemed to Nila that it wasn't a hiding place that they were looking for – they were looking for a leader.

She glanced at Beam. He was as quiet as he had been since the battle. He'd gone deep within himself, she could see, merely to survive. He'd led them there, but now what?

She wasn't the only one asking such questions. Greeves was casting glances towards the boy as well, expecting more from him than a middle-aged man reasonably should have. But the boy had continually produced miracles, again and again, he'd managed to do it.

Because of that boy's presence, those villagers had been able to storm onto the battlefield, and kill forty or fifty men without hardly a single one of them dying in the process. That there was a miracle. A miracle that should not have been afforded to a thrown-together rabble that feared whether they'd be able to kill a single man.