A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 822: The Masked General’s Response - Part 2

"Only because you have these incompetents under you, my Lord. It has taken days merely to get them to obey instructions properly. It is a most inconvenient task that the High King has set you. To pose as a bastard of all people. It irks me," Gadar said.

"Ah, come, not near me, Gadar. I will not have bitterness. That too builds, like the battlefield, and it spawns weakness soon enough. No, my good man, this is not a time for bitterness. In the twilight of my career, I have been given a challenge, I am far from bitter."

"You have been humiliated by a man that does not value you, my Lord. I do not know how you do not feel bitterness."

"When the blossoms come, it is all washed away. I live my life for singular moments, Gadar. A beautiful victory can wash away any ailment. Oliver Patrick has shown he has the aptitude to be the second brush on this beautiful canvas that we are to create," General Talon said.

There was something about his tone of voice that warned Gadar of the order that was about to come. He stiffened, like a loyal hound that was sure his master would soon call him for dinner. "You have orders, my Lord?"

"Indeed. It is time to make our own moves."

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In the early hours of the morning, Oliver watched as the gates of the fort were brought open. They shattered the ice that had frozen to each door, and threw down a mountain of snow that had settled on top of them in their time shut.

"...Ought we be alarmed?" Verdant asked, as he squinted in the same direction as Oliver. It was a question that Oliver did not yet have an answer to.

He had predicted that, if anything, the General would move to do something about his wooden barricades within the hours of the night. That would after all be the time to do it. Even with Oliver having posted guards, there were things that could be done to endure whatever arrow fire was sent their way, and see that their ladders were soon dispensed with.

Instead, the General had waited. Now, when he was quite sure the whole world was up and watching, a detachment of fifty men left the gate. No one looked at those fifty men, though. They were looking at the mounted figure that led them. A man of age, but of beauty. He seemed almost foreign in his refinement.

His hair was as long as a woman's, and as black as Blackthorn's. He cut a startling figure in his shining steel plate.

Boldly, the man took his horse down the hill, without an ounce of fear. Oliver's guards were waiting at the bottom of the slope. Some thirty unmounted men, behind another barricade of wood, with bows at the ready. They'd be able to fire without having to risk a response.

So too, did the Macalister men have their bows. Each man had one at the ready in his hands, whilst a sword was ready at their hips. They prowled their way down the slope after the mounted man.

"It seems we didn't get all their horses," Jorah noted. It wasn't a particularly surprising fact that there would still be the Commander's mounts left over, but it was still one to be noted with bitterness, when they were so proud of their quick victory over the enemy cavalry.

"What are his intentions?" Northman said. He was watching with them, and frowning. "He's not going to be able to reach those barricades. Not without falling into the range of our men."

"No, I expect not," Oliver replied. His fingers were twitching. He was quite ready to give the order to see something done. In truth, he wanted to be out of the hill himself. He wanted to mobilize his men for the attack – but he had them working. The slaves were still doing their mock battles with Cormrant.

Would it be worth forming them all up, only for the enemy to immediately retreat?

"Those guardsmen would be better off forward," Northman continued. "That would keep them even more surely out of range."

"But will also risk the chance that they get stormed. An equal trade of men – as it would likely turn out to be – is a lost trade for us. We're still outnumbered three to one. We have to use our men sparingly," Verdant told him, to which Northman gave a begrudging grunt of agreement.

The enemy Commander stopped just out of range of Oliver's bows. He was at least ten strides away from the nearest wooden barricades.

"…Now what?" Karesh mumbled, asking the question that all of them were wondering. It seemed more likely to be a staring contest, than for the enemy to accomplish anything concrete.

Before they could doubt the Macalister men too much, there was movement from within the ranks of fifty. The front row stepped aside, and the back row moved to the front. It was immediately obvious that these men were different from the rest. For one, they weren't carrying bows, nor arrows. Instead, what they held in their hands seemed to be small pots of some sort.

With an almost dismissive gesture, the Commander gave some sort of command. Within moments, those pots began to fly. The first pot struck the first barricade, and the second pot cut an arc in the air to hit the second, whilst the third pot boldly attempted to reach the third, only to fall short.

There, after three throws, the pot throwing stopped, without every man having used his pots. It was a strange level of discipline for an act as simple as pot throwing, but of course, it was not without purpose.

They didn't have to ask what those pots had contained. It was obvious from the second that they shattered against the wood. It was the one thing that the coated wood couldn't hope to stand against – a good splash of thick oil.