A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

Chapter 349: The Will of Men, The Will of Gods - Part 10

'What can I do?' Beam found himself asking. It was not a conscious thought. It didn't reach into his mind. He was far too occupied with comment. He was deep in the bloody mud with the rest of them. He couldn't allow his thoughts to slow for even a second, lest he leave their weaker brethren stranded.

Nila was only a few steps behind him, her arrows growing scarce in her quiver, as he loosened one after the other, her eyes wild and crazed.

The soldiers were fighting with equal valour, stabbing, and stabbing and stabbing. Greeves was next to them, slashing more at empty air than at flesh, but there was a desperation to his movements that bordered on madness. It was as though they were all mad. Every single one of them – they were swimming in Francis' sea, breathing his air and drinking his water.

His insanity infected them like a gaseous poison.

Beam reached for an answer to his question with his entire being. His mind could not spare the energy to search for it, so other parts did instead. Another Gorebeast fell to him. He gutted it so quickly that there was a pause before gravity took hold and the blood spilt.

Lombard was matching him by his side, slaying the faster enemies with the same reckless ferocity that he was. The corpses were mounting up at their feet. But at the same time, the villagers were weakening, the monsters found purchase there, and they set to work with greed, tearing everything in front of them to a thousand pieces.

"What do I do?" It was a question on his lips now, one that he didn't know he'd asked, for he couldn't think it. It was the same type of thing that Francis might have done, as he puzzled through his own complicated reality. "What even is this? What do I do?"

There was power in his arms, power in his legs. A strange power, like a drug. He could feel the tiredness in him, that overwhelming exhaustion, it was ever present, but for a while now, a sweetness like honey had overpowered it. The same sweetness that hatred brought and anger, that rush to the head, that sudden strength, that burst of energy.

But it was stickier than anger, not as sudden. If anger was an explosion, this was more of a fire, liable to burn more slowly.

That will that he had felt hours before, as he found himself thick in Yarmdon soldiers, alone and surrounded, it might have manifest itself again. It might have been that which provided him a crutch to lean on. It was the same reaction, after all.

When all had looked around and begun to despair, his hand was already on his sword, his anger was already there, looking for something to cut down, looking for something to struggle against.

Now it was different though. Instead of Yarmdon corpses, and the vicious reality of a battle, he was dragged into hell… yet he wasn't alone. It wasn't his hand, it wasn't his sword, it wasn't his soul. It was three hundred of them, raging in a darkened sea, looking for any sign of light.

Francis could feel the tension. He could see the slaughter. He no longer had any fears about slaying the entire village. He needed not their despair. His eyes were focused on that boy, who drank in Ingolsol's power as though it was nothing more than a glass of lukewarm water – as though it was his to drink.

Watching him, the mage fluctuated between extreme rage, and the most acute delight. With every villager that was slain, he drew closer to his goal. He drew closer to extreme power.

'Do I need to break his soul, or will breaking his body be sufficient?' Those were the thoughts that occupied his mind, as he danced a gleeful dance, watching his monsters go to work. He'd never controlled so many of them at once before. It was terribly exciting. Terribly empowering.

He bound his own heart to theirs, so every life that they took, he felt it too, as though he had taken it with his own hands. It tantalized his mind, like a delicious electric shock every half a second.

New magics came to him too, as he watched, as he imagined breaking down the most delectable treat, as he imagined dissecting that boy, and all that he stood for, all that he was worth, and releasing Ingolsol from his confines, like a snake leaving its egg.

A ball of darkness grew in his palm, flickering like fire. He'd never been able to summon up elemental darkness before, despite trying thousands of times. He looked at his pale hands in shock, before his grin widened even further, to the point that it seemed as though it might fall off his face.

All this from merely watching, all of it from confronting the unexpected. He leaned back and called in delight towards the sky, towards his God.

"OHHHHHHHHH PRAISSSSSSEEEEEEEE BE TO HE THAT INFLICTS DESPAIR! PRAISE BE HE THAT KNOWS SUFFERING, AND GUIDDDDESSSSS ME TOWARDS THE SWEEEEEETEST AGONIES, AND THE SWEEEEETEST PROBLEMS, OPENING MY FEEEEBBBBLEE MORTAL MIND!" He sang. More than once, he'd sung such a thing in a moment of discovery, but never quite so loudly, never quite so passionately.

He knew it to be Ingolsol that guided him towards difficulty. One of the Dark God's many tests. It was the difficulty that granted him power. Every new problem he solved, every time he sacrificed an old idea for a new one, the Dark God would grant him something in exchange.

Francis realized he had been foolish to assume that Ingolsol would allow everything to run in his favour, merely because in building his Domain, Francis intended to act in the Dark God's interests.

No, the Dark God was far more magnanimous than that. Every step of the way, he would test his followers, for he was simply that kind of man. A harsh and iron hand. That was how Francis knew the Dark God to rule. Even now, Francis was sure that he was watching from above, filled with delight.