A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

Chapter 304: The Strings of Fate - Part 3

There was still that feeling in Jok's chest to contend with, though. That fear of what was coming. The dreadful premonition. It hadn't left him. In fact, as victory neared, it only grew stronger. Indeed, the villagers joining the battle was a surprise – but it wasn't what he feared.

Their resistance had been noted from the start.

He gave the order for his men to retreat early, to minimize casualties in that first charge – the only real time that the thrown-together force of empty-hearted villagers would be effective.

Those at the edge of the fort, who hadn't quite made the engagement yet, they noted the approaching tide of angry villagers, roaring their dismay as they charged at their backs. The giants began to shift, but there was no urgency in their movements. They couldn't bring themselves to fear such a rabble, not truly. Each of those men had plenty of experience in battle, after all.

It was the men that had surrounded Beam that drew the worst luck. They were all but pinned in place. The same man that had murmured the name Balheim was forced to glance over his shoulder at the encroaching swell of men. Half the Yarmdon began to turn, shields pointed out, ready to meet the charge.

But, there were still those that dared not take their eyes off Beam, that felt his ferocity even as he struggled to get back onto his feet. The second the tension slackened, his sword danced once again, targeting the enemy that had been foolish enough to ignore him.

A shield was raised, and his sword glanced off the edge of it. The enemy at his back pinned him in place with their attacks, once more swiping at him in their disorganized manner. But with the enemies to his front – those enemies that were most eastern – distracted by the new threat, their backs began to turn, and the encirclement lost some of its sting.

The villagers voiced their battle cries. More of the Yarmdon men were forced to turn towards them. Their shields locked into a wall on instinct. The villagers saw that wall, as more of the Yarmdon stragglers – those that had not been able to retreat in time – joined it.

With more than thirty men joined together by now, it made for an intimidating sight, especially for those villagers that had never seen battle in their life.

Greeves had long since been swept up in the tide of men. His fitness had cost him, and he was now more towards the middle of the pack. He was grateful for that. He certainly didn't want to be the one to break against that shield wall.

He could feel those at the front hesitate, and he could feel their pace slow down, enough that he began to catch up to them.

'That's not it!' He almost dared to shout, warning them that the momentum was the only thing keeping them alive. But he was no battle commander. He could feel the fear just as strongly as the rest of them. It was more the people rushing at their backs that were forcing the villagers continually forward by now, rather than their own aggression, their own will to crush.

He saw Nila draw an arrow as she ran. She ran like she was hunting a rabbit, crouching low to the ground. Slipping the arrow into her bowstring, she drew it, and unleashed it, with a single swift motion, a motion that seemed to lack the part where she took aim.

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But, even as casual as her firing was, it was more than deadly. The smallest cracks of face peered over the shield wall, just enough so that they could see the enemy approaching. That was enough for Nila. There was a cry of dismay on the left-most part of that wall, as a man fell forward, dead in an instant, with an arrow through his eye.

"We should have been going for the centre," Greeves murmured to himself, even as he breathed heavily. "Woulda done more to ruin the stability of the wall."

Even as Greeves complained, more cries ran out, and more men died, in the vicinity of where Nila had been firing. He'd taken his gaze away from her for just a second, and he was sure she hadn't put another arrow on her bowstring in that time. Yet, two more men had died.

"Those aren't arrow wounds…" He noted, as he saw a man collapse forward, his shoulder barely hanging on. From the nature of those wounds, he dared hope.

Another man cried out from within the wall. It was as though a wind of blades was attempting to flatten it. Beam's sword burrowed its way through the back of a man's knee. The Yarmdon were only paying him half the attention that they should have been, and every attack that he swung claimed another life, with the enemy so lacking in resistance.

The men at his back that had been attempting to hold him in place scrambled after him. The hairs on the back of Beam's neck rose, as he heard the footsteps creeping up behind him, as the same perception that had kept him alive for so long once more warned him of an incoming attack.

He turned to deal with it, but just as he did, a gust of air rushed past him, and the Yarmdon halted his axe mid-swing. He stood frozen for a second, stunned. It felt as though he had been stung by a particularly venomous bee. The axe slid from his hand, and he reached up a finger to check his cheek, where he felt the pain. His fingers hit the wood of an arrow shaft.

The second understanding ran through his brain, his legs collapsed from under him, and he died.

Beam glanced over towards where he thought the arrow had come from. He caught a flash of red. Not the colour of blood that he had grown so used to, but a brighter and warmer red, tinged with brown. A red that was the warmth that came with the fire after a long day of work in the cold.

His eyes could not make out more of her than that, but they didn't need to. He was well aware of who it was.

Finally, she caught the first true sight of him, and her heart wavered a moment. He looked the roughest Nila had ever seen him – and she had seen him looking rather rough. She'd seen him after his defeats and victories at the hands of the Hobgoblin, but none could compare to the state he was in now. From head to toe, the boy was covered in blood.

It was hard to make out which was the enemy's and which was his own. If she were feeling particularly optimistic, she might have said that it all belonged to the enemy. But she could see the cuts through his clothes, and at times, she could see the markets upon his skin. There was a particularly gruesome wound on his back.