A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 806: Cracks in the Defense - Part 6
Indeed, both of them were. Verdant was of the Second Boundary, so it was to be expected of him, but Blackthorn, despite her fatigue, was keeping admirable pace. Her silky black hair was matted with red blood. She was a woman no longer – merely a pawn of the battlefield. That, though, was beautiful in its own way. Or at least it seemed to be, in the eyes of the Gods.
Never before had such sparks surrounded her. They were so bright, it was a wonder to Oliver that the others could not see them.
Oliver laced his order with Command, once more attempting to build a battlefield connection between the two nobles. Though he knew them well by this point, that connection still proved to be relatively fleeting. It was enough to be more than the ordinary soldier, but it was incomparable to the level of understanding that he and Nila shared.
It was a limitation that he noted, but he did not know how to address it in one day.
He sped through the enemies, slaying two more as he went, his sword clattering against a strike delivered by the first, sending the weapon harmlessly off to the side, whilst Oliver pierced his gut, and dragged the blade outwards, opening up the side, and leaving the man to fall from his saddle himself.
There were none that could stop him as he was there. The fear that they all exuded made him feel sharp, and in control. It was a strange level of power. In the same way that he could reach for his allies with Command, that fear manifested a connection towards the enemies in a similar way.
He could have reached out to any of them at that point, and he would have sworn that they would have listened, if only for a time, but it was unnecessary, as things stood.
Instead, he merely positioned himself right to their rear, slipping through a mass of twenty men as though he was made of a liquid. He sat there for a good dozen seconds before the enemy realized he was there. They were slowly backing into him, still trying to make their escape, even as they ensured that they didn't give their backs away to the enemy still pursuing them from the other side.
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Now, they found steel was at their rears as well. Any that dared to urge their horses backwards were felled by Oliver's blade instead. It was easy to the point of mundane now. There were no defences to reckon with. Oliver painted a picture on the backs of five men, with hardly a single one noticing. He chose the gaps in between the armour, targeting merely the flesh.
It was as though he was hunting Hobgoblins again, choosing to cut apart the enemy in the most beautiful way he could, in order to preserve the corpse, and limit the damage to the armour underneath.
"SHIT! SHIT! SHIT! THEY'RE BEHIND US!" A Macalister man shouted over the din of battle.
"I KNOW, YOU FOOL! Gods… We've given it all up for the likes of a simple chase…" Another man said, his anger suddenly giving way to a wave of weakness, as he lost the energy even to speak his thoughts to have them heard.
It was not long before those voices too joined the ranks of the dead. With each cavalryman that dropped, the more effective Oliver's force had become, as more flesh was revealed for them to attack. Their superior mobility granted them the leeway needed to become the executioners.
It made Oliver almost wish that he'd brought more men – it would have been nice to see all of his new men blooded, if he could.
Still, as he saw the last man fall from his saddle, he acknowledged that perhaps he might have been too greedy, to be already thinking of ways he could have improved an already overwhelming victory. He caught the eyes of his men, and he found that he liked the look in every single one of them. The retainers he'd brought from the Academy had ceased to look so much like boys.
Instead, there was a hint of maturity about them, as they heaved in heavy breaths, looking at the blood on their clothes. Even the ex-slaves seemed to have a fire to them. Their eyes were less distant, and more alive.
"FUCKKKKKKK!" Firyr bellowed, stamping his foot in what looked to be ecstasy. He was howling at the moon like a dog, thoroughly drenched in blood and mud.
Oliver hadn't noticed him crawl out from underneath the horse that buried him, but he'd been sure that the man would be alright – he'd sensed his presence through Ingolsol, and he saw him get his spear up before the collapse, so that the horse's weight wasn't on him in its entirety.
Crass though Firyr's cry might have been, it seemed to speak to the sentiment amongst the group. Adrenaline was high, as were emotions. They couldn't still the rapid beating of their hearts.
"My Lord…" Verdant said, a strange look on his face. "I think I might have discovered ecstasy. Is that what all men who fight under you feel?"
Oliver looked at him with a raised eyebrow. He'd hoped, out of everyone, that Verdant might have retained some semblance of sanity, but it seemed that even he was drunk on the blood that they'd spilled.
"You did well," he said eventually. He'd been about to chide the man, but it wasn't the time for that. Now was the time for praise. "You as well, Blackthorn. Despite your tiredness, you slew more than I could count."
She nodded at the praise, but otherwise remained silent. He would expect nothing less from her. She had trouble speaking at the best of times. Overruled by the excitement of her first true battle, it was no wonder that she had no words.
"The rest of you as well, I am proud," Oliver said.
"We have wet our blades," one slave said, holding up his sword so that Oliver could see. Perhaps, Oliver thought, he feared the earlier mention of punishment, should they not do so.
"And you will be rewarded for that," Oliver said. "You fight as well as your size would indicate. I hope that your brothers in time will learn to do the same."
