A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1608 - 1608: The Witch - Part 7

"Behold our achievements, Vessel!" He did declare, pointing to the field in front of them, where they still fought, where their men still gathered. He did so with the utmost pride. All from the building that Oliver had done, the snuffing out of the fire of his heart, there had been enough quietness to make even Ingolsol leap up in excitement.

Against the likes of a dragon, however, it was still not enough. The dragon had shown its full self, and reared up to its fullest height, and had become even mightier than one had supposed it to be. Just as Oliver could change, so could it. Mortal hands weren't enough to secure the bridge. Careful strategms hadn't done so either. It was quietness that had, quietness that not even a dragon could see. The quiet little elements of air that had brushed past it, dismissed, until it had formed the image of a witch, something capable of going against it.

One foot to the side of his horse, one swing of his arm, single movements, without intention, that was all Oliver could muster. If he dared to think any further, it was not only the dragon that would stir – it was his own anger, in seeing a pattern form in himself, and seeing himself grow to the point of repetition. He detested that feeling.

Blood splashed against his foot, as he sliced a man's neck open with his blade. The warmth of it seeped into the socks inside his boots. The sensation was stronger than normal, noteworthy, it caught his attention, and his mind pulled at it, trying to find significance in it, another tool to build towards that bridge – but Oliver slapped away those hands that sought to do the building. He declared that they concentrate. They had found a brick, and that was all. Another resource in the infinity of existence that might be used – but it was weakness to show those hands all at once. Strength was swift, and it was sudden. Against the likes of a dragon, that was the only thing that he had.

His anger did indeed swirl, his want to demonstrate his wrath burned at his heart. Ingolsol was as fierce as a tiger, pacing up and down, and Claudia had grown in her seriousness. But the moment was not right. Oliver sought the sudden key to a giant door, the single instant in which he might demonstrate all that he was. Little twitches of might betrayed themselves at times, calling to his comrades, but with each shout, he felt weaker for it.

"HOLD TOGETHER!" He demanded of them, as seven hundred exhausted soldiers gathered under him to confront the enemy. He spat those words full of Command, full of wanting, desperate to solve it all in a single move, even knowing it was impossible.

His men responded courageously. They bellowed their own desires, and raised their weapons. They were as hungry as feral dogs. A magnificent reaction – and all Oliver felt was irritation at his own impatience. It wasn't quite right, it wasn't enough, it was mere self gratification, to hear that response out of them, knowing it would win them nothing.

General Tussle and General Fitzer closed in with their two thousand. Their auras swept over the battlefield, animating the troops that the Patrick men were already entangled in. Oliver's few hundred had seen themselves gathered up in a square, but it did not do much to take away from the fact that they were entirely surrounded. The bowmen that still lived were in the most difficult of positions. They had to continually find their way back towards the Patrick centre to escape assault, and had to fire arrows with the steepest of arcs if they ever hoped that they might find their way towards their enemies.

Each man struggled mightily, their want for victory seemingly even beyond what Oliver's own will for it was. Nila fought with all the straightforwardness of a veteran soldier – she didn't seem to struggle with the morality of it. Or at least she showed no outward signs. There was no hesitation in any of the arrows that she fired, even though, in times of peace, the few battles that she had still haunted her, to a degree that even Oliver had not realized until recent times, with them becoming closer.

She stalked inbetween her own soldiers, using them to hide her movements, tracking a Colonel from amongst the enemy ranks. She could see him, atop his horse, proud and animated, giving his orders with ferocious enthusiasm.

"HERE! WE'LL BREAK THROUGH HERE, MEN OF MINE!" He bellowed. They were all looking for a chance to crack the wall of corpses that the Patrick soldiers were. As weakly as they stood, and as exhausted, still they had yet to be shattered. That Colonel, with shortsword pointed, was determined that it would be his men that would see the breakthrough.

"You shall not," Nila declared under her breath. Her fingers ached from pulling on her bowstring. They would have already been cut if not for the gloves that she wore – but even with those gloves, the leather was beginning to wear, and there was naught to protect herself from the ache in her shoulder. The wielding of the black bow as continuously as she had been was an exhausted task. She could see how ragged Professor Yoreholder was from its continued use, and she knew that it was no better.

The Colonel had his men gathered in an arrowhead, hidden amongst the formation of the Emerson troops. They seemed to be a flat line from a distance, but Nila had watched him maneuver his troops bit by bit until he had that which he wished for. As soon as they charged, the arrowhead that they'd set in motion would surely be revealed, and Nila knew how troubled their lines would be from it. A single effective charge was all that it would take to break them at this point. The fact that they'd reformed at all was a miracle and of itself, but that miracle was fast beginning to break.

She tried desperately to find her moment, her heart thudding against her ribcage. No one else seemed to have recognized the threat. There were threats coming from all over, after all, and they were all perfectly surrounded. If there was someone to deal with it, then it was only her.