A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

Lombard noted the look. "And so, I ask, who swung their blade against my orders?"

"Captain… Forgive me, but was it really so wrong for them to exact justice for our comrades that were murdered?" A sergeant spoke up.

"Ah, so it was you that killed them?" Lombard asked.

"No… It wasn't," the soldier spluttered.

"And why is it you know to fear the consequences of your actions, mm? Before I have even decided on a punishment – you know that you will indeed be punished. If you understand that – I would hope the rest of you do as well," Lombard said, his eyes scanning the crowd of gathered soldiers. Nearly half the camp was there – with the rest attending to duties, so they couldn't join in right away.

His pale blue eyes fell on a certain man in the crowd. "It was you, was it, Bornemouth?"

The man flinched, but did not deny it. He had a nervous look about his eyes, as Beam's gaze landed on him as well, and a sheen of thick sweat was present on his forehead. It surprised Beam that he hadn't run already.

"Aye, it was me," he said, forcing his voice to hve confidence in it, despite his eyes and face flickering as though full of doubts. His black hair was so thick with sweat that it clung his forehead and cast droplets down towards his beard. "And I don't regret it. Killing a comrade – a loyal man. 'Cos I'd kill them, wouldn't I?"

"Mhm, indeed," Lombard said, nodding his head. "Unless I had given explicit orders that you not do so without my permission. And this girl you cut down, were you there when she supposedly murdered our men, hm? Did oyu catch her with knife in hand?"

"No… but…" the man started to make excuses for himself. Apparently a group of them had found Charlotte hiding behind a tent, in tears, after they'd discovered one of their men murdered. She'd had blood on her skirt.

"Blood on her skirt, was it? But I look at this body, and there is none on her hands, mm?" Lombard pointed out. "Have you ever known an assassin so adept that they could avoid getting blood on their hands, yet they would still allow it on their dress?"

There was no one to properly answer his questions. Lombard drew his sword from his belt.

"By all accounts, Bournemouth, it looks as though this particular woman that you've slain is innocent."

"They're all the same!" Bournemouth spat, his fear making him indignant. "They were surely working together on it. And what is the life of what villager, when compared with three trained soldiers?"

"You make a point," Lombard nodded. "Losing three trained men is a cutting blow. But this was never an issue of exchange – it was you who made it that. You added to the body count without my permission. Such unpredictability is not something I need in my men. Kneel."

Bournemouth turned to look at those around him, as though expecting that they would fight on his behalf. But he found, that even the men who had been so eager to catch Charlotte with him, to exact the same justice, they had abandoned him. He had swung the sword, after all – they did not feel so passionately that they wished to die alongside him.

He dared to take a step back. "Seize him," Lombard said mercilessly. "You could have died with still some of your honour intact – that was a shame."

Beam watched the proceedings without a shred of mercy. Even Loriel had looked up, fury in her eyes. She said nothing, yet her gaze damned the man to justice.

The soldiers on either side of Bournemouth seized him at their Captain's orders. Bournemouth kicked and squealed. "You're really just going along with this? They killed one of our own! Since when did villagers matter more than soldiers? He's only giving this order because of the boy!

He's putting a damn peasant before the lives of his loyal men!"

He tried to point a finger in Beam's direction, but when he felt the waves of hostility radiating from Beam, that jabbing soon stopped. The quivering soldier could not even look in his direction. Out of the two executioners, somehow, Lombard seemed the kinder.

"That is a mighty accusation," Lombard noted. "Albeit a true one. If you had been a more competent troop, perhaps I could have managed to spare your life, despite your grievous mistake. Alas, you are merely a seed of discontent and disloyalty. My army needs loyal men as much as it needs competent ones. You have no place here any longer, Bournemouth.

And as a man of the serving class that you are so proud of – you also have no place left in this world."

The trio of soldiers that had seized Bournemouth dragged him in front of Lombard. When he gave the nod, they kicked his knee from the back, forcing him to kneel in front of the Captain. Even their movements that were hesitant and first and sympathetic, thy had regained a anger the more Bournemouth squealed, as though they refused to be associated with him any longer.

Lombard readied his sword, as a soldier forced Bournemouth's head forward.

"In the name of Lord Blackwell, ruler of Ernest and loyal servant of King Albert, I charge you with the crime of insubordination and I do sentence you to die," Lombard said coolly. And then he swung his sword, without an ounce of hesitation. It tore through meat, and plunged its way through bone, severing the head completely.

With a dull sound, that head hit the floor. A spray of blood came with it.

Lombard flicked the red from his blade, and resheathed his weapon. The headless body collapsed with it, adding more red to the snow, his blood joining Charlotte's as they both made their journey to the afterlife.

"Now," he said. "There seem to be other problems to tend to. Gather the prostitutes and imprison them – but let them not be harmed. You fools that would act against my orders – I give you a warning: these killings are just as likely to be the work of our enemy. Who else would benefit from such discontent? Thus, I will not tolerate further drama, not until I have verified the situation myself."

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