A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1804 - 1804: Favour - Part 6

His own tainted little scenario, brought about by his own hand, and now, along the plank did he walk his men, bidding them to jump straight into the sea. Valiantly, they took the plunge, they fought as if their families were right behind them, as if they had every reason to stand and fight beyond that which a normal man could be expected to be. That, however, did not change the fact that they were losing. Like candles, their flames burned, and then blossomed, burning away at their own mortal coil, until the moment came, inevitably, for all of them, in which they would be snuffed out.

That was Oliver Patrick's leadership. The same thing that he had criticised in the First King, he did himself out of instinct. He knew not batter without diving into where the fighting was the thickest, and there did he drag his men as willing sacrifices. He was that very same creature. So cavalier with the lives of his soldiers, even for the immense burden that it put on himself, and the immense guilt, he knew no other way of operating.

In the thick of the fighting, once more, he had lost his horse. The creature had vanished from sight a short while ago. Oliver had leapt from its back in order to slay a Colonel, and now he found himself stranded on foot. Or more like, he saw far too much for him to do, in the form of far too many enemy men to slay, for him to look around for the sake of remounting. And the truth was, Oliver might have preferred to be on foot, when it came to the melee, for it gave him far more options than being stuck in one place, bound to the saddle.

He took a Sergeant's life, and then another, and then he slew a Captain, and yet another. For each man that he lost, Oliver increased his own burden, betting on what was nothing more than a fleeting feeling, he dared to say that he would go all the way. But as the moments passed, and cruelly they continued to do so, the number of his men were gradually whittled down, until they were nearing their last two hundred.

With each man that Oliver lost, that feeling of uncertainty grew, and he pushed himself all the harder. His own situation, his own logic, his own little plan. He couldn't trust in that. Anything that came exclusively from his own mind, he couldn't trust in that. And the very battlefield that he had created was revealed to be that, the mere substance of what was ostensibly his own mind, disguised as an impulse, so that he might at least have something to act upon.

The enemy surrounded them by all quarters. They just couldn't summon up that single explosive might that was needed to resist the tide of eternally replenishing enemies. They'd hacked the enemy numbers down to four thousand, even including the constant reinforcements that came, but it was far from enough. At two hundred, they were unlikely to bear that explosive might that was needed.

That was all that they required. If they could disengage for a single second. If Oliver could somehow create enough time for his men to flee backwards, so that they might reengage once more at speed, then he would--

"FOR THE GENERAL!"

"""FOR THE GENERAL!"""

"GENERAL PATRICK!"

"""GENERAL!"""

Oliver did not hear their cries before he felt their shifting on the battlefield. He sensed it through the tide of Tavar's men first. The slightest little manoeuvring of men that had seen something, the slightest little easing of pressure. It made Oliver look up with narrowed eyes, but he didn't have the time to discern what it was that had set them on the back foot. His instinct, instead, was to push forward.

He pulled back his sword arm, and dashed, thundering with all his might. Suddenly there were three strides worth of space in front of him, and blessedly, for all his want to make a proper charge, did he make use of them. He put all his might into each step, working up in just three strides to a terrifying speed. He felt Claudia's influence of him growing – that feeling of magnificent opportunity, that which came with the want for a hero.

All at once, the way was parted. From Oliver's charge, right in the centre, inflicting with his sword a force that rippled through the enemy lines, killing three men, and displacing a good deal more. And then from the enemy's left flank, and even from their rank flank, there were two secondary forces, even more devastating than that of Oliver's. Timed with his sword, they fell in places far beyond his sword's reach.

And then there it was – that which Oliver had looked for. A charge explosive enough to buckle his foe, even against the constant stream of soldiers that saw them supported. A devastating, shattering effect, that made good use of the heroic infantry that had stood their ground for so long, snatching the enemy's attention.

Firyr went pulling through at the head of his men, and then there was Blackthorn who had slipped in just after him. The two, on that left flank, seemed to be in a race from how quickly they rushed towards Oliver's position. The foes that had been foolish enough to present their back to them were cut down with such a rapidity that it defied comprehension.

Then, on the other side, there was Jorah, and the few hundred men that he had brought, spear headed by Karesh and Kaya. Theirs was a charge that showed no signs of slowing.

As if the pincer attack, from both sides of the enemy formation were not enough, there was a third and final force that came just after the rest, but with no less enthusiasm, that bulled straight into what ought to have been their head – but there, Tavar's men had their backs turned too. For their formation was an encirclement, and their attention was eternally directed inwards, making them exceptionally vulnerable to any sort of outward attack. And it was three outwards attacks of the most mighty sort that afflicted them.