A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

Faceless, metallic beasts, with masks drawn low over the eyes. The sorts of foes that you were half-convinced did not even contain a real man inside the armour, but rather some skeletal creature, some product of Pandora that ought not to have been.

The Sergeants were shouting, then the Captains were shouting along with them, making the micro-adjustments they needed to, in order to tighten their lines, and conform to the terrain as best they could, so they might repel the men in front of them.

Some of those soldiers had the unfortunate position of standing on the parts of the hill where grass gave way to steeper rock. Their footing was the worst of it, for the snow that had melted there, and the ice that had formed, so deceptively covered by a thin layer of white powder. They had to quickly dig out and recognize those little natural landmines, lest they cost them the strength of their defence, once they received the charge.

It was Blackwell's side of the hill that was the worst as far as footing went. He made sure of that. His was the rockiest terrain, and was likely to be the most difficult for his soldiers. Naturally, it was his burden to bear. He was the Commanding General not only of this battle, but of their entire campaign against the High King. His style of leadership was to lead by example.

"And what these men need," he murmured to himself, "is a strong example."

In the darkness of that engagement, and in the blanket that Tiberius sought to throw over all of them, Blackwell found his answer. His was the weakest place to stand and defend. But who said that the only strength of a hill was in sitting on top of it? There were other ways to make use of it. His Black instincts swirled in agreement, enjoying the idea, and finally, his heart began to purr with that feeling that he was the predator, rather than the prey. He was allowed those few moments that came, when he was the tiger crouched in the long grass, doing all his could to still the excited twitching of his tail, and to hide the fire of his eyes, as he longed for his target to wander closer.

And they did. Bit by bit, they lumbered forward. Blackwell glanced beyond them, towards Tiberius, making doubly sure that his tactic would be an effective one. He was pleased by what he saw. The opposing General was in no rush. His movement forward was more of a threat than something drenched in intention.

"Good," Blackwell murmured to himself. Then he spoke to his men, commanding their attention, and then preparing them for his timing. "Hold," he told them, lacing his voice with Command, so that they might feel his sense of anticipation, even if they could not understand it. He prepared them, even without telling them his intentions, for the suddenness of the order that was to come.

They lumbered, foot after foot, almost entirely in time in their marching. Their swords were heavy in their hands, and lengthier than your average longsword, but not quite a greatsword yet. They came up from the bottom of the hill, and one foot at a time, they did approach the halfway mark of it. Blackwell eyed them with fierce concentration, counting it down in his head, until they passed the point that he deemed to be the starting line of his trap, and he lurched forward, bursting through his own infantrymen from behind, and bellowing out to them the order.

"CHARGEEEE!" He roared, thundering down the hill, his horse almost flying for a short few instances as it leapt from the top of the slope like a pegasus, before finally catching the ground beneath its feet again, and doing so quite quickly towards a gallop. It was the exact sort of manoeuvre that most cavalrymen would fear, for the poorness of the ice and snow footing, and for the risk of breaking the horse's leg, or worse, breaking their own necks when they went falling out of the saddle.

But risks were the very sorts of things that battles against superior foes were composed of. They could not stand idly, and fight simply, they had to throw everything that they had against the monster in front of them, so that they could keep his poisonous fangs at bay, even for a moment longer.

Those Blackwell men were quick to react. Along with their Lord, the front line of infantry found themselves caught up in a great wave of adrenaline, as that which they prepared themselves for was suddenly cast away. No longer did they have to play the part of the defender, no longer did they have to wait. They were rushing downhill, as fast as their legs could carry them, buoyed by the speed offered by the slope. They didn't attempt to control it. They gave into it. The only cushion they needed to bring themselves to a halt was that wall of steel-covered men right in front of them.

The rest of the line of infantry seemed to wish to turn towards Blackwell when they saw his intentions, and he revealed himself as he had. But Blackwell's timing was not a thing that they could overcome. Their charge wasn't something they could easily turn away from now, not when they were only a few short steps away from the spear points of the rest of those men, waiting for them at the top of the hill. To turn their backs on them now would be to invite a worse tragedy. They continued advancing, all that could, until, from the left flank of the allied formation, there came another cry.

"CHARGEEE!" Karstly roared, seizing the initiative as Blackwell had, but in his own sort of way. He'd been waiting for the same thing, but the timing that he'd longed for was different. He wanted them right in of him, before he charged forward. He wanted to send them toppling down the hill like the over-heavy human skittles that they were.