A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

The element of surprise had been lost long ago. That single instant in which Beam had slain Kursak. He'd felt something buckle then – he was sure that was the changing of the tides of battle, the opening of the floodgates. His sword had felt it too. He killed ten Yarmdon men in a matter of moments, as though his blade had been spurred on by the wind.

But now, that very same steel that had been so fast earlier now slowed, as though a spider was shooting webs at it, trying to bury it in place.

It was the flow of battle, Beam realized, that was what he felt. It was the same thing he'd felt in the mountains, just before the Titan had arisen. There was an odd force, a momentum, a current and a strength that governed every move in the lead-up to victory. That amplified the strong, and undermined the weak.

Beam knew no more of it than its existence. He'd tried to control it in the past, to flow with it, and he'd been successful upon occasion, but on those occasions, he'd fought alone. Now his fate was bound up in the fate of the group. Their loss was his loss. Their weakness became his weakness, and slowed his movements.

And now there were hundreds of men to deal with. With the flow of hundreds against them, it was suffocating and tangible, like someone had doubled or even tripled the gravity.

As he fought, out of the corner of his eye, he saw yet another soldier fall.

He could feel it on the other side of the battlefield too. Another great wave was about to come crashing in.

At most, he could feel they only had forty men left. The Yarmdon assault was relentless. Their stream of arrows seemed infinite.

There were four people on Beam now. Another storm of arrows shot overhead. Beam was forced to dodge. As he came up, an axe nicked his shoulder – his first proper wound of the fight.

His sword answered the pain, as he plunged it through the Yarmdon's neck. He used the giant body to shield himself from the rest of the arrows. Once he could hear that the storm was over, he flung the corpse off him, into the other two.

He managed to knock one off balance. He lunged at him, closing the distance, stabbing his sword into his leg. But there was another axe coming his way that was forced to dodge before dealing the final blow. He rolled off the side to free himself from it, but then another blade was coming his way – a sword this time, from a Yarmdon woman, who'd broken free with the rest.

Her sword was slower than the axe, and his own arm shot out to meet it. His blade snuck past hers, and his edge dug into her wrist and severed her tendons, forcing her to drop the weapon. Again, he went in for the final blow, but the other Yarmdon stepped in, with their shields raised, and they walled him off.

"Damn it," he cursed, just as another Yarmdon joined their assault against him, he glanced up, just in time to see the first Yarmdon man make it past Tolsey, as he ran into the camp unmolested, free to make chaos.

The noise of battle drew closer and closer to the village. The shadow of death loomed over them all, no matter who they were.

"Are you really going to stand there, guarding us, in the midst of all this?" Greeves exploded at the soldier who continued to stand guard outside the front of his tent, even as they heard the whistle of arrow fire nearby, and the screams of dying men.

Earlier, they'd even heard thunderous footsteps rush past. They'd all held their breath then. Even the soldier had glanced back towards them, nervously, as all of them prayed that it was an allied soldier, rather than one of those barbarians that they'd made enemies of.

In the end, the footsteps had merely faded, as the man ran further away. They never were able to figure out who they belonged to. But it did not matter – the fear of all in that large tent was at a fever pitch.

Both Loriel and Greeves had given way to anger, whilst the other fifteen or so girls found themselves clinging to each other with nervous fingers, their faces pale, and tears never far from their eyes.

"I TOLD YOU! SIT DOWN!" The soldier roared. They'd been wearing at him with their arguments for a while now, and the man had fully given up any pretence of remaining composed. His grip on his spear was nervous. He was a relatively new recruit, and had only fought under Lombard for a year. The youth of his face betrayed that.

By now, Greeves' own anger had taken over. The thought of the class difference between them was the furthest thing from his mind. It was life and death now, as his pounding heart reminded him, and a rage that far eclipsed any he'd had before began to take over. He was continuously pawing at the dagger on his belt, mere moments away from stabbing the man.

"I WON'T SIT DOWN! IT'S EITHER YOU KILL ME, OR THE LOT OF US GET SLAUGHTERED LIKE DOGS HERE ANYWAY, WHAT'S THE DAMNED BIT OF DIFFERENCE?" Greeves dared to take a step towards the man. The soldier lowered his spear, aiming the point at his chest.

"I'M WARNING YOU, MERCHANT, ANOTHER STEP, AND I WILL KILL THE LOT OF YOU! THIS IS A BATTLEFIELD! IF YOU ENDANGER THE LIVES OF OUR COMRADES WITH YOUR ACTIONS, YOU WILL BE EXECUTED!"

"YOUR LIVES ABOVE OURS, IS IT? DAMN YOU!" Greeves cursed. "WE'RE HELD HERE ON FALSE ACCUSATIONS!"

Out of the corner of Greeves' eye, he saw Loriel move, as quiet as a phantom, as emotionless as an icicle, she delicately slid up behind the soldier. Not even her skirts rustled. The soldier didn't notice her.