A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

And then a strike to the liver and sword speared through the heart. In an instant, there was a pile of corpses.
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It didn't do much by itself, but it served to plug that gap that Gorm had created, to stem the tide of the angry flowing river that he'd sent towards Lombard.

With those men dead, spears made it in time to plug the gap. Two squadrons arrived, not needing Lombard's orders. They set themselves up on either side of him.

"To my rear," he corrected them. "Deal with any stragglers that get through. That giant has a range of three spearlengths – stay well outside of it."

The sergeants nodded and directed their men as they were told.

The whole wave of Yarmdon soon came crashing down, all of them attempting to spill through the gap.

"LEAVE SOME BLOODY ROOM! THERE'S PLENTY OF WALL TO ATTACK!" Gorm bellowed at them. There was a delay at the order. Far more than when Lombard had given his. But such was the trade-off. For a lagging discipline and a slow chain of command, the Yarmdon had an adaptability that was more akin to water.

Each man was a raging torrent of the same desire for glory that afflicted them all.

The men began to spread out. A few went further to the right, where the Stormfront men were thinner, but they were few indeed. As long as the men there were matched, they wouldn't rush in to join them. There was no glory to be had in outflanking the enemy. The Gods would not delight in that.

The honour was to be had in the proving of strength, in meeting the enemy head-on. Looking for a worthy opponent and then overcoming him. With that, most went to the left, clashing into the wall of spears and stakes that had managed to repel their brethren before.

Without the fire to chase the enemy off though, things were different. The Yarmdon were able to settle in and make use of their strengths. Even just the psychological advantage of the fire was something significant. Now, the Stormfront men were like castles of sand trying to hold fast against the relentless tide of the sea.

The Yarmdon men were strong individually, that much was true. They were at least doubly as strong as the Stormfront men. But now they were being forced to deal with the bulk all at once.

The only saving grace were those stakes that Lombard had ordered forced into the ground, and the trenches, and then the bodies that they'd piled up. They all served to stem the flow of the Yarmdon assault, to limit the number of men that they could send in one area. At most, three or four could fight in each gap without getting in each other's way. That was enough for the Stormfront men to deal with.

Their points went straight for the hearts of their enemies, and their throats. They'd been trained in such efficient killing, following their Captain's philosophy.

But even as they stabbed and speared and drove the enemy back at times, it was still hardly enough to finish them. Each of those men fought as though there were nine lines they had that needed to be taken. It was only with particularly grievous wounds that the soldiers could halt them.

As Gorm made his attack, so too did Kursak. In much the same way, he led by the front with his two-handed battleaxe. He leapt the trench, just as his leader did, and he went rushing forward, just like Gorm.

From the way he bellowed, to the way he walked, that young man of twenty sought to imitate their leader. It was only in his shaven head that they differed, that and their height. No one could truly match Gorm in height.

It was Tolsey who was forced to meet Kursak's attack. Replaying the same scene that was happening on the other side of the battle, the two men stood and faced off against each other. Kursak, an angry and bloodthirsty bear, whereas Tolsey was more like a hardy moose. Unwilling to be pushed around, and with a strength of his own – but he was unsure of how to use it as of yet.

"CLEAR THE WAY!" Tolsey shouted urgently. He felt the same killing intent from Kursak that Lombard had felt from Gorm. He barked an order, rushing his men free of the danger zone.

Kursak's axe was already whipping behind him. Here too, his style was different from Gorm. He couldn't emulate Gorm's style – few could emulate anyone's style. It was known among the men of the Yarmdon that the war Goddesses' cultivated different flames, and she hammered different weapons. It was their task to find which weapon best fit their hand.

For Kursak, it was pure brute strength. Not strength belied by a deceptiveness, like Gorm, but merely the strength to split a mountain in two – or so, that was what his style aimed at.

The men retreated under Tolsey's direction, and an attack came blasting through where they were just a moment before. The chunks of the severed stakes went flying, as Kursak easily cut through them.

He gave a hearty laugh, seeing the retreating backs of the Stormfront.

"COWARDS!" He chuckled. "WHO ARE YOU, YELLOW HAIR, TO STAND HERE WHEN YOUR ALLIES FLEE?"

He pointed his axe at Tolsey as he spoke. Tolsey frowned, not understanding a word, but he could still make out the unbridled aggression.

"A COMMANDER, ARE YOU NOT? I SENSE IT IN YOU. THERE IS A DUEL TO BE HAND THEN! OFFER ME YOUR HEAD!"

Tolsey had long since drawn his sword from his sheath. His gaze was pointed towards Kursak's fur-covered feet. He knew as soon as the man took a step towards him, danger would ensue.

Weaker than Gorm though he was, Kursak was a terrifying threat in his own right. The men did not slow as he slowed. They did not yet afford him that level of respect – they knew they could slip through the gap he created, without receiving too many harsh words for their actions.