A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

"Ah, ah, listen!" The voice said, having noticed the exchange. "If you don't, people will die."

A village exploded a short distance away. He'd been at the front of the reinforcement charge, when he'd seen that Beam and Lombard were having trouble with Gorm. He'd worked himself up bravely. Normally a mild-mannered man, he'd done more than his fair share in the battle that they'd fought. The blood on his clothes was evidence of that.

And now, his body was nothing more than a pile of reddened pulp.

One moment, he had been standing anxiously with the rest of them, his fingers nervously gripping his axe, as he looked off into the distance, trying to find the source of that voice. And then in the next, he'd felt a light pressure in his stomach, as though he'd needed to burp. That feeling had magnified, until he was sure he needed to be sick. Explore hidden tales at mvl

And then it had continued, as his eyes bulged from his skull, and the pressure in his head increased so much that he lost consciousness. And then his entire body exploded with it.

Those around him stared in shock, but none of them started to squeal or throw a fit of terror. A greater terror prevented them from doing such a thing. It was as though there were invisible fingers around their necks, holding them in place, like collars on cattle.

"Gooooooooooood," the voice said firmly, once silence had returned. "I thought one of you might have protested that, being the naughty boys that you are. Verryyyy clever. Cleverness is likeable, it is. Highly likeable. Far better than prettiness.

I cannot abide by a pretty woman with a hollow head."

The man rambled, and his voice only grew louder in their ear. At first, it was as though he had been standing next to them, but now, he'd somehow managed to get closer, until his lips were right against the lobe, and they could hear his breath with every line that he spewed.

There were movements in the flames, off towards the east, that accented the movement of the voice. Those great big pillars of black – taller than even the tallest of trees – rippled, and a gate formed through it, as though someone had opened the portcullis of a castle. In stepped through a figure, clutching a staff.

The moment they saw him – though they could not make out his immediate features, for he was still quite a distance away – they were hit by the understanding that the voice belonged to him. It was still loud in their ear, but at least it had a point of origin now. They could trace the source back to him, on the other side of that snowy field, surrounded by black flames.

The man did not step through by his lonesome either. At first, one might have thought it was merely shadow trailing after him, but with each step that he took, that shadow rippled. After a few more steps, the shape of human bodies was impossible to dismiss, cloaked in the same dark robes as he, though their hoods were raised, hiding their faces. His did not seem to be.

"Helllllooooo everyoneeeee," the voice sang, now that he was quite sure they were all looking at him. The shadows spread out behind him. There must have been a hundred of them, easily. "Now, I'm sure you've spotted my minions, have you not? Veryy good. Now, if you would, cast your attention to the North, the South and the West as well, you will see that I have made Hell rather symmetrical, haven't I?"

With his permission, they looked, and as they looked, they saw, just as he was sure he would.

It was as though someone was holding a mirror in every direction. From the West, the North and the South, they saw just the same as what they saw from the East. A man in dark robes, with a staff, leading a hundred cloaked figures.

And now again, his voice lost its point of origin. It seemed to be coming from all those figures at once. It was a display that so easily nudged a man towards madness, that several villagers already began grabbing at their eyes, trying to rush the illusion away.

"Ah, no no no no. Don't do that," the man spat. He genuinely seemed to be angry this time. "I've put a lot of hard work into this performance. If you don't see it, then who will? Spiteful, you're all terribly spiteful."

Before he'd even finished condemning them, each of those villagers that had dared to cover their eyes exploded, in the same red mist as the last man had, nearly ten of them in total. Beam felt his mouth harden in anger. He could still feel the villager's wills as if they were his own body. He wanted to end this man.

"Ohohoho," the mage sang. "I FEELLLLLLLLLL YOUR ANGER! SUCH BASER EMOTIONS! SUCH PRIMITIVE MINDS… Now, hold it in, or more people will die."

This time, no explosions followed the threat, but Beam still felt his eyes wide, and his heart beat pound. His grip on his sword was tight… but that man was just so far away.

Ingolsol's voice rang in his ear just as loudly as the mage's.

"Despair. Despair. Despair. Despair. Despair. Despair.

Despair. Despair. Despair. Despair. Despair. Despair.

Despair. Despair. Despair. Despair. Despair. Despair.

Despair. Despair."

The same word over and over, in an almost boring cacophony of noise.

"Who am I…?" The voice said, as if responding to the question. "Well, that's true… I suppose I had better introduce myself, though I really wish you hadn't asked."

Even as he continued to talk, he drew slow steps closer and closer to the village. Well, it was less 'he' and more 'they'. They all moved in perfect symmetry with one another, coming closer at the same rate, like the city walls themselves were closing in on them.

"I am… A rare breed, that is what I am," the mage said.

"I'm he who gets up early, and works until late. In short, I am not a man much different to you, at least in the surface sense…. But deeper down, I'm clearly, you know, far better. That's obvious, right? Right? I don't need to point that out.

I mean, look at yourselves. You're rats caught in a giant trap."