A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1796 - 1796: Supposed Victories - Part 7

For all the groans and terror that rang out, as three boulders killed and wounded nearly thirty men, and caused havoc to their formation, there was still a sense of resoluteness. For Oliver had warned them this would be asked of them. That they would not be forced to fight as normal soldiers were – they had to do more, and be more. So when it was they faced off against a behemoth in terms of numbers, and when they found boulders crashing down upon their ranks, they did not crumble. Much the opposite – when Oliver shouted to unify them again, their morale seemed to double, or triple.

For the adversity, the men were made stronger. "AND YOU WILL HOLD REGARDLESS!" Oliver told them. "YOU HOLD THE KEYS TO HEAVENS – AND THESE MEN HAVE NOT PAID THEIR DUES! SEND THEM BACK, AND SEND THEM DOWN. ALL THAT AWAITS THEM HERE IS BLOOD!"

He rode forward, sword drawn, in time with his shout, straight into the face of those incoming cavalry. Unlike the infantry that had fled from their ladders to do battle, these were a unified force, and dangerous for it.

Gar went with him, knowing Oliver's intentions, but more importantly, the Sword simply saw something might, and decided with a degree of excitement that he would break it.

The two met the charging two thousand head on, and went straight for its centre. Oliver's sword found their central man through the next, and with a twist of his head, he had avoided the thrust that came in retaliation.

Gar leapt to similar effect, winding himself as he practically body-slammed a cavalryman midcharge, but he held on with reckless determination, and stabbed the man a good three times in the course of the manoeuvre.

The two men ought to have been trampled for their foolishness, but the mounts that they'd disturbed formed buffers from the other ranks that were soon to follow. They slowed down the charge of those behind them just enough that Oliver and Gar could keep their footing, and ready their swords to take on another pair of men.

It was the sort of reckless magic that only men of the Fourth Boundary could have truly pulled off. It was a terrifying stupid thing to do for the most part, but in walking that tightrope, where they might freely have offered up their two most powerful fighters at the very first engagement, they managed to reach the glorious destination that only went to those creatures that were willing to take a risk.

Like a raging sea, the cavalry coalesced around them, and together Gar and Oliver continued to fight in its storm. They made themselves the stubborn bit of sea rock that the salty waters still had yet to claim. They stood rigidly, and the longer they stood, the more effective they were – the more their swords were able to find their foes.

That white horse that Oliver sat astride, a beast that he still had neglected to give a name, seemed to have even wiser instincts than he – or perhaps more blood thirsty – in the heart of that engagement. The animal seemed to know exactly where to turn so that he might secure his master the better angle of his sword, catching their enemy unawares.

Like that, what had once been a flat line was punctured straight up the middle, by a mere two men, and it was that disunited force that fell upon Oliver's already fractured infantry. And it was the blessing of the Gods that they did, for even fractured as the cavalry was, its charge was still a devastating thing.

Pockets of Blackthorn spearmen stood in groups of fives, and tens, holding together more as clumps than as lines. They were the only effective part of the Patrick army's defense. The peasant infantry, who filled in all the gaps in between, and those Blackthorn spearmen that could find no allies, made themselves the easiest of targets. They had no point of retaliation when the cavalry had picked up such a speed. All they could do was stand and endure – and that was what they attempted to do.

With a loft of his light spear, a cavalryman saw one of the larger peasant soldiers skewered straight through the chest. The peasant's warhammer was held aloft, ready for the backswing. His eyes bulged as he looked down at the spear point stuck through him. The cavalryman had ridden straight past, leaving the spear embedded, and drawing his sword to engage the next man. The peasant staggered, and then with a mighty effort, his entire body shaking, he held firm with a single leg. The grit required just for that was inhuman – a remembrance of the beseechment from Oliver that he needed heroes, not soldiers. It was a heroic endeavour indeed, but that was all the peasant soldier could manage, that mere mighty singular step. Then, the cruelness of nature bereft him of his life, along with his blood, and he did crumple.

His story was far from being the lone one. The cavalry dashed past, slashed with swords, and lofting javelins from a distance whenever was necessary, they effectively cut through Oliver's lines. Better than mere normal cavalry were likely to be, Oliver soon realized with a start. And there he found another subtle little coating of Tavar's trap. He'd taken all his cavalry elites, and put them together for the purpose of his engagement, and he'd filled them with Command beforehand, so what came at Oliver was far above even what a usual two thousand strong cavalry charge was likely to be.

But in the same vein, Oliver's soldiers, though failing, and shattering, they did not do so without resistance. For the most part, their swords failed to reach the enemy, given the speed with which they were slain, but the mere act of their holding against the inevitable death that was held against them seemed to stir up something. It was as if collectively the Patrick army were falling together off a cliff, and as one – or more, as many individuals – they beat their wings, trying to stir the air, to slow their descent. For each man that bore forth that heroic will, their plummeting demise slowed, and slowed, until eventually, indeed, it began to turn.