A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

Chapter 271: The Darkest of Nights - Part 8

"YIVGAMOR!" A loud bellow echoed out. It matched the warhorn in its noise. At that order, the Yarmdon all raised up their shields, and crouched, but the leader didn't move.

Gorm stood there, the same broad smile on his face, as Jok and Kursak were both forced to cover him with their shields in his place. Jok frowned bitterly. He could hardly reach Gorm's head, even with both his arms fully extended. And now, because of his leader's arrogance, his own body was left open to attack.

The arrows came thudding down, their ruthless tips embedding themselves straight into the wood. Not a single cry rang out. Not a single man was wounded.

"You wasted your shields on me, younglings," Gorm said with a grin. "I am touched. But you need not bother. No spear, no sword, no steel will ever pierce my side."

"You say that…" Jok murmured. He said that every time. But it was their duty to defend their commander. Even Kursak was not bold enough to leave his commander undefended in open arrow fire.

"Now, off with you," Gorm said, brushing their shields aside, as he unstrapped his axe from his back.

"ARM YOUR BOWS! WE MOVE FORWARD!" Gorm bellowed.

Nearly half their men had bows, as well as their shields. They were sturdy soldiers that they'd brought. The bows were as much for battle as they were for hunting. They needed some way to feed themselves, after all, whilst they were in the mountains.

The amount of equipment each man had brought with him – for many, it was a shield, an axe and a bow, along with their fur coats and boots – made for quite the weight when marching, and when doing battle. But in situations like this, Jok was glad of their soldiers' strength, for they were able to do that without problem – and now they'd be able to land a vicious counterattack.

Even from a distance, Jok could see that the enemy sported no shields. It was a strategic nightmare for them.

With the Yarmdon arming their bows, it was the turn of the Stormfront soldiers to feel unease.

"Shit!" Tolsey cursed under his breath. "They're smarter than they've been given credit for. At this rate, they're just going to sit at range until we're all whittled down and dead."

But Lombard shook his head in disagreement. "Shields are not the only means one has of surviving an arrow storm, especially in a fortified position like this," he said. "Our Kingdom traded shields for longer spears many long years ago. We would be shaming the strategic decisions of our ancestors if we succumb so easily. Have the men take up position behind the stakes."

Tolsey swiftly relayed the order that Lombard had given him. Though he was full of doubts as to whether the stakes they'd embedded would truly be of any use against such a storm of arrows, it seemed to him, they had no other choice.

Perhaps the trenches to the front would have been better, he reasoned, had they not already filled them with oil.

The men swiftly rushed into position. They lowered their spears, and crouched down behind the stakes, huddled up, trying to make themselves as small as possible.

"GORA!" Came another loud bellow. They'd heard what they thought to be thunder earlier that day, and the terrifying voice of the enemy commander was nearly a match for it.

They heard the arrows whistle as they took into the air. The enemy number was vast. Their bows were even more numerous. And these men had no shields to defend themselves from it.

In truth, though he had spoken confidently, even Lombard was doubtful of their weaponry at that moment. Spears were tools of the battlefield. Perhaps even in a siege, they'd be useful. But out in their poorly covered – at least from missile attack – encampment, with no cavalry to punish the enemy, they were in a rather poor position indeed.

Though, that kind of strategic disadvantage did not alarm Lombard. Not quite yet. He ducked alongside Tolsey and Beam, as they endured the arrow storm.

Like the patter of a thousand feet, arrow after arrow sunk itself into the soft snowy earth. Grunts of pain rang out, as the occasional man was caught. Some endured one arrow too many, and perished. But there were only a handful of them.

Most of the arrows had either missed, or embedded themselves into the stakes, as Lombard was sure they would.

A hearty laugh rang out across the battlefield. It was like the bellow of the Lord of the Underworld himself. A thoroughly unsettling thing, enough to thread fear into the hearts of even the sturdiest of men.

Greeves heard it, inside his tent. It made him grit his teeth, as he fought to endure his fear. It made him reach more firmly for that dagger, as he glared at the soldier in front of him, willing him to leave.

"Not here…" he found himself murmuring.

Loriel uncovered her eyes for just a moment, as that laugh echoed. Her eyes were red and swollen from the crying. For the first time in hours, she seemed to realize what was going on around her. She seemed to see the faces of her fellow girls, and the fear upon them. Even more than she, they were afraid.

As the tears threatened to come pouring back, she fought them. She found herself digging her nails into her palm as she tried to steady herself. Just like Greeves, her eyes found their way to the soldier in front of them. The barrier between them and safety.

Even if it cost her her very life, Loriel would happily throw it away. She'd stopped living for herself long ago. That was why that loss of Charlotte cut so deep. The beautiful flower – one of many – that Loriel had been inspired to protect. And yet after all she'd done, all the evil… Charlotte had still been taken from her.

As well as fear now, as well as sadness and overwhelming grief, an anger found its way into her eyes.

Anger arose all across the villager, as the villagers attempted to battle fear with it. A boiling pot of emotions, all of them unsure and frail, as though chaos was the only truth that reigned supreme.

Families that were being reunited just half an hour before now found themselves right on the brink of despair again.

A soldier had run past, informing them that they were under Yarmdon attack, and then the villagers had been left stunned. Not a single one of them moved, however.

Then that laugh came, after those orders, shouted in a foreign language, by a voice that was as deep as death itself. Children began to cry. Children that had been given the promise of life once more, only to have it snatched away from them again.