A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1610 - 1610: The Witch - Part 9

Verdant took charge then. "Gar. I will be borrowing you. There are issues to solve."

Unexpectedly, Gar did not protest. He simply followed along behind Verdant wordlessly, the instant the order was spoken.

'There's something else in that,' Oliver realized, seeing Gar act as such. Another spark, another piece of the fire, another thing of significance that his mind so wanted to dissect. The evidence of another magic that he didn't understand. He had to fight – and mightily did he fight – to stop himself from creating a grand theory off the back of it all. Such was the way Oliver's mind operated, whether it was by birth, or by the influence of Ingolsol and Claudia, he demanded that all things and evidences fall victim to his own grand ideas – few things could be allowed to exist simply as they were. And yet Oliver, once again, forced himself to, despite the degree that it pained him, and despite the significant effort that it took.

His numbers were dropping precipitously. Most of his men had been on their last legs, and the fire that they'd had in them was quickly beginning to die out, as it ought to. Within the span of a short few minutes, it seemed as if they'd lost nearly three hundred of their number, and barely five hundred of them yet remained, and through it all, Oliver was forced to remain calm.

He could hear the clamour of combat from where Verdant and Gar had disappeared to. The young Sword in Gar had managed to draw General Tussle into combat – a magnificent achievement, in and of itself, just being able to cross swords with a General like that. And yet, it seemed as if it was Tussle who had actually chosen the engagement. For he tossed Gar back with every swing of his sword. Every one of his efforts was buoyed by Command, and Gar in his exhausted state could not match him.

As Gar did his battle, taking a step back at a time, closer and closer to the edge of defeat, Verdant did all he could to valiantly rally the troops, and Jorah followed after him, towards the nearest side of the square, to see if he could cause some level of stability there.

The Commander Jorah demonstrated his skill, even after so long doing battle, at his micromanaging of troops. He shifted them, man by man, and stopped the flow of a mighty charge that had been built, after the crumbling of several lines at once. When looked at from afar, it seemed a messy formation. It was jagged, like a zig-zag, and seemed incompatible with long-term victory – yet Jorah had made it work, and it had achieved its purpose. A mark of genius that likely wouldn't have been seen elsewhere. A small victory achieved at the height of exhaustion. Enough to make Oliver growl at the sight of it.

His men went beyond brilliance, again and again, and in so recognizing it, his heart ached. They were beyond sufficient pieces for the building of any bridge, and yet, their foe was so vast and mighty it simply wasn't enough. Anywhere else, and each of their feats would have marked them as heroes, but now even their General could not properly acknowledge it. From Jorah's victory, Oliver forced himself to be distant, to set it to the back of his mind, and wind away that emotion that sought to build something out of it. From Verdant's as well, as the man managed to keep up a resistance that should have died the second the line broke, and hundreds of men fell with it. And then Gar, who so entertained a General, as to put a smile on his moustached face, and slowed his efforts of advance, when otherwise he might have plunged through with all haste and seen them shattered in an instant.

Then there was Kaya, quiet, and dogged in his determination. Man after man his bladed fists found. He pounded away at them. He ducked a spear blow to his head, keeping his right hand raised by his face as a guard, and then he dove in, and hit the man with a puncturing body shot to the stomach. He ducked and he weaved as more men gathered around him, and he swam through them all, his martial movements so different to a normal weapons wielder. It was like he had a bounty on his head, from how many different men saw him, and chose to target him, simply for the oddness of his style. There was a provocative nature to it, that made it seem like he would be easy to slay. It made a man ask "why aren't those fools cutting him down?".

Another piece, another fire to be spread, another hero amongst the many, another face that Oliver had to turn away from.

Karesh made use of his cousin's attention grabbing nature, and slew man after man himself, with his heavy greatsword. Stamina had always been Karesh's issue. Every strike he threw saw the blade of his greatsword dragged along the ground, but still, somehow, he managed to lift it up again and again and again.

In Lady Blackthorn, there was a creature still as spritely as a rabbit. A bloodied fairy that danced from man to man, slaying Sergeant after Sergeant, and then a Captain whenever they did dare to wander close. She dismantled the small command chains in a melee as if it was what she was born and bred to do. That she continued to move so easily, where all others were flagging and exhausted was a matter that Oliver had to fight even harder than anything else not to dwell on – for it had always been stamina that was Blackthorn's eternal weakness. Why was it here now that she found a way to overcome it? Was it simple duty, or was it magic of another form? And if be magic, was it the sort that Oliver could tap into? A thought that almost led to his old way of being, something he had to fight rather mightily.