A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1604 - 1604: The Witch - Part 3

With Gar and the Minister of Blades next to him, Oliver supposed that he could have lasted an eternity, but finally, his exhaustion indeed was beginning to mount. He'd lasted longer than could have been possible, but after so long spent defending, and then attacking, the weariness was undeniable. The more he sought to retain the sprightliness that he'd managed to preserve from before, the more the winds and the witch that commanded them seemed to turn against him, as if calling him a liar, and pointing out his weakness for what it was.

He was forced to put less strength into it all. A soldier that he could have finished with a single counterattacking thrust now took two, simply because he didn't have the strength to summon up the speed that he once did.

For that lacking, those soldiers made it nearer to him. The circle of space that he'd managed to keep around him for so long began to disappear. He'd called up to his men, and summoned the strength of his Command, but that strength did not seem to go as far as his own muscles.

A thousand men stood, where a thousand men should really have already been corpses, but for that effort – a god defying effort it was – they were all exhausted, and inches away from the white skeletal hands of death.

To give into that exhaustion, Oliver thought, was to lose. But then, he supposed, he had lost from the start. He'd come into the battle defeated. He wondered why it was that now, all of a sudden, he found himself still clinging to the pride of maintaining himself throughout exhaustion.

For indeed, was there not a pride to be had? To last as long as he and the Minister of Blades had together, despite being the subject of the enemy's relentless attacks. That by itself was a feat worthy of legend. Tossed about by the tides of men, as if they were nothing more than minor vessels on a mighty sea – and they had endured, long enough for the sea to calm, and them to see a change in their course.

That ought to be enough. A man like Oliver ought to be happy with such an ending. For his worth as a soldier, and as a leader of men, was entirely in the skill of the sword, he knew. For him to die, knowing that it had taken over a hundred men to weary him and his trio, and that he had stood against their great charge, for the spell of nearly twenty minutes, he ought to be satisfied with that.

Even his foes would respect it. He could hear it in the sense of the men around him. They were wary of him to a degree that they hadn't been at the start. They no longer rushed in with the same ferocity, thinking that they could claim a General's head. If nothing else, their lengthy resistance had at least served to build that bridge of fear. That alone was enough.

But then his men had risen again to match him. When he'd shouted, and he'd felt Command swirling up in him, and he borrowed their strength just for a second, and he felt compelled to move on an impulse that was not his own, he was something else entirely.

When he became aware that there had been built something that could match the dragon, a part of him awoke again. Ingolsol had his hands ready, his legs crossed, lounging on the throne, waiting for his moment. He saw an ally, and supposed that he could control it. And perhaps twenty minutes ago, he might have done, but not now.

Now there was only exhaustion. His vision grew narrower, and narrower, until he saw nothing but the men in front of him, longing to claim his life. Even they in their great numbers, were no more distinct than the flashing light of movement. There was a brief bit of shining silver, and it was that which Oliver's eyes would respond to, until he felt the familiar sensation along his blade, of its sharp edge cutting deep enough, that the wounds it left would be incompatible with further life.

It was as good as he could do, but they reached for his reigns now, those men, and they prevented him from controlling his borrowed beast. For just a second, it had seemed as if the very Gods were on his side, as if everything lined up in his favour. But against the dragon that was their enemy, a great army of twenty thousand, a short few moments of favourable battle were not enough to secure a victory. It was just a hiccup in the natural current that was set to go against them.

He knew not of how strongly his men now raged, from the stones that he had cast. Their energy did not reach him. He had a hard time making his own energy reach himself. Even if he had wished to think of victory now, he dared not. Other thoughts began to creep into his mind, and there was a vague longing, that after all, he might decide he preferred it to have the job done already. To cease the suffering, the stress, the pain of it. It was bearable, for how little he focused on it, but when the pain built, it dragged other stuff with it.

He was on the point of apologizing to Gar and the Minister next to him. They were in a worse state than he. Gar, armourless as he was, secured more injuries than the rest of them, now that his speed was beginning to slow. The only thing that kept him safe was his seeming erraticness, the will of the Goddess Pandora, whom both Ingolsol and Claudia continued to so despise.

"General!" The Minister said, shouting his warning, and pointing. Oliver looked up ahead of him, and he had already known what was coming, he could sense it. The dragon had sensed his stirring – he had been too willful in his presence, and now it sought to punish him.