A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

Chapter 292: The Tigers of The North - Part 8

He'd lost sight of Tolsey long ago. The man had been swept away in the tide of battle, in a completely opposite direction to where Beam was being pushed.

In fact, to Beam, it almost seemed as though he had no allies left. He could hardly see them. Every time he looked up, another soldier perished, be it to arrows, or to an axe. That commander had sent in another wave by now. There were an extra thirty, making up nearly fifty Yarmdon.

They'd struggled to deal with the first thirty – if Beam had to guess, they'd only really managed to kill half of them. And now there were thirty again, backing up the rest. It was enough to dull even the strongest blades.

Beam's battle was now entirely a defensive one. It was over ten men that he held up now. It wasn't really a fight. It was simply them steadily marching him down, and him doing all he could to slow their advance. The wall of their defences was all but impenetrable, as they wielded their shields to defend each other, whilst others attacked in their place.

A voice in his head cackled at his plight. It amused it to see just how much he struggled. It was a hopeless battle at this point, Beam could feel it. The wave of men in front of him was only growing stronger, and there were still so many men in reserve.

His sword clanged as he caught it on the edge of an axe. For a second he thought it might have shattered – he'd caught the attack entirely wrong, as the fatigue started to build up. But he was lucky.

Experience the journey on m-vlem,pyr

Instead, it was a cut on his forehead that he had to trade his lack of efficiency for. Another axe had come his way, seeking his head, and it was all he could do to draw back. The edge of the axe burrowed into his skin, tearing open a sizable gash.

The blood ran down, threatening to obscure his vision. Again, he was forced to take a step back, as the men gathered around him, making the fullest use of their numbers.

Strangely, even as the odds mounted against him, Beam felt more calm than he had all day. The action – relentless as it was – gave his mind something to occupy itself. It cared not about all the mistakes of the past, or all the mistakes of the future.

It was that moment that demanded everything from him, for in that moment, just as in all the moments that followed it, he was well and truly fighting for his life.

Such was Beam's comfort zone. That place of absolute struggle. Where there could be no control of anything, except the will to struggle. He'd spent years in that state. He'd hardened his mind against the relentless hole that a lack of progress dug for him, and he'd continued to work anyway.

He'd done pitiful amounts. He'd dug holes in the soil all day, under the title of digger, as the local noble followed the advice of a prospector, believing there to be a rich vein of iron in the area.

He'd survived each day doing that, earning just enough money to eat, and nothing more.

Then he would do his press-ups, in the cold, feeble attempts at grasping for something. But Ingolsol's curse had battered him. Even after years of doing the same thing, his strength never went up, his numbers always stayed the same. Progress had been a foreign concept to him, as foreign as mana was to everyone else. It was struggle that he'd understood, struggle that he'd swam in.

Like a fish that had finally been put back into water, Beam's mind fell into what it was always comfortable with. That state of calm and relentless struggle, that which he did better than any man alive. It was potential that Beam struggled to deal with, it was the ability to control, and then the failures and successes that came with it. He had no experience with them.

He found himself reaching further than he should have been because of it.

Another blow came searching for his head, as all his thoughts of the day came to him in flashes, like a voice from miles away. He hardly heard them.

"Charlotte died on your watch," it said.

An axe was levelled at his throat. It came close enough to shave with. Beam battered it aside with the edge of his weapon.

"She did," came a calm response. It was his own voice – a voice that had grown used to his own weakness. His own family had been torn away in front of him. His own little sister, who he'd sworn to protect, she'd been killed as mercilessly as the rest of them. It was Beam's weakness that had caused that. He'd known from the start that he was weak.

For some reason, with strength, he'd started believing he was strong.

This time, a sword came towards his gut.

"We will die, just as she did," it was his own voice this time, not that dark voice that criticised him. It wasn't an anxiety-ridden lament, it wasn't even a negative thought in general. Beam had come to terms with his own death long ago. His young mind had been forced into awareness far too young. He knew of the fragility of life.

He knew it, yet his mind had been unable to adapt to the new strength that it was given. It had lost that perfect balance that allowed him to deal with the most crushing of circumstances.

Death was the same for all of them. Beam eyed the Yarmdon up, as they faced off against him. His expression had lost its tension. It was as though he'd given up. And in a way, he had. He'd given up control, he'd given up trying to direct fate in his direction, to control the will of battle through his own hands.

His master spoke of progress often. Beam felt that too. That strange force that ran through everything. That which was present in the streams of the mountain rivers, just as it was present in the charge of a thousand soldiers. That force which governed all things, which even the strongest of lifeforms was forced to subordinate to. The natural law of is and was.