A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

The change in the men\'s aura was noticeable even from a distance. Gorm ran a thick tongue over his lips at the sight of it.

"NOW THOSE ARE SOME HUNGRY MEN!" He bellowed. Shields were bashed as a result of his words.

Jok noted it too with a frown. "That Captain said something, didn\'t he? Was it a name? One of their Gods, perhaps?" He found himself wishing that he could speak the Stormfront tongue, for he\'d never seen such morale on a raiding mission – especially with the foe so heavily outnumbered. It was the sort of fervour that he only saw when fighting fellow Yarmdon men.

It alarmed him, for the Stormfront were cunning. It was only guts that they lacked.

"I will take that giant," Lombard said, both so that his men could hear him, but also for Beam and Lombard\'s sake. "Vice-Captain, you meet with the other one. Slow his advance. Boy, look for the killing blow. The lives of their underlings do not matter. You must make use of their lack of awareness, and you must secure a head."

At their Captain\'s words – a Captain who was known to be of very few words – the soldiers felt their hearts steady. They were still pounding, but there was an assuredness to them now.

That giant of a man had already begun his charge. He was like the leader of a herd of buffalo with the size of the creatures that barrelled after him, and the thunder that they inflicted upon the earth. He roared all the while, that man, in a tongue that they couldn\'t understand, but with words that they could feel were dripping venom.

He targeted the right of the eastern front, where their numbers were in fact thickest, as they bent around the curve in the fort, so that it would be quicker for them to send reinforcements had the northern front soared to life once more.

But there was their only saving grace. The monster\'s presence still could not be felt. Something had driven them away – or perhaps the mage had merely paused, seeing the Yarmdon\'s arrival, realizing that he needed to inflict no more effort in weakening them.

Those were the thoughts reserved for the leaders, though, and for Beam. The soldiers left those matters in the hands of their Captain, the very same man that stood behind them now.

A soldier could hardly stop looking over his shoulder as the Captain chose to stand behind him and his squadron, his presence as calm as an icicle, his arms folded, and is expression unmoved, even as the enemy tore through the snow at a rapid pace, and made the very earth quiver.

"Tighten your grips. They\'ll clear the trenches," Lombard said calmly. His order was relayed half a second later, though it was more for the intent of reassurance than anything else.

The great wave of charging Yarmdon led by Gorm only grew louder as they approached. It was a wonder that they did not run out of breath from their roaring. They all had their shields and axes ready. Some had swords, and others even carried a lone spear – though their spears were much shorter than the ones favoured by the Stormfront men.

Beards bristled, and battle cries froze in the cold air. Gorm hit the edge of the trench, the same trench that had claimed the lives of many of his men, and the same trench that small flickering flames still smouldered in, as the last of the oil was slowly burnt away.

He leapt that trench with ease. A single gravity-defying leap. A nimbleness that seemed almost unfair for a man his size. Like a whale that dominated the ocean, his bulk seemed to grant him total authority over the land.

His feet came to the ground again with a mighty thud. He was a mere few strides away from the fort now. The soldier\'s breaths caught in their throat. Gorm and Lombard made eye-contact. The leader of the Yarmdon felt his lips curl into a smile.

His battleaxe had swung out behind him during his leap. He dragged it back to the front. His lead hand slipped down its shaft. The leather wraps were soft and grippy in his monstrous hands.

He did not even close the remaining distance between him and the fort before he began his swing.

The men stared dumbfounded. He was at least a spear length away from the very tips of their spear – meaning that the man himself was at least two spear lengths away. Unless he was attempting to summon a gust of wind to brush them all back, then his attack would miss them entirely.

No instinct of fear thus came from the sight. They held steady. It was more than obvious that the strike would not make its way to them. They did not notice that their Captain was already drawing his sword.

"BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAG!" Gorm roared, putting his all into the attack. A mighty opener of battle. He loved claiming that glory from himself. It was the first bite of a cooked hog. The first crunch of a ripe apple. And it was all his.

He took a mighty step forward as he completed its strike, lending it extra range. But massive as he was, he couldn\'t close such an enormous distance in but a single step. He couldn\'t, and yet… What was this?

There was a sight in the Black Mountains. A blue flower that only bloomed on the Yarmdon size. In their tongue, they called it the blue rose. A vicious and thorny plant that grew up through the face of the rock itself, as though nature had instilled it with all the properties of a drill.