A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

"Thank the Gods you're still kicking," he said. "Seems you've worked a bit of a miracle in my absence."

"Cut them down," Beam said calmly. Judas managed to spare him a glance in response, even as he wrestled against his opponent. His ears widened, as did his grin. He felt the fire that filled his chest, and the renewed strength that filled his limbs.

"Gods be damned, the boy's only gone and grown again," Judas said, as he struggled against the man and his incoming axe. "I suppose that means I need to get my act together..." He gritted his teeth, and with a roar of effort, he forced the man off him.

A second later, his spear went speeding forward, slamming itself into the man's gut, sneaking just under the raised shield. "Damn you," Judas said, wearing his finest smile, as the Yarmdon glared at him with hate-filled eyes.

The Stormfront soldiers next to them managed to deal with their opponents as well. They had enough of a numbers advantage that they could go two against a single enemy, or even three, in some cases, and slowly but surely, their numbers there were once again cut down.

Gorm didn't even need to look to feel his men dying. It felt like a wound on his own body, a slash across his gut, spilling his precious lifeblood… His anger rose, and he attacked Lombard with renewed vigour.

"THREE HUNDRED, A THOUSAND, TEN THOUSAND! MY AXE WILL NEVER SLEEP, NOT UNTIL BOVIR HIMSELF STRIKES ME DOWN!" Gorm roared, and he meant it, every word of it. He embodied the berserk spirit of the Yarmdon people more than any of them. He walked amongst the halls of their finest warriors, and held esteemed positions in their most exalted tales.

Gorm the Giant, Gorm the Grey Bear, Gorm the Bridge Bearer – there were many titles afforded to him by his people, and more less pleasant ones afforded by his enemies. He'd begun his career alone and wild, a creature of the woods, untamed and monstrously strong.

With each victory that he won, with each song that they sang about him, he'd grown more and more fond of his people. In time, he even learned the value in the position of the Commander, though he had his own ways of doing things.

He'd dreamed of reaching that Sixth Rank, as many men before him had – and he felt, in his heart, the road there could only be walked with many strong subordinates at his side.

And now, in a single swooping blow, in a single reckless decision to venture South, as winter approached, they had all been taken from him, and once again, Gorm was alone, a ghost of the mountains, a wild Grey Bear.

His axe was deadlier than those who claimed to be his martial superior. His body was nearly impervious to wounds. Even as Beam, Lombard and Tolsey all surrounded him, with a row of Stormfront spears lending them their aid, the monster that was Gorm did not give in, he would not yield to their meek strategy. He would prove, as he always proved, that strength would prevail.

The whites of his eyes had long since gone a deep red, as he dared not blink, as he defended all sides of himself at one. A weak spear attempted to pierce him from behind – without even turning, his axe snaked around, and cut off its head.

All the while, Lombard watched him with a calm look on his face, staying just far enough out of range that Gorm could not fully commit to him, even as he did his best to target him. 'Just that man's head,' he thought. 'Just that man's head, and it will all be worth it.'

But fate was not so kind. Beam continually hounded the giant warrior from the back, his movements fluid and efficient, demanding his constant attention. Each strike that he landed struck so perfectly, that it made Gorm's rage waver, as he felt a degree of respect as a martial artist.

'That one will go far,' he said, with a grim smile in his heart that did not reach his lips. 'This one was my mistake. I should have crushed the subordinates from the start.'

Even as he made such humble recognitions to himself, his axe swung with reckless ferocity, and rage contorted his face.

The villagers had begun making their way out of the village by now, having dealt with the last of the Yarmdon men. They came to see the fall of the last giant, the symbolic centre of all the struggle that they'd had to overcome.

Nila's bow soon joined the fray, and the tide began to turn. Read new chapters at m_v-l'e|m,p| y- r

Three strong swords had been enough to wear Gorm out, even if they were swords of those beneath him. The soldiers on top of that served to irritate him greatly… But those arrows, they tipped the scales against him.

With those arrows, there came many more, as the hunters of the village retrieved their bows, hunting the greatest prey of their careers.

Finally, a blow landed. The first was afforded to Beam. Gorm moved to parry one of Nila's arrows as it zoomed towards the back of his head, and an instant later, Beam's sword was there, making the fullest use of the opportunity, cutting down the full length of its back.

With that blow, the giant staggered. Tolsey's sword found its way into the man's gut next, cutting open the giant's intestines, but pinning the bearded Vice-Captain in place. Gorm's arm began to raise itself again, pulling his battle axe along with it. One of them he would take to the grave. One of these flames he would snuff out, he was determined to.

But then more arrows plunged into his back, more spears skewered through his front. One snagged its way through his arm, pinning it against his torso.

He attempted to struggle, but his limbs could move no more, like a lion caught in a net.

His eyes rested hatefully on the only man who had yet to join the attack.

Lombard breathed in some cold air through his lungs, and glanced at the stump where his right hand had once been. "You took my right hand, honoured foe. Allow me to take your head."

He said such words with the utmost of knightly respect, dipping his head, as he cast his eyes towards the ground. It was not Gorm's culture, but he appreciated the sentiment. In his heart – he acknowledged this man who had bested him, as he always had with all those that he tricked him in the past. He acknowledged his defeat, and he gave thanks for a battle well fought.

'Should have… Should have moved in earlier.' He thought to himself, before the blade came for his neck, as he recounted Jok's battle with Beam. But then he chastised himself for that. Regrets were for the strategist. He operated on instinct. He made the best choices that he could with what he had.

He'd oriented himself for the greater victory, against that encroaching darkness, but in the end, he'd reached too far.