A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

The cold snow landed, and that blue rose bloomed. It stayed in bloom throughout the duration of winter, even with no insects to pollinate it. And then, as soon as winter was over, its petals would fall, soft and slowly to the ground.

For those men, that unlucky first squadron, their winter was over.

They hardly even felt the strike that did it. Gorm would not have wished that they did – he was not a cruel man, despite his barbarism.

There was a soft squelch in the snow, as one man saw his own hand land into what had once been a perfect white. Then there were drippings, like icy rain. He saw the links of his chainmail drop after it, slow and steady.

His blood spilt like a painting, as he saw his life in it. A wife that he'd only just married the summer before. The son that he was sure grew in her belly. A father that he'd only just reconciled with, after years apart. All the training that he'd put in, to sharpen his skill with the spear, to keep himself alive for the sake of his family.

And then… More recently, the dreams and hopes that he'd begun to have. The sight of a boy younger than him, achieving a peak of martial skill he thought was only reserved for nobles. The dreams he had of following in that path, of discovering the same recipe, and passing it along to his son.

All of them were cast aside. He glanced up. The last thing he saw was a giant man stepping over his corpse, covered in his blood. Then, he fell down into the snow to join his comrades. All five men had been torn to pieces in but a single swing of that axe.

Their torsos were half severed. Any extra range, and the axe would have cut their bodies away from their legs entirely. Not that it mattered to men that were already dead. The shock in their eyes was a particular flavour. Gorm found that he did not mind it. It was a familiar sight, after all.

One did not attain the Goddess of War's fourth blessing upon strength alone. Martial skill was a necessary factor in building one's density. Gorm's technique of the Serpent's Axe caught many of his foes unaware. It lent his weapon surprising quickness, a nimbleness that many did not expect from a man his size. But it also lent him greater range.

Along with those five bodies of the men he'd killed, there were also two thick logs of wood, where his axe had rushed through the stakes of their defence, opening a large gap. Gorm grinned, admiring his handy work. In but a single swing, he'd breached their defences.

"You're a cold man. You let your men die," Gorm said in his thick northern tongue. Lombard did not speak Yarmdon, but he was still able to guess the man's words.

He brushed off the accusations coolly, as he held his sword by his side. "Wherever you went, men would have died. You came searching for me. Now you have found me."

His emotionless tone gave Gorm nothing to work with. He couldn't decipher what the Captain had said, though his coolness was universal. Even with both of them covered in the soldier's blood, the man hardly flinched. He was half Gorm's size, but Gorm found in him the hardiness of a boulder. His smile widened, his grin delighted.

The giant had made use of his strength, and he had cracked the nut that was the Stormfront's defence. In but a single move, he had made up for the loss of those first fifty men. It was an act befitting of their leader. A man entrusted by the King. Whatever battlefield he was on, wherever Gorm went, the tides would turn in his favour.

His men rushed after him, like the unforgiving current of the sea. They rushed past Gorm towards the gap he had created. He felt a rush of annoyance at that. He wanted to duel this man alone. He wanted to take that head himself. He wanted to reach a hand towards that frozen heart and force fear and blood through it.

But his men knew him better than that. They rushed towards the gap, but they did not get in the way of his kill. They rushed to the right of the Captain, and towards the left.

Gorm heard something shouted in the Stormfront tongue, as men began to move, rushing to fill the gap.

They were too late though, already four men had made their way inside. Four of the most vicious men at that. All among the Yarmdon knew that they who led the charges, who ran the fastest – they were the most dangerous. Or so it was assumed.

They were a step too close to the Captain, though. Their purposeful ignoring of the danger only brought them closer to their demise.

Gorm shook his head. How could they not see it? To him, it was as obvious as frail ice. Stepping into that zone of death unprepared, it would only bring blood.

More red spilt, joining the canvas that Gorm had created earlier. Lombard gifted the dead with the blood of their enemies – and with the size of the Yarmdon, that happened to be a hell of a lot of it.

Whereas Gorm's blade was overwhelming, and mighty, Lombard's was cunning and efficient. His sword only made the slightest of movements that it needed to kill the foe.

A man's beard was left half trimmed. The hairs of it slowly drifted down towards the ground. The man noted the wound to his throat but a moment later. He gagged and his fingers scrambled to reach for it. His knees buckled, and he went to the ground in a mighty pile, collapsing through the cloud of falling hairs.

The man next to him felt his shield slip from his hand, but it was more like his hand had slipped from his arm. Then he too felt that heat around his neck, like the sting of a strong liquor. He smiled as he felt it, imagining drinking it in the halls with his Gods. The life faded from him before the strength did from his body. He collapsed atop that other man.

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