A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 805: Cracks in the Defense - Part 5

"You!" Jorah shouted towards an especially brutish man, as he buried an axe in a rider's chest. He'd been pitching towards Oliver's territory, where he, Verdant and Blackthorn were still causing all manner of destruction. If he went any further, he'd only get in their way. "Pair with that boy! Finish his kills with him!"

Jorah hadn't expected him to obey so quickly, but the man was almost meek in his disposition, despite the fact that he was covered in blood. He reminded Jorah vaguely of a hunting dog, but he still rushed to do as Jorah said.

Thinking it strange, Jorah nevertheless hurried to organize the rest of them, knowing that if they were left to run freely, they'd end up putting the lives of their allies at risk. He paired another large man off with Karesh, and the two of them were causing disgusting amounts of damage.

Then, he paired two more of the slaves up, and created a fourth point in their position, readjusting everyone to compensate for it. He pulled another man in to pair off with himself, and then gradually began to exert more pressure. Jorah could never have said why he knew where to place the men – he simply did. It was for the same reason he knew that rubbish should not be left in a hallway.

It simply struck him as obvious.

With Jorah busy giving commands, what had started off as a chaotic bit of momentum turned into something concrete, and overwhelming. Oliver could feel it even from his side of the charge. The enemy weren't merely focusing all their attention on him – they were forced to look to the right flank, as they were gradually overwhelmed, bit by bloody bit.

"THE GENERAL TOLD US TO JUST CHASE THEM INTO THE FOREST, YOU FOOLS!"

"SHUT UP, YOU CUNT! MEN ARE DYING HERE! DON'T PLAY I TOLD YOU SO!"

"WE CAN'T WIN – WE'VE ALREADY LOST HALF! WE NEED TO RETREAT!"

"DAMN IT! DAMN IT ALL!"

There didn't seem to be a clear Commander of the group. Or at the very least, there didn't seem to be one left alive. Oliver did recall that they'd been a man with a particularly fancy helmet that Blackthorn had cut down, her face a mask of emotionlessness, despite her shaky hands. Oliver supposed that he had likely been someone higher up, and more capable of seeing them united.

But that wasn't the only reason. For all the blood that was being spilt on that battlefield, there remained a pretty peasant girl without a drop on her. And yet, with the nature of the scene, and its terrain, she reigned as fearsomely as a devil. Her arrows fell with authority. Any time a man would pipe up, and attempt to lead, her bow would find them, knocking them from their horses.

Oliver hadn't even needed to tell her what he wanted. He'd barely glanced in her direction, and she'd followed his desire. She was like an extra hand to him, by now. All that time he'd spent with her, and then the battle of Solgrim, it made her a soldier so close that no one could hope to rival it.

It was enough that, if the others knew the strength of that bond, it would have invited a considerable amount of jealousy.

From her position in the tree, those sparks of Claudia's progress swelled as well. There sat a strong woman, her time spent in the world of business and leadership only enhancing the brutal edge of her fighting efficiency – an edge that she'd never sought to develop.

Bit by bit, they ruined those horsemen. Oliver never felt the slightest hint of a threat – at least, not against him. He'd known from the start that this group of twenty that they had was amongst the strongest that they could command. He hoped against all hopes that they'd send a detachment like this, and so they had, invited by the ire of Nila's arrow.

It seemed, though, that the mistake had been caused by a General, but by a lesser man, too eager in his pursuit to follow orders. With the prey so close to the hound's nose, it would take a disciplined dog to turn around with his tail between his legs.

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Those dogs had been whipped thoroughly now, though. They didn't even need an order to bring up the desire to retreat. Everywhere red was being painted. Riderless horses galloped away through the trees, their screams like phantoms in the night. The riders tried to work their way backwards, but in that confined space, their horses turned more into hindrances than assets.

It was a continual battle to keep the creatures under control, as fear began to reign, bit by bit.

The more fear Oliver felt, the more his lungs burned and his sword ached for blood. The curved sword of Dominus Patrick felt more comfortable in his hand than any weapon he'd ever held. He put his absolute faith in it, trusting it to bite even through chainmail, and for the weapon to return with nary a chip.

The enemy were fearful, indeed, and they wished to run – but Oliver could not allow them to do so. Nila's arrow killing a single enemy was a foothold. A legion of cavalrymen being slaughtered would be an entire ladder. The slightest flickerings of a strategy started to build up in Oliver's mind even as he fought.

It hardly felt as though he'd dreamed up the strategy himself – it more felt like it had been put there, as though the Gods themselves were blessing him with this gift, in recognition of his service. From the dastardliness of this particular plan, he didn't have to guess which devilish God was whispering it in his ear.

"FORWARD!" Oliver shouted. "CUT THEM OFF! TARGET THE MEN, AND KEEP WHAT HORSES YOU CAN!"

He gave voice to the order that earlier he'd held back, for fear of distraction. Now they were at liberty to deal with their foes in whatever way they wished. Though, numerically, they might now have finally been even, the odds were so overwhelming in Oliver's favour, that his men could afford to fight almost leisurely.

Ingolsol's power swelled in him, as the fear continued to build.

"I'm pushing forward," Oliver said to Verdant and Blackthorn. "Continue, you're doing well."