A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

That boy had been given a gift by the Gods… Or perhaps it was more of a curse. He had a power of the likes that Dominus had never seen, a power that did not even involve mana. It was a terrifying thing. Dominus had to consciously calm himself when he discussed the matter in front of his pupil, for it was such an irregularity that it made him want to bang his head against the wall in lament.

All along, they had existed, and they continued to exist. Despite thousands of years of sword schools, thousands of years of study, a thoroughly advanced civilization, that knew all sorts of things, practised all sorts of magnificent findings, there was still more out there. Still greater power, still frontiers left unexplored.

For Dominus, being old as he was, and so thoroughly set in his ways, he could not quite access them. In fact, it was a rather profound leap in creativity that allowed him to seek the answers that he did, to put two things together that none had been capable of before.

He'd noted that mana, as swordsmen progressed, inevitably found its way into their techniques, despite them not consciously seeking it out, or looking for it. It augmented their muscles and steadied their breath, making them faster and more destructive. More than anyone else, Arthur had carried that stench of mana, like the scent of flowers.

He'd battled shrouded by shards of violet light.

Dominus, in approaching that Sixth Boundary, he'd sacrificed everything. He'd given up his body – but he was quick to do that. He'd given up his theories of progress, his understanding. And then, he'd even given up his morals.

He hated the mages far more than many. Their stench of madness inspired his sword hand to a quick execution. His hatred had stopped him from ever properly considering the problem of mana. Yet now, finally, after all this time, he'd dared to look at it, despite the revulsion it caused him.

It was in mana that he found his current answer, in order to move, and fill his lifeless body with an energy that it otherwise didn't have. It was mana that forced open the door to the Gods, mana, and the decision to look at all those things that he reviled most.

He was not to know that on the battlefield, at the very same time that he was confronting his own revulsions, so too were the enemy of his apprentice confronting theirs.

As Dominus hated mana, Gorm hated strategy. He spat such words out.

"Strategy is a dog's game. The bare minimum is all you need," Gorm said, accenting his words with a swing of his axe. Lombard's guard went up too late. The blade nicked his cheek lightly, drawing blood.

"I liked Kursak for that – he shared my hold on honour, my belief in the Yarmdon ways," Gorm said. "But even amongst the Yarmdon, times are changing. We even have a strategist for a King now, can you believe that, Southerner? And look where we stand on the orders of that same King… In the heart of the enemy's position, with villages burned down and half a foreign Lord's army at our back.

All that chaos, with a mere three hundred men."

As Gorm fell into long-winded speech, Lombard launched his counterattack. He went not for the giant's body, but for his hand, aiming to claim one of those thick fingers.

He came in from low, without telegraphing any of his movements. His sword neared flesh, but without even glancing at him, Gorm lazily pushed the man away.

"Perhaps it was my lack of strategy that got Kursak killed… My clinging to honour," Gorm lamented. "The Gods will condemn me for that. But Kursak wouldn't. His strength was lacking, that's all there is to it."

He swung his axe down over his head, as he worked to sort his own thoughts out. This man who had seen so many die, struggling with the death of one that he had seen nearly as a son. He'd seen a future in that young man, a future that potentially eclipsed his own. One day, Kursak would have branched off down his own path – Gorm was excited to see where that would have led.

Lombard's knees buckled as he was forced to raise his sword to block the strike. Had Gorm followed up with his usual quickness, a piece of Lombard's stomach might have gone missing. But the Yarmdon hero was distracted, he was looking towards the other side of the battlefield, towards where Beam and Tolsey fought.

"Go on then, Jok. Show me the strength of this strategy of yours, when we put it in the hands of a Yarmdon."

"FRONT ROW! ADVANCE!" Jok shouted, giving orders like a general. He'd quickly divided his army up into four, to make them easier to handle. He no longer needed a hundred and twenty bowmen. They'd served their purpose. Now he sought to punch a hole in the enemy defences and send his men streaming through.

Thirty Yarmdon men crossed the snowy plains at a charge, hitting the Stormfront camp at the centre of that Southern wall. Tolsey anxiously gave commands, as he was forced to join the fighting himself.

"Stay tight! Ignore the holes! Hold them in place!" He shouted. Their numbers were much too thin. They couldn't keep their soldiers spread out along the entire length of the wall as they had initially planned to. And now soldiers from Gorm's side were beginning to come towards them as well.

Little by little, their defences were weakening.

As soon as Jok saw his men engage the enemy, he called out to the archers.

"PEPPER THE ENEMY! SHOOT HIGH, AND AVOID OUR OWN! WE AIM TO UNSETTLE THEM, NOT KILL THEM!" Jok shouted. He had sixty men still armed with bows, whilst he had a second row of thirty armed with axes, ready to rush in as soon as Jok felt the enemy weak enough.