A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 837: A Cutting Blow - Part 4

"Blood! Blood! The oceans run red with it!" Ingolsol cackled in delight. These were meant to be his own men, but the fragment had no allies. Oliver was the closest thing that he came to it, and even then, their relationship was questionable at best.

The screams of his men being slaughtered, and the clanging of steel as they attempted to put up a fight. They rang out in Oliver’s ears. Merciless sounds. The sound of failure. The sounds of mistaken responsibility.

At once, his speed dipped, ever so slightly, as fear of what he might see took over. He growled at himself the second he recognized it. Fear it he might, he still had to see the results that his mistakes had wrought.

On the flat now, Oliver sped through the remaining trees, and redness filled his world.

By the time he arrived, it was all but Oliver. A man’s unbound hair danced with every swing of his sword. A mound of corpses lay at his feet. Twenty-five men were dead already, and the Macalister Infantry was already retreating, all but that man. Apparently, he was confident enough that he could at least deal with five men on his own.

Even as Oliver watched, another man fell. A slash opened up his neck. A cold look of shock was on the soldier’s face. Oliver recognized that face. He recognized the faces of each one of his men. He’d studied them hard, looking in them for the sparks that he needed to create the bonfire of victory.

No sparks remained anymore. There was only cold. Both for them, and for Oliver. He raced through the snow, falling into a more beastial run the harder he pushed himself. Even on the flat, there was a good distance before the barricades. Two more men fell before then.

Even when four attacked at once, the man and his shining hair had defeated them with such grace as to defy understanding.

Oliver could sense the man for all he was worth now. That overbearing power that Ingolsol detected, that could only have been the strength of a man well into the Second Boundary. If anything, Oliver supposed that he was well near the Third. A strong man, without a doubt.

"Oliver!" Nila shouted breathlessly. She’d made it past the trees after him. He didn’t look back. He was already drawing Dominus’ curved blade, despite the distance between him and his foe.

"Responsibility, suffering, and progress," Dominus had said. "Offer all three of them up to Claudia, and if she accepts your sacrifice, she might give you strength in return."

He’d taught Oliver responsibility and leadership better than any man could. It was with a terrible irony that as soon as Oliver gripped that treasured weapon, he’d failed to live up to his own responsibilities.

With that sword in hand, Oliver couldn’t allow himself to fail. His heart couldn’t process it. This was the sword of a dead man – a man of the highest ideals. He’d taught Oliver far too much. He’d given him too much. Oliver couldn’t treat anything that had any connection to him lightly.

It was his duty to carry on all that Dominus had been unable to.

And then that man killed the last of his men. A hundred metres separated them. He must have sensed Oliver’s approach, for he gave him a cold look, one of harsh judgement. That look cut Oliver just as sharply as the man’s sword would have. Oliver ground his teeth like a wild animal as he stared him down.

As if to show contempt to Oliver’s struggle, the man merely turned and walked away. That walk effortlessly transitioned into a run, and soon he was hurtling back with his men towards the Macalister gates, long before Oliver could hope to do anything about it.

It was far too quick. They were far too far. He’d reasoned that, even with thirty men, had the enemy sent their entire army out to deal with them, then the casualties the guarding soldiers would be able to wrack up with their bows would be far more than could possibly be afflicted on them.

That had been the idea anyway. He figured the enemy wouldn’t send his troops out, just for that fact, but if he did send any men out in numbers that exceeded the guardsmen, they were under orders to run straight back to camp. It had all been carefully calculated and factored in, so that Oliver could reach them in time.

And yet, the guardsmen had not run. They had not expected the foe to be as strong as they were, just as Oliver hadn’t. For all their fight, they only managed to kill five men in return, and those were men covered in arrows. The rest had used their own barricades against them to close the gap.

Oliver continued to run. He needed something, anything, to make up for what had happened. In the seconds after a major event on the battlefield, Volguard had taught that there was still enough volatility for the enemy to perform a major move in turn.

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He was faster than that Second Boundary man, at the very least. He was gaining on him at an abnormal rate, despite the distance that Oliver had already covered. Yet, it was a futile effort. The man was now well past the majority of the barricades, and in the safety of his own arrow range. There could be no more struggle.

If not for Nila’s arrow, Oliver might have run all the way to the fort gates.

He barely even realized what had happened. When he saw the Second Boundary man stagger slightly in the snow, he’d thought that he’d merely missed a step, and it had angered him even more. It was only when that man reached towards the shaft stuck through his shoulder that Oliver realized that it was an arrow.

Startled, he turned around, just in time to see a thoroughly exhausted Nila lowering her bow a good distance away.