A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

Tiberius looked along Blackwell's gathered defensive line as he said that, looking for the hints of weakness that he always seemed so able to sniff, even from a distance away. He looked from Broadstone, to Skullic, and then his gaze landed on Karstly, just for a few moments, and he smiled. "Now there's a man that appears offended. There's good motivation in his eyes."

He dwelled on Karstly only long enough to snort his amusement. His gaze hovered for a time on Queen Asabel, as he judged her effects on the battlefield, and on the men in front of her, and then he finished scanning the rest of Blackwell's army.

It was, in the end, as he had thought it would be. To see his expectations confirmed in reality brought that old familiar rush to Tiberius. It came as the most sensational of highs. Beyond even that spiced wine that the old Wyndon King had often bothered himself with seeing delivered, whenever Tiberius did threaten him with the prospect of escape. It was a feeling of absolute control. Over the lives not only of his own men, who had already been broken, and who had already sworn loyalty to him, but the lives of the enemy. Over their decisions, over the very ground that they stood on.

He shifted his neck, feeling the disturbances in the air with as much delight as a silken scarf might have offered him. It was his, to the highest degree now. He'd drunk it all in, and confirmed what stood in front of him to be unworthy. Not only to the degree that a man might be unworthy of another man, but to the degree that an insect had no business going to war with dragons. To Tiberius' mind, Blackwell and his grand band of heroes, they were no more than that. Insects in the carapace of their battered armours. Insects that had spent the good portion of the last few weeks chasing their tails in matters of civil administration, rather than preparing for the war in front of them. Insects that had taken Tiberius' bait, all the way through – and the very same bugs and beetles that he had seen crushed and robbed back in the Skreen.

Against such foes, it was declared that victory was no longer a question, nor even a pursuit. For if victory was guaranteed, then the route to victory, it could be a flexible thing, done to the rhythm of a disturbing piece of music. Done to elicit the most overwhelming degree of suffering in those men that did stand in front of him. For the purposes of making the visit worthwhile, and showing, once again, for those mortals with poor memories that did forget, just how overwhelming the might of the emperor was.

"Well, there's no point standing around any longer, is there?" Tiberius said, reaching his arms out wide, and then drawing them in again, clasping something in the empty air that seemed the size of a small cat. "We'll start by breaking their little backs," he said, with a sharp push from his thumbs. Though there was nothing there, it was a gesture inclined to make most men flinch, as if he really had, for no reason other than light cruelty, inflicted such a wound on a little cat or dog.

A thousand plate wearing men came marching, like a legion of knights, they trod on the thawed earth, making a clamour as they went, wasting a good portion on their number carrying those jewelled banners that Tiberius had seen made. In the hand of a single bannerman, there was enough wealth for any one of the Serving Class soldiery that Blackwell had bought to see himself set up for the rest of his left, and even for the lives of the children followed him.

A moderately pushed, stabbing assault, towards the left flank of Blackwell's stationed men. They took to the hill, as Blackwell had hoped they would, and they did so to a storm of continual arrow fire, right into the heart of Skullic's territory.

Blackwell did not interfere. There was little benefit in having so many Generals between such a number of troops if he took every bit of command for himself. Skullic was enthusiastic enough to see the job done by his lonesome. He called the rhythm of the arrow fire by his own booming voice, and he saw to it that a line of spear-wielding infantrymen were set up readily in place to receive that heavy infantry assault.

"LOOSE!" Skullic called again. "TIGHTER! HOLD THOSE SPEARS TOGETHER! NOT A SINGLE GAP NOW!" He called, saying all the right things, with the enthusiasm that only the youth seemed to be able to properly capture. His men moved as he directed them to. Like he was sharpening a sword, he ran the whetstone of his Command through the ranks repeatedly, each passing making them a stronger, more dangerous force.

The arrows hardly seemed to slow them, but that was to be expected. Their plate armour, though it didn't make them invulnerable to arrow assault, certainly made it far more difficult for those same arrows to pierce properly, if the angle of the projectile wasn't quite as it should have been. They lost men on the way up their assault of the hill, but nearly as many as they otherwise would have. Men carrying the banners stumbled, but before they fell, without exception, they made sure to pass those banners to another man. Not a single one hit the ground, before they saw their swords levelled, and made Skullic's spearmen.

"Blow the horn," Tiberius said, to no one in particular, trusting the order to be carried out regardless, just as his infantrymen were being held at bay on the end of Skullic's spears.

AWOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

The cry of the horn came just a short few heartbeats later, to a strong ripple of activity from Tiberius' soldiers. They'd pushed their way forward cautiously, with the spear points bearing down at them from atop the hill, but now they seemed to abandon caution. The front line pushed themselves in recklessly, even knowing that their swords were unlikely to reach the men on the end of the long spears. They endured the scraping attacking to their sides, whenever a spearman could manage a good thrust at them. Others too spear point straight to the stomach, punching in through their armours, but not quite running all the way out of the back. As the spears stirred their guts like a messy bowl of soup, those men did not fall – they simply abandoned their swords, and grasped at the shafts of the spears, routing them in place.