A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 802: Cracks in the Defense - Part 2

"Hah! Coward!" Karesh said, laughing at the other man's fear, despite the fact that his face was a taught mess of tension, feeling the same thunder as the rest of them.

"Go, go!" Oliver shouted, urging them on. He knew there to be fifty cavalrymen; they'd known that in advance thanks to Verdant's cavalry reports. The number that assailed them, for a certainty, matched up with that. Even running forward, he was able to use Ingolsol's sense of his surroundings to confirm that.

So too did it confirm that the enemy was getting nearer and nearer, at an almost impossible pace.

They clattered through the snow. The slaves felt the fear more strongly than any of the rest of them. People misunderstood that fact – they would have assumed that someone who had endured as much hardship as a slave would be a tougher sort. Oliver didn't make that mistake. Slaves were tough, true enough, but they were broken.

Fear was the first thing drilled into them, else a slave would never move to do his work. Even Firyr was afflicted by it, as strong as the man was.

"Blackthorn!" Oliver shouted, as she fell behind.

"I'm… Sorry…" She gasped. The girl was unused to running through snows this deep. It wasn't her forte. The Gods had designed her in a specific way, granting her admirable agility and grace, but in return, she had always struggled with endurance.

"Calm yourself," Oliver said. "Steady your breathing. I'm going to have a use for you, in but a moment."

"A u… use?" Blackthorn said. "But I'm… I can't…"

"Steady," he said, gently, but firmly. "Verdant, you as well. Slow your pace. Conserve your energy."

Verdant's response was instantaneous, his every action overflowing with trust. "Very well, my Lord," he said, immediately slowing and making his way alongside Blackthorn, ignoring the threatening thunder of the incoming hooves.

"Firyr," Oliver said, calling out to the next man. "You promised to show me your spear."

"Fucking… What?" Firyr said.

"Show me it," Oliver said. "You'll take the second line. Their momentum will be dulled. Do not hesitate. Bring them blood."

"What!? But! Fuck!" Firyr's reaction was as exasperated as the rest of them. None of them wanted to be processing complex orders at that moment. They wanted to run. There was still a fair distance to the river, and they needed to beat the enemy there.

"Skullic's soldiers," Oliver said. "Show me the strength of the men that took Dollem Fort. You'll join the Syndran in that line – hold fast against the next wave."

Wordlessly, they acknowledged his order. They were disciplined to a sharpened point, but even they were feeling the pressure that came with so many cavalrymen bearing down upon them. Their only reprieve was the fact that the enemy had to manoeuvre through the many trees, dully their speed somewhat.

"Jorah, Karesh, Kaya," Oliver said next. "It's time to see you blooded. Allow the others to take the initial brunt of the charge. Jorah, you take command."

Even as he ran at full tilt, Oliver's breathing hardly changed. He gave order after order as though he'd planned it all in advance. In truth, he'd planned nothing. This was closer to instinct, a sense for the flow. In other words – he'd noticed what he thought to be the enemy General's mistake.

He'd planned to run down the intruders with his cavalry, using nearly three times their number to ensure that they'd overwhelm the enemy. It was a risky manoeuvre to fight back – but it was about the only foothold that Oliver could secure.

"Nila," Oliver said, finally. "Take out the front man, and see yourself safely up a tree for the rest of it. We do not want to risk you."

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"Right," Nila replied. She'd been bounding along effortlessly through the snow, but now she went off to the right, no longer intent on getting away, but on choosing their battleground. After all, the first shot would go to her.

"Verdant, Blackthorn. You two are with me. We strike with the frontline, on my command," Oliver said. "Blackthorn, slow now. Recover your breathing."

The only people that Oliver had yet to give orders to were those of his own private army. "For the rest of you – sit behind Firyr's spear line, and wait for your opportunity. Any man that doesn't return with a red sword will be punished."

The horses were getting ever closer now. Nila read the terrain well. Just as they were beginning to get hit by the rise of a new hill, she bounded up the side of a tree, scrambling to its middle branches as quickly as a monkey might. An arrow was on her bow in seconds.

"Here! Stand your ground, men!" Oliver said, skidding to a halt just beyond where Nila had. The men followed him. They had no other choice. It was either trust in Oliver Patick, or they'd eventually be run down by the enemy.

Their stopping could have come no sooner, for within the span of five heartbeats, they saw the first horseman barrelling down the narrow track, the horse's breath fogging in the night air, the only light was the torch that the man carried.

He didn't seem to see into the gloom until it was too late. Already, Firyr and Skullic's men had made their line. Oliver had taken Blackthorn and Verdant off to the side. He squeezed Blackthorn's shoulder, urging her to breathe – she'd frozen up as she heard the hooves come nearer. She'd be no good exhausted as she was.

Nila's arrow punched through the air, just as the next horsemen came into view, ten of them at once, rounding a grouping of trees, their want for bloodshed obvious on their faces.

"GAGHHHH!" The man screamed out, as the arrow pierced his neck, sending him rearing backwards in the seat of his saddle. His horse reared with him. It almost seemed as if Nila had made the shot with that intention. The beast staggered on its two legs, before collapsing, right in the way of the following horsemen, who had to quickly change their direction or else leap over the downed animal.

"FIRYR, IT'S YOURS!" Oliver shouted. He hardly knew the man, he'd only met him once before this meeting, but now he placed the all-important follow-up act in his hands, praying that he'd judged the man correctly.