A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

"...What a strange game the Gods play," Lombard noted.

At that, somewhere off in the distance, Beam finally made something out. A spark of light, like someone struggling to get kindling to take flame. But if this was kindling, it was certainly kindling of the oily kind, for that spark – tiny as it was, even from a distance – blossomed into a flame.

"Is that a torch?" Tolsey murmured, his voice grave. "You sensed their coming, Captain?"

"Only a moment ago," Lombard told him. "This ominous cloak that surrounds the village seems to be dulling my senses. Even knowing they're there – right there – it's as though there's a fog. A fog that dulls not only the eyes, but every organ of perception I have."

Beam was not quite following their conversation. His perception was lacking, even at the best of times. If the conditions were such that even Lombard was struggling to see, then Beam lacked even the slightest shred of a chance.

Luckily, whatever was out there did not seem to care about remaining hidden too long. That fire in the distance – tiny thing that it was, like a flower in celebration of the horizon – began to spread. It flickered as though buffeted by an invisible wind, and then another firey flower sprung up to join it.

Where there were two, there were soon four.

And then eight. And then sixteen.

Soon there were half a hundred flames on the horizon, all of them marching steadily towards it.

"The Yarmdon… Fifty torches… There's got to be at least a hundred…" Beam guessed.

Tolsey and Lombard spared Beam a pitying look. "Unfortunately, boy, it would seem we're getting the entire sword that the Yarmdon King thrust south at us. That there is at least three hundred men.

More torches sprang up at Lombard's words. They certainly did not seem to be worried about hiding themselves. There were nearly two hundred torches on the horizon. If Lombard's assessment of their numbers was accurate, Beam supposed they were using all the torches that they had available to them, to fully forecast their number.

"It has been a long time since I've fought the Yarmdon," Lombard noted. "I find their straightforwardness endearing at times. Their lust for battle is certainly preferable to that cunning mind that has infected our enemy to the East."

"They certainly seem cunning to me," Tolsey said. He'd never fought a Yarmdon. His experience of battle was entirely on the eastern line, under Lombard's command. "They managed to get three hundred men across the mountain, burn whole villages to the ground, and then disappear again."

"Ah. Perhaps. Maybe nostalgia taints my view. Indeed, these do be a cunning foe," Lombard said. There was a sigh at his words. "The world does shift, it seems.

It's all ever-changing. To think that it would be here, in the middle of nowhere, with no land to defend save from a lone village, that I would meet the most grave circumstances of my career."

"Captain…" Tolsey said, his voice containing a hint of worry.

"Relax yourself, Tolsey. I am far from giving up. Stormfront men that we are, we will not cower. We had merely need hold our position for a time, and Lord Blackwell's men will find us. Be it a day or two – there is hope," Lombard said.

If anything, Beam thought that Lombard was too relaxed. The Yarmdon were marching closer. He was beginning to see them now. Several black flags were hoisted up into the air, and large men strode under them. Beam could not see their faces yet, nor make out the specifics of their equipment. But he could feel their might.

All of them together were honed toward a single edge, a single purpose. Their might easily eclipsed the distance between them – a mile, maybe more.

Now that they wanted to be seen, their presence was unshakeable. If Beam closed his eyes, and had to guess their strength, not knowing their number, he would have guessed that this is what a Fourth Boundary knight felt like. Only, this knight was made of nearly three hundred people. It was a terrifying prospect.

AWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

AWOOO!

AWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Finally, the scouts blew the war horn. The signal for an attack from the east. It was a noise heard for miles around.

The soldiers near them sprang to life. The camp similarly erupted in movement. Soldiers that had been sitting eating and chatting moments before now threw their food off them, forgotten. Their faces hardened, and their thoughts went blank. As panic gnawed at them, their extensive training took over. All that experience gathered from all that drilling controlled their actions.

They rushed to the armoury to arm themselves. There was a spear for each hand. Others gathered bows and arrows, ready for the first defensive phase. Everyone who was off duty gathered on that eastern front as quickly as they could, behind the stakes that had been burrowed into the ground days earlier, and the deep trenches that had been dug.

Soon, there were nearly a hundred men gathered there. Or there would have been, depending on how optimistic the observer was.

In truth, gathering there currently were only around sixty men. There were nearly twenty to the north, where Lombard and Beam now were, but the fact remained, their numbers had certainly dwindled.

Inside the camp, for those unable to gather spears, that horn meant something entirely different. They didn't have the training required to respond to it. There was nothing to drown out the fear and the panic that it had inspired.

One moment, they were being held captive in a large tent, and in the next, the whole camp had stormed to life. There was a guard on duty still watching over them, but even he was looking out nervously, unsure whether he really should be wasting his time guarding mere prostitutes when their camp was under attack.

Greeves arose from the stool that he was sitting on, a grave expression on his face. He felt his heart pounding. "What's going on?" He demanded. He knew a horn meant violence. He knew it likely meant an attack, but he was unsure of whom it was attacking.