A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1742 - 1742: An Iron Curtain - Part 12

"Take the entirety of the seventh troop," Oliver said, pointing to the troop that was just second from being right at the corner of the wall. "Have the Colonel that leads it march forth and assist the Minister of Blades."

"Very well," the messenger said.

"And of the hole that will be left in its wake?" Reid asked of Oliver.

"We'll solve that with steel," Oliver said, drawing his sword again. "With me, Gar. We'll put in work as quickly as we can."

He dove into the battling that was going on right next to him. Rightly taking another Blackthorn Colonel's battlefield for his own. They were engaged in a vicious sprawl for supremacy with the enemy. Several ladders had been landed, and two ranks of Tavar's men formed to stand guard in front of them, preventing them from being pushed off.

The two sides continually ran at each other, each trying to throw the other off balance. The Blackthorn men would try and push Tavar's men all the way back to the wall, where they'd have to fight with the risk of falling, and then Tavar's men very much tried to do the same in retaliation, though they had a far greater distance to push before Blackthorn soldiers and the peasantry that fought under them were under any kind of threat.

Oliver tried to get a grasp on the state of the troops fighting there as he let his sword loose. He would kill a man, and then look up, kill another, and then look up, using both Ingolsol and Claudia's eyes to try to understand the heart of the situation in morale that they faced.

The peasantry, just as had been reported on other walls, were getting to the point of exhaustion. It was all very well to train their endurance, but when it came to actual battle, without experience, a soldier simply couldn't relax for the fear that sank in him. His muscles would tighten, and he would strain himself far more than necessary. Universally, amongst those men, even their fingers ached, from overgripping their spears and their swords in their anxiousness.

For such, more than a simple break from the fighting, they needed courage, and they needed confidence.

Oliver did what he could to give them both. He and Gar cleaved through as effectively as a reinforcement of twenty might have. With Colonel Reid taking care of the Command Square in Oliver's absence, he went to work without thought as to what might be occurring elsewhere.

With the might of the two of them combined, soon enough, a separation was achieved in the fighting. Tavar's men were reduced to a single row, with their backs flat against the wall, and the troop that had been engaging them until that point were allowed to sick back for just a few moments, without the continual charge that faced them.

Oliver addressed them then, with a small degree of mockery. "My goodness, gentlemen, you do indeed look exhausted."

The Blackthorn men grimaced, but they couldn't deny it. They were coated in sweat. Their heavy armour felt a burdensome thing. They had to fight with more strength than normal, for the fact that they could not yet count entirely on their peasant allies, who were beginning to flag with an increasing speed. The peasantry did not have the energy to do even that. They stared at the flaw in front of them despite Oliver's mockery, and heaved in deep breaths, thinking only of the fear that dwelled in their hearts.

Oliver could feel that fear radiating from them, and he had his sympathy, for he knew fear all too well. How it twisted a man's heart and left it immobilized. How the very existence of it robbed him of sleep for weeks on end. He'd felt that in the lead up to the battle with the Emersons, and he'd felt it to a lesser degree in the lead up to this battle with Tavar. He had no doubt that the men before him had lost sleep merely thinking of the battle that they were to face – and now here they were, in the heart of it, and that fear had not left them. If anything, it got worse.

The only thing one could see on their faces – along with the exhaustion – was the want to be anywhere else. They wanted the problem that they'd willingly dived into to be solved, and quickly.

Such was the normal reaction of normal men. Oliver had realized himself that he found more comfort in the centre of the storm than he did anywhere else. He found meaning in the way it tore at his flesh, and threatened to have his heart cut in half from fear. But it wasn't always so. For the longest time, he'd needed to exist despite that constant fear. He'd had to crawl forward in the dark with nothing to cling to, no hope at all. The peasants, they were in much the same position.

A few weeks ago they had simply been mortal men, at the whims of the seasons as much as they were at the whims of the nobles above them. To grasp at a storm on a sudden whim, and declare to themselves, in a sudden moment of courage, that indeed they could do more – that was already the act of bravery. They were already rightly proud of themselves for the path that they had set on.

But the sentiment that fell from that was plain enough. Wasn't it all enough? Wasn't that initial spark of courage all that was required for them to call themselves heroes? They were through with it. The fear was enough to make Ingolsol stir. It immobilized them. Their limbs were exhausted. They were hurt, and suffering. The fire and hope that had brought them to that point were all gone. Their bravery was used up.

There was no more for them to cling to. They were spent. And in understanding it, Oliver understood that which they needed more than anything else. Verdant had known it years ago, when he had pushed Oliver to inspire his men in their battle with General Talon, but only recently was Oliver beginning to understand for himself just what sort of influence he carried, and the immense responsibility that came with it. He could feel the wind blowing at him, as the men practically begged, in wordless voices, for that which Oliver could send their way.