A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

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"NONSENSE!" Gorm shouted. Every word was a shout by now. He couldn't calm him. Even as his anger boiled, and he swore, Jok noted that the smile on his face was only growing. "THESE DOGS HAVE PREPARED US THEIR BEST EFFORT! WE WILL CRUSH THEM AT THEIR STRONGEST!"

"At least make use of our numbers, Earl," Jok protested. "From the look of it, they've concentrated all their men to the east."

"THEY'D ONLY MOVE AS WE MOVE," Gorm shouted. "NO! WE GO FOR THE HEADS OF THEIR LEADERS. THIS FORT IS NOTHING MORE THAN A WOODEN WALL BEFORE MY AXE."

"A wooden wall still seems sturdy enough, to most people," Jok said back, under his breath. But he knew what the Earl meant, for he had seen it. To him, wood was a mere trifle. It was what grass was to most men. He had ceased to consider it an obstacle long ago.

But even as he protested, he was well aware that Gorm had long since made up his mind. It wasn't about victory for him. It was the glory that he'd chased. The trickery that the enemy had shown, it hadn't angered him, it had excited him. He was staring at the man from across the battlefield, a man half his size, and his hands were practically itching to go rushing to him.

Before he even opened his mouth, Jok could guess what Gorm was about to say. Kursak could guess it too, for he'd hefted his own battleaxe off his back, and there was a look of anticipation about his face as he gave the order.

"THE SAME AS ALWAYS! A HUNDRED MEN EACH! WE STORM THE FORT! JOK, SINCE YOU FEAR THEIR STRATEGY, YOU REMAIN HERE WITH YOUR MEN AND ASSIST US WHERE NEEDED!" Gorm said, his voice booming. If only the enemy could speak the same language they did, Jok thought. They'd certainly have an easy time countering their plans.

"Right…" Jok said with a sigh. "But there are only two hundred and fifty men," he pointed out. Already he knew who was going to get saddled with that mere fifty. The other two commanders pretended they did not hear him, as they bellowed out commands to their respective troops.

The battlefield began to shift from there. Like a clump of dry leaves stirred into action by a breezy autumn wind, that army of two hundred and fifty separated. The men knew who their respective commanders were, or at least, they knew who they preferred to fight under. They were not orderly as they scrambled to get into their groups, nor were they necessarily quick.

Most rushed to join Gorm, as any sensible man would. But even those that were too slow to join him did not mind joining Kursak. He was a respectable warrior in his own right, and most agreed that he would be a capable leader one day. Even his list of slain foes was beginning to get impressive. He'd taken the head of an Earl in a duel just a few moons ago.

It was Jok who they were less eager to join. Though the man was undeniably Yarmdon, his caution and his logic did not find a home in many of their hearts, and so most chose to avoid him.

They scrambled like dogs chasing after the last of the scraps to split into their groups, undisciplined though they were, and inefficient, they took it seriously. As soon as Gorm had what seemed to be a hundred men, no matter how disappointed they might have been, no others tried to join him.

The same could be said for Kursak's lot. Behind both mighty men – who had now separated, such that at least fifty metres were between them – was a gaggle of disorganized, angry and willing Yarmdon men, primed and ready to storm the fort.

And then, the last lot gathered around Jok, the dissatisfaction written on their faces. He noted that look, and he merely tutted. He'd grown used to the contempt by now. He disliked it, but the boy would fulfil his duty, he always did.

The complete lack of ceremony was almost startling. Gorm was breathing out of his mouth in hot clouds of steam like an angry bull. He looked over his shoulder to see whether all his men were gathered. They were. Like one meaty appendage, they clung to him. Their emotions were his emotions.

His anger, and his willingness reached them all.

He gave a cry, and they reciprocated. But it was more than that. It wasn't one man responding to another, or even a group of men responding to one man. This here was the action of an arm responding to the signals of the brain. They were one in this. There was no separation.

Gorm's aura spilt off him. His intent was more than clear, even from a distance. A military man, watching the displays from the bird's-eye of the tactics board, he might have laughed. So unorganised, so undisciplined. But not a single one of the Stormfront men were laughing. As the fire in the trenches died down, they found their own sternness in their hearts beginning to waver as well.

The realization set in that they had no oil. Another realization followed it – that the mighty giant that they'd heard bellowing commands, as though he was standing right next to them, screaming into their ears, that very man was now leading the vanguard, aiming to spear exactly what they struggled to hold mere moments before.

They were men, and now that their weapons were stained with blood, they would fight to the last. But they could not help that quiver in their hearts. Like the ruffling of a duckling's feather's. Soft and uncertain. As yet formless, as yet misshapen. But these men, with the blood, had begun to set their sights on some sort of shape, on some sort of hope.

Their hearts wavered between that uncertainty. They'd just disposed of fifty of these men, without effort.

"The Mountain Slayer," that was all the Captain had to say to remind them, and the soldier's backs stiffened. An observer might have thought it the name of a myth. A particularly frightening story used to get children to obey, for that seemed exactly their reaction, one of fear.