A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

Oliver frowned, ignoring the fierce beating of fear in his chest. He would have been a fool not to feel it. It was magic that had brought even Dominus Patrick low, after all. It was to be respected and to be feared.

"My father said that mages were a rarity," Oliver said, "but that those that dabbled in magic aren't. It seems too unlikely for me to cross two fully-blown mages within a matter of months, though I suppose it's not impossible. If I had to place a wager, I'd say it's the fire that's the important thing, not any one man."

"That sounds true, Ser," Northman agreed. "Why else have this chamber built? It's clearly meant for something more than keeping men safe. There's an oddness here."

As they spoke, more men were reaching towards the flame and more men were burning from it. None of the onlookers seemed to be particularly alarmed by that fact.

"I don't know what they're attempting to do, but I'm also not keen on allowing it, Commander," Oliver said. "The longer we let them continue whatever this is, the worse it'll get for us."

"Wipe them out then, eh?" Northman said. "I suppose we can get behind that."

Cormrant had forced his way through the ranks of men, just as they were coming to that decision.

"What manner of monstrosity have we been dragged into?" He cursed.

"A worse one than we'd like, but perhaps not one that we'd be unable to handle," Northman said. "Ser Patrick suggests we deal with them before they finish whatever it is that they're up to."

A nervous glance from Cormrant at Oliver seemed to suggest that he agreed with that suggestion, however unwillingly it was. "I suppose there's no damn choice. We've our archers with us. We can try and take them out from range."

"That would be preferable," Northman admitted. "I don't want to get anywhere near that blue fire if we can help it."

A single from both men brought the archers to the front. It said something about the scale of that cavern that they needed to draw their strings all the way back just to reach the men in the middle.

"Fire!" Cormrant barked.

The arrows sailed, a quiet whistle in the quiet cavern, and then they landed just as unceremoniously, straight into the backs of unsuspecting men, felling them in a symphony of groans.

The dancing man looked up from his ritual, only seeming to truly notice them once the arrows had landed. He opened his eyes like a man awakening from a trance.

"Awaken, my followers!" He said, in a deep and resinous voice. He called his words to the ceiling, like a wolf howling. A more nerving man it was hard to imagine, than one drenched in bulls-blood and wearing the head of that same beast.

His words could not have been more aptly chosen, for it was indeed like the bandits had been asleep. His sing-song voice cut through the silence, and only then did the bandits begin to stir, turning as individuals, rather than as a group… though even seeing them act more normally, Oliver couldn't help but feel that there was something off about them.

"These dogs of the state seek to interrupt our salvation!" The man declared. "They soil our ritual, and our customs. They forget the natural way – that which makes the man of the field stronger than the man of the city. Hold, my people, for the ritual is almost complete. Pandora shall grant us the power that we seek!"

"Pandora…" Ingolsol said. "So that's what that awful smell was. I'd thought there was something off about this place."

"Oliver," Claudia warned. "This could get terribly serious if they're allowed to continue. Pandora isn't just… No. This is no time for lecture. See that which is in front of you, and halt it. These men and the villages that surround them require your protection."

"LOAD!" Cormrant called, as the bandits began to drift away from the steps to form a row of men in front of them. The twenty-odd archers at the front once more notched arrows on their bowstrings, and drew them back taught. "LOOSE!"

Once more they let loose a cloud onto the masses of the men – and the few women amongst them – that gathered in a messy mass, like Yarmdon, defending the bottom of those stairs from intruders.

"Flame! Defend the righteous!" The bull-headed man said, dancing about the fire as he sang those words. And he truly did sing them too. They weren't mere commands, despite their content.

The flame didn't even twitch in response. It only continued to burn hotly. Or was it hot? It didn't make sense for that bull-headed man to be standing so close to it if it was as hot as it seemed to be.

The arrows flew on mercilessly towards those two hundred angry bandits. They cowered beneath them, raising their arms up in future defence. They lacked the shields of the Yarmdon, else they might have posed a grander threat, Oliver thought. Discover exclusive tales on My Virtual Library Empire

Though, that thought was inspired by rationality. He should have learned by now that the magic world was not a rational one. It might not even have been a separate world at all. Magic might have just been that which was to be labelled 'irrationality.'

They lacked shields in their hands, but they were shielded from the arrows nonetheless. As soon as the arrows dipped to pierce them, they erupted all at once in a blue light, a cloud of mystical luminosity. Then, they too, like the bodies of the men before them, evaporated entirely into ash, leaving the men beneath unharmed.

"Gods be good," a soldier said, lowering his bow with a quiver in his arm, seeing his arrow disappear to nothing, as though it had been erased by the Gods themselves.

They were normal, human men. That sort of power, when wielded against them, could not have been more frightening. Trained soldiers though they were, they weren't want to stand against the likes of mages. It was far beyond their pay grade.

"What are the chances of us locking that gate and fleeing here for good?" Northman said seriously. "This is beyond us, Ser Patrick."