A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 832: The Allied Move - Part 5

Despite having a bloodthirsty Blackthorn hot on his heels, Jorah gave that order. Instead of ordering his men to protect him, he urged them to rush further away.

"Now, this is interesting…" Oliver mused. It didn’t at all look like any of the battles that had been had thus far. It was actively being shaped by the different strategic minds involved.

Now, instead of two flat lines, it was a circle of purple Skullic men, surrounded by two coiling snakes that rushed around from the left and the right. Judas’ men on the left had slowed to try and pierce the circle, but at Jorah’s urging, they kept rushing forward, tracing the circle’s curve, aiming to get behind it, where the enemy rear had once been.

Firyr didn’t bother. If that circle was an apple, then he was a worm. He wanted to get inside of it, and gobble up everything that it had. He led his men straight towards it.

"Northman," Verdant said. "I will have to deal with this. Blackthorn will keep the left hampered. Hold firm until their momentum dies."

Northman nodded, though it was quite clear from the look on his face that he was baffled by what was going on. The transition from their usual slugfest into this complicated strategic display was enough to make a man’s head spin. No doubt, for those involved in the thick of it, it would be difficult to track what was going on, with enemies on all sides.

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Nevertheless, Verdant looked thoroughly unperturbed as he left in space in the centre, and hefted up that spear of his. He didn’t rush to break through the line of spearmen to get to the front. Oliver thought that to be a wise move. Verdant’s struggle was always his clumsiness. The less chance an enemy had to divert his attack, the better.

Firyr ploughed through the side of the circle formation, unaware of what was waiting for him. He battered aside the remaining men with a triumphant roar, which the slave next to him promptly echoed, as they sent men flying.

It was hard to tell whether Firyr noticed the blow that took him down. He was a large man, and a man of that size should not be able to be sent flying so easily. But against the Blessing of a God, he was still but a mortal.

Verdant’s spear caught him in the stomach. He’d wrapped it three times more thickly than his fellow men, knowing his own strength, and not wishing to wound anyone. That didn’t stop it from overpowering Firyr completely. The single short thrust had been all but unavoidable. Verdant had been able to lock his feet to deliver it, and Firyr was sent hurtling back into his own men, pinning two beneath him.

"Gods be good…" Northman said, his mouth wide open. He’d felt Firyr’s power first-hand, and been unable to reverse it. Now he saw a man that appeared every bit the bookish nobleman do what he could not, and far more besides. Verdant had taken the brunt of Firyr’s charge backed by twenty-five men, and he’d been able to reverse it in a single move.

All of it sudden, it was like the slaves were fish on dry land. As soon as the speed was taken away from them, and they were forced to stand their ground, they were lost. The spearmen found their marks again and again. The passion of the slaves could not win out, and they dropped where they stood.

Amidst all that, Verdant was still fighting. Another thrust from him sent three men flying, and by that point, he judged his job to be done. Ever the future thinker, Verdant’s eyes were firmly set on the true battle that was to follow all this. He did not do any more than what needed to be done.

It seemed, very much, that it would be over there. Only now, Judas’ force was hurtling around the circle, charging towards the same opening that Firyr had created, hounded all the way back by Blackthorn.

Jorah had only managed to give one last order before Blackthorn had caught him, and that order was for them to find their way to Firyr. That order was enough to keep their struggle alive for a little longer, but with no more orders to augment it, the prospect seemed dim.

Judas arrived, taking advantage of the chaos, roaring and forcing men out of the way. He saw Verdant standing alone, and boldly took a step towards him. A mistake. Verdant soon put him down a well, and he raised a hand, calling a halt to the contest before it was likely to result in any more injuries.

"A win for the opposite side…" Oliver murmured. He feared that if anything, it would be weighted to the side of the slaves. Apparently, he’d underestimated the worth of both Blackthorn and Verdant. One was a man of the Second Boundary, and another was a girl that teetered right on its edge, dangerously close.

He hadn’t expected the strategic display to be as high level as it was either. He’d thought that Jorah’s management could have kept the slaves in check, but with Verdant’s circular formation, and Blackthorn’s relentless pursuit of their Commander, it seemed like an impossibility.

Oliver stroked his chin. Did the Patrick army have anyone that could deal with Blackthorn?

He turned his head off to the side. There stood a girl, of age with both he and Lasha, who was leaning against a tree quite contentedly. Had Oliver not known better, he would have thought that she was drifting off. She had that sort of cat-like quality to her, at times, where it seemed as if she could make a nap space of anywhere.

"Nila," he called over. She flinched, her red hair standing on end. Her eyes darted around the clearing, apparently expecting something dangerous.

"Oh, Oliver," she said, when he finally remembered where he was. "What is it?"

"Do you fancy..?" He gestured with his thumb towards the battlefield.

She pulled a face. "I have no use there."

"You’re making excuses," Oliver said.