A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 1010 - The Counterattack - Part 9
1010: The Counterattack – Part 9
1010: The Counterattack – Part 9
“He means to draw them away!” Verdant shouted over the clamour of battle.
The Idris man’s breath was already coming in heavy.
He was finding these men just as difficult as they’d expected to.
Oliver doubted that their momentum would have lasted all the way to the centre.
“I will join you, Patrick!” Lombard declared.
“But I can only go as far as the base of the tower before I will have to return.”
“That is good enough for me, Captain,” Oliver replied.
“Blackthorn, with me – stay close, and stay ready.
Firyr, Jorah, Verdant – we’re counting on you to pave the way forward!”
“I’ve energy enough for another week of fighting!” Firyr declared, his eyes blazing.
From the way he moved, Oliver didn’t doubt it.
He had the distinctive energy of a man that was full of potential.
He was still bathing in the glow of his recently passed Boundary, intoxicated on the sensation.
“We can secure it,” Jorah said.
He had to fight to make his voice firm, though he’d only just recovered from an intense entanglement, and now he had a fresh spattering of blood across his face, and a distinct lack of breath to show for it.
It was only the assistance of Kaya that had managed to free him from a worse fate.
No man said it aloud, but they were all thinking it.
‘These men… They’re strong.
Too strong.’
In an army of forty thousand, it ought not have surprised them that not all of their numbers would be the same level of skill, but nevertheless, they could not have expected that the strength would be quite so different.
The men fought with spears and shields, but as soon as their range was breached, they were just as quick to reach for the half-moon swords hanging from their hips.
Their expertise lay in both mid-range and close-range combat, and it was difficult for any of their men to truly overwhelm them.
It was the disciplined that struggled most.
As Oliver gave his orders, Blackthorn too gave hers.
The Blackthorn men fought their way to the front of the formation.
The Yorick men immediately gave way.
They’d tasted the enemy’s strength with the first clash, and now their taste for battle had weakened.
Those Blackthorns weren’t met with an easy time themselves.
They pushed forward with the same steady hardness that they always did.
Theirs was overwhelming force and control.
They could punch through even the mightiest of walls.
And besides, their spears were longer than the Verna – they were weapons that they wielded with both hands.
Still, those strikes were caught firmly on the Verna shields, no matter how much force was put into them.
The enemy stood their ground.
They did not even break their formation.
It was left to Oliver and Lombard and their officers to secure the way forward.
It was all their infantry could do to keep their heads above water.
Where those disciplined men struggled, it was the reckless that found some degree of success.
Firyr’s division, and Jorah’s.
They were animated.
They ought not to have been, given all the fighting that they’d done already, but they were.
They were a savage enough group that they would have given even the Yarmdon a run for their money.
The Verna would thrust out with their spears to keep them at range, but the giant ex-slaves and peasants knew how to take a hit.
Their combat styles were so thoroughly unorthodox, and their strength was so brutish, more than a handful of times did Oliver see a spear thrust their way, and score a wound, only for them to abandon their weapons, grab the shaft with both hands and tear the spear off them entirely.
It was bloody and it was brutal, but as long as the slaves could get near a foe, their brute strength was often enough to make their presence worthwhile.
A mere shoulder from men as big as he was enough to flatten a man.
An armoured fist was just as bad, to say nothing of a purely aimed axe strike, right into the centre of a steel shield – even that force was enough to make the men stagger.
Slowly, they made their way forward, with a combination of might from their officers securing the way, steadiness from the likes of Lombard’s men and the Blackthorns, and sheer wrath from the Patrick veterans.
By now, Oliver was only a few ranks of men away from touching the wood base of the tower.
But at the same time, Karstly had whirled his way outside of the circular formation, and was bringing a sea of men with him.
He’d made contact with that Rogue Commandant, only to parry the thrust of his spear, and ride straight past him, before diving straight into the side of another thousand-man group, drawing the attention of its Rogue Commandant as well.
More than a few Violet Commandants did Oliver find targeting him.
He could sense from them the strength of Second Boundary men.
They were the real troublemakers.
The ones that avoided him, only to attack his men were the worst of the bunch.
They tore through the side of their flank with ease, and it would take an officer to deal with them.
“I’ll get em’!” Firyr shouted.
He’d already slain two himself, and now another Violet Commandant was causing havoc amongst their men.
He sprinted back from the frontlines towards the flank, and all but threw himself at his foe, his energy limitless.
Oliver didn’t have enough time to see whether Firyr had secured the kill, for another Violet Commandant was targeting his horse from the ground, aiming for its side with his spear.
Oliver had to carefully watch the path of the thrust to keep Walter free from wounds.
“You!” He said, his voice tense, drawing the Verna man’s attention.
The Commandant couldn’t help but look his way, and when he did so, a golden set of eyes was waiting for him.
The slightest little dripping of fear from the man’s heart was enough for Ingolsol to seize upon.
The Commandant’s mouth fell open.
It was impossible to say what he saw there, but it certainly wasn’t the faith of a youthful Captain.
Ingolsol cackled.
“Face despair, mortal, and drown in it.”
