A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1803 - 1803: Favour - Part 5

He made it his task to crush whatever Colonel was nearest. Four such heads now lay at his feet. For the efforts that his men were putting in, he made that his exclusive duty. They touched upon a magic and heroism entirely beyond themselves, but there were limits to what could be achieved through it. The line presented by the Second Boundary was far too strong a thing, and Oliver had no Second Boundary men of his own, aside from Gar, to see them countered with. It was an eternal rush.

The archers that he'd feared had not yet joined the fray. They might have been able to loose a volley before the infantry engaged, but something had kept them at bay. Oliver suspected it was his allied archers from atop the wall who he had to thank for that. Now, having missed their opportunity, the enemy archers could only wait.

If Oliver truly dug in his heels, he fancied that they might even be able to overcome those five thousand in front of him, but there were still so many problems to be solved, other than just that. It made it difficult to focus on it entirely. He still worried for the cavalry that had made it past him, and now he worried too of the rearrangements in position that Tavar would no doubt employ now that he saw that the western gate was open. There was still a steady stream of men coming down from the ladders, reinforcing the infantry for every man that they slew.

Rather than a single problem, it was a current that Oliver found himself having to fight against. Eternally did his men search for something explosive enough to return fire against it, but the best they could do was merely keep their feet on the floor. The fact that they were still standing ought to have been praise enough – but Oliver needed more. He had to find more. He was the one who had been so certain in opening those gates – and for what reason? What was that feeling in his chest? This slow slippery slope towards certain defeat certainly was not what he had in mind. Had he not had faith in it? Could he have faith, now that everything seemed to slowly but surely point against him?

It seemed most certainly to dare to have faith regardless, despite the obvious nature of his circumstance, despite the very fact that, even his literal footing on the floor was poor. He could hardly take a step that was not slick with blood, or with ice, or slushy half melted snow. Merely to stand where he was, that was a problem of the utmost difficulty – and yet, despite that, did he believe in his earlier declaration, that he would have faith regardless?

Logically, already, he had confounded it. He'd tried it, in the experimental manner that he had once tried a thousand different ways, and a thousand different ideas under his tutelage with Dominus, and even after him, to push his sword style further. He gave everything titles then, and was determined that, through sheer want alone, and excessive thinking, he would make his dreams a reality. The more he fought, however, the more he had drifted away from that. There were no set styles any longer. There was rarely a feeling of distinct change. There was only battlefield flow.

But the attitude was still there, the same thing that Oliver had always had. If he came up with an idea, he clung to it, all the way through, until the time came again where he would be quiet enough to reevaluate it. So too was the case now, even though the very idea of having faith seemed already to long be defeated, he clung to it regardless, as a man that followed through on his word, even if that word was to himself.

He dug deeper, he found footing where there was none. In a burst of energy, he overturned a spear that was thrust his way, running his sword down the length of it, until he could control it properly with just a flick of his wrist. Then with that same flick he sent it flying off to the side, forcing the man to control his lengthy weapon. But the sheer weight of the thing made it unwieldy. Oliver was in close, driving his sword through the man's stomach before he had anything to do.

Even that slaying was not quick enough for him. He shoved the man to the floor, and stepped over him, on to the next man. He dashed with the swift recklessness of Gar, as if he could not stand the air without blood in it, as if he could not breathe unless he was embroiled in mortal combat with someone. He leapt over the corpse, and from his small height, he landed upon the next man a daring slash from shoulder down towards hip, biting through chainmail seamlessly in the process.

He kicked that dying man outwards too, into the tide of men. The only thing he needed was destruction, when everything around him was an enemy. His own small pockets of men were an easy thing to keep track of, when there were indeed so few of them. He felt their little ripples, like the ripples caused by vessels as they went swimming down a quiet river.

More recklessly, and more recklessly, Oliver threw himself into the sword. He fed on the ferociousness of his men. They aimed for something higher than themselves, at the sun beyond the clouds, and they were rallied by the speech of encouraging them towards heroism that Oliver had so given, and so Oliver surrendered himself to the same idea. That which always sparked Claudia's eternal interest. Even if he could not hear her words, he could feel her watching with approval, he could feel his eyes changing to purple as he desperately sought for more.

He that had caused this situation, that had thrown them all into the abyss, that had sought out a problem of his own free will and then dived straight into it, bidding all the men that trusted him to follow. He was the same man that now begged the Gods for mercy, for a blessing in his blade, that he might go beyond himself. It seemed a tainted, nearly manufactured thing. A feeling of dishonesty slowed Oliver's blade down ever so slightly. He tried to push beyond it, but at the height of combat, one needed the utmost lightness. It could not be will alone that guided his weapon – not for Oliver's sword. There was not time enough to feel will in every strike, it had to be seamless.