A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 987 - The Battle Strategies of the Verna - Part 4

987: The Battle Strategies of the Verna – Part 4

987: The Battle Strategies of the Verna – Part 4

“Excellent,” Inka purred.

“Excellent!

Now there will be a worthy head!”

Rather than be irritated that his sly attempt at victory had been thwarted, Inka only grew more excited.

If Oliver was a foe that could have fallen to the likes of that, then he was not a foe that could have entertained Inka.

He charged his way past the final rank of men, and thundered down the open stretch of space that General Khan Narook’s shifting had caused.

His was long and curved almost to the point of being a semicircle, and he pointed it at Oliver as he galloped towards him, returning Oliver’s enemy gesture.

There was nought that the Patrick forces could do but meet them head-on.

Once more, the General had pulled back his infantry a degree to allow for this battle to happen – to allow Inka to get the head that he’d laid out for him – and there were no more foes for them to run down but those in front of them.

They’d gathered up all the momentum that they could, but Oliver found himself wishing that he’d had a degree more time to accept the charge on more favourable terms.

He didn’t like the way the flow of battle had been set up against him.

It would be brute strength alone that he’d have to deflect the charge on.

He gritted his teeth, and steadied Walter with his legs.

Five strides was all they got.

The steady building rhythm of the ground beneath their feet, and then the half-moon sword of Inka was rising to angle itself towards Oliver’s neck.

He rose up slightly in the saddle to accept the blow.

He looked the man straight in the eyes, drinking in the direction of the man’s gaze, guessing at his motive.

Then they sped past each other.

Oliver ducked.

Inka’s blade flew high overhead, whilst Oliver’s sword sliced across his stomach.

With a clattering of men, and a screaming of horses, the rest of their army met as well.

In an instant, Oliver’s attention was forced to shift from the man in front of him, to all the soldiers that remained beyond him.

The steadiness of his concentration was replaced by something broader, as he swung in quick succession, turning the likes of culling men into something as steady as working the shovel in the deep digger’s holes of Solgrim.

He did not have the time to see how his wound had affected Inka, nor did he have the time to see the man slump down into the front of his saddle, his blood spilling over the neck of his horse, and down onto its shaggy hooves.

His way was forward – the only Stormfront way was forward.

The fact that they still existed, despite the magnitude of the enemy they faced, was because of the might of that forwardness, and their momentum.

They were very much running on air.

The second they slowed or stopped, they would be crushed.

“””COMMANDANT INKA””” Came several cries from Inka’s underlings, all spoken in a language that Oliver did not understand, though he very much understood the emotions of their words.

Just like they had with the infantry before Inka’s thousand-man army, they parted it with their arrowhead.

Oliver crashed straight through the middle of it, whilst the men after him went to widen it.

All his mightiest men were positioned towards the front, creating an effect that looked every bit as overwhelming as it felt.

The Verna General Khan had intended to crush Oliver with his dispatching of Inka, or at least slow him, but the next he had looked, Oliver was halfway through the Inka army.

General Karstly laughed at the dismay on the man’s face.

“Of course!” He shouted.

“That boy there is a Patrick – single combat was never going to be his issue.

Not against an equal!”

He laughed a laugh that was thoroughly inappropriate for the battlefield.

That small victory that Oliver had snatched for them was the exact sort of thing that they needed to escape the enemy’s grasp.

One final push, as General Karstly saw it, and they would be through.

“PATRICK!

RETURN!

WE’RE BARRELING OUR WAY OUT!” General Karstly shouted.

Oliver angled his horse slightly to the right in response, and continued to hack down the men in front of him.

He caught flashes of purple to the edge of his vision, and he caught brief instances of engagement from Blackthorn, and Verdant.

Lasha’s swift sword was momentarily stopped as she rode past the purple-plumed man.

He deflected her strike downwards, and went to cut for her neck.

The sword reached well and true, but even as the steel ran against flesh, with all that force, it did not do more than manage the thinnest cut.

The man frowned, the heat of combat blinding him to the reason why.

It was pain that eventually gave him the answer – pain from his right hand, his sword hand.

Or at least, what had once been that.

Now it was no more than a stump, spurting far too much blood.

Even a seasoned warrior like him could not contain his scream.

With all the efficiency of a field worker, and all the mercy of a cat, Blackthorn ran her sword through the man’s throat, and silenced the man’s screams before he could embarrass himself any further.

Just in front of Blackthorn, a purple-plumed man had attempted the same with Verdant.

“I’ll slow him,” he’d said to his soldiers, putting on a stoic expression.

Even if they could not see the Stormfront ranks so obviously, they could pick out the strongest men from the flow of combat, and target them.

He sped his horse along Verdant’s side.

His intention was to hook Verdant’s spear with his half-moon sword, just as his comrade had tried to do with Lasha.

The resistance came as expected when the two made contact, and the man began to twist his blade, to pin the spear shaft in place.

However, the expected resistance only continued to mount, as Verdant’s strength built.

In a fraction of a second, he managed to reach an output that would have been uncontainable even for a Third Boundary man, never mind a Second Boundary purple helm.