A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1799 - 1799: Favour - Part 1

That final man had the deepest trouble in his evaluation. He had not seen anything approaching technique. What he'd seen was the continual seizing of opportunity, something that went beyond technique, but was for that reason not replicable. He didn't know what he fought – only that his attention was continually drawn to the well-blooded sigil that stained the man's surcoat. It rippled with each breath that the peasant drew in, and it seemed to growl, that sigil of the beast. The cavalryman held his sword pointed the peasants' way, looking for opportunity of his own, but his eyes kept flickering downwards, and he decided he could not find it. He turned his horse, and chose to withdraw.

With a speed that ought not to have been possible, that cavalry was being torn apart. Oliver was not blind to the efforts of his men. He couldn't understand the path to victory that was being paved, despite the tainted nature of it, and the certainty that elsewhere they would be losing, but nor could he allow the efforts of his men to be wasted.

For all he saw them do, he did more himself. He threw himself into combat with a recklessness, he pushed himself to the further degree that he could, at a full, all-out sprint. His horse was pushed with him, they went from man to man, until they were both heaving and breathless. Even then, he pushed further, beyond the exertion he would normally employ on the battlefield. He always kept himself measured, unless there was a foe of considerable quality in front of him, whose death would make it worth his own exhaustion. Here, there was none of that, no reserves, he simply slew as many men as he could, until his vision started to blur, and his thinking stopped, and he could think of no more than the man that was in front of him.

By that point, he was not to notice the effect that he was having on his men – and in particular those Blackthorn soldiery, who saw their allies being transformed around them, and their General fighting with such a will. That was something, universally, that they could not help but respect. Grit and aggressiveness had been instilled into them throughout the entire course of their training, and being surrounded by it, they rose to the occasion with a good many shouts. Their training kicked in to a beastial degree, and they formed squadrons between themselves, seemingly exclusively designed for slaughter. Their Sergeants instilled aggressive order where there was a dire need for it, and they brought a degree of control to the melee, but not without baptizing all around them with their own fires of aggressiveness.

Between himself and Gar, Oliver would not have been surprised if they'd slain over a hundred men. His sword never seemed to stop moving, and increasingly, the effort was in finding the enemy, rather than slaying them.

The cavalry had indeed seen Oliver and his men battered, and shattered, and they had seen Ernest run through with their cavalry detachment, likely with every chance of seeing the siege ended with Tavar's victory, and yet, in return, that elite force of two thousand cavalry was torn apart at a speed that defied comprehension. Oliver certainly had not expected it. There was nothing in his calculations that could have pointed towards it.

When the charging infantry did arrive, there were only a few pockets of cavalrymen left, numbering less than a hundred, and very much on the verge of a total rout. For their efforts, Oliver had lost a further hundred men of his own, which seemed a rather light takeaway, given all that they had achieved. But when there were five thousand angry infantrymen bearing down on him, with archers ready in support, a mere six hundred men didn't seem to provide a great deal of salvation.

Oliver had time only to shout one order before they were completely consumed by another tide of enemies. "UNTIL THAT SUN DIPS IN THE SKY, YOU SHALL NOT FALL, COMRADES OF MINE!"

It was far too grand an aim, but it was something for the men to cling to. Already, it was past midday. There were only a few hours until sunset was to be at hand. There was a strength in having an end goal, especially for those that were enduring hardship. And those exhausted men raised up a cry of resolution, determined, for all that they had already achieved, to make it all the way.

"""URAHHHH!""" They said, both Blackthorn and peasant soldiers alike, united by the swift victory that they had already achieved, buoyed by their own sense of might, they were able to turn to that overwhelming problem that was an enemy five thousand strong, with the prospect of archer fire beyond them, and they were able to believe, impossibly, that they might shatter through that problem too, just as they had shattered through the problems before it.

"Minister. It would seem there has been a spurt of the activity you have predicted," came the message from a Blackthorn Captain. Hod squinted down towards where was indicated. It was a good distance from his current position, and there were a number of buildings in the way, but he could still see the spatterings of some sort of melee.

"Patrick opened the west gate, did he?" Hod said.

"Indeed, Minister," the Captain replied. "Would you have anything done? By all accounts, he has quite a number of foes to deal with. Two thousand cavalry, five thousand infantry, and a further two thousand archers – that is, if he wishes to see the gate closed again. We appear to be right on the precipice of losing Ernest."

"Leave it," Hod said. "And find me more information when ten minutes have passed."

Hod waved the Captain away, without further orders. Meekly, the Captain did go, for no defender particularly enjoyed seeing the enemy doing battle inside the walls below them – not when they themselves were pressed with an enemy to the front. The worst thing for morale was to have the prospect of an enemy coming up from behind, to deal further damage from the rear.

When ten minutes had passed, the Captain came again, along with two other messengers, from other walls, that had taken note of the fighting.