A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

By the front, Oliver took his men, intent on giving them everything he had in a single move. The strongest charge that they could deliver at once. He eyed down the shield wielders. He'd seen enough of them in General Khan's army. Though the weight of their equipment made them difficult to move, they were no more intimidating than other men once one got used to them.

His right arm throbbed, but he merely used that pain to heighten his focus. He'd run through a single slash nearly a hundred times in his head. A left-armed blow. It was difficult to dispel the doubts of how effective it would be, but it hardly mattered now. Another few paces, and he'd be feeling Verna breath on his face.

He committed to his sprint, putting even more into it, and racing even faster, deciding that even if his arms lacked their usual might, he could make up for it with his legs.

Verdant stayed just a step behind. Firyr wasn't too far behind either. He took reassurance from that.

"FIMLA!" Came the Verna cry, as they slammed their shields into the ground. They'd waited until the very last second to let that command loose, just as Oliver was already discarding his shield, and drawing his sword, raising it back behind his head for the best blow that he could deliver.

He felt the gold rising to his eyes, as he felt the want washing through him. "The weak want more," Ingolsol taunted, but he didn't deny the ask regardless. He always wanted to be at the forefront, and the more opportunities he was allowed, the happier the Fragment of the Dark God of Despair was.

"GURAHHHH!" Oliver cried out, twisting his hips, and throwing his entire body weight into the strike.

His left arm came down, awkward, and clumsy. It felt like a foreign limb. It wasn't meant to be wielded by itself like this. It was meant to be support for his right arm, whenever they needed more power in their blows.

Nevertheless, it followed the course that Oliver had picked for it. Or at least, it stuck as close to it as Oliver could get it. It wasn't quite the vicious parabolic arc that Oliver preferred with his right, but it came down with nearly all the force of a Third Boundary man nonetheless.

It caught the shield wielder above the shoulder, reaching behind his shield. Blood spurted, confirming the kill. But then the sword came down on the edge of the shield, and the blade ricocheted, sending a violent tremor up Oliver's arm. It was a mistake that he never would have made fighting with his right hand.

He kicked out with a foot, attempting to control the momentum of the ricochet with a twist. The shield in front of him flattened, as did the man that he'd already slain. He breathed a sigh of relief, and took a step back. He'd done his part. It was about the best that he could hope for.

Now Verdant came in as well, all physical might, with plentiful targets to choose from. Of all the foes that the Verma heavy shields were effective against, Verdant was not one of them. His clumsiness had been tamed much in the last years, but it was still his weakness. His overwhelming strength longed for targets as broad as the ones he was offered then. He didn't even need to reach past the shields.

He bulled straight into them with his shoulder, conserving his shield until they were moved back a step. Then, with a thrust, he punched a hole through a man, and secured another gap for their men to charge through.

Jorah, Karesh and Kaya came next. They seized upon the advantage that Verdant and Oliver had already created, and they forced the men back another step. Almost easily they moved them.

"Good!" Oliver shouted. "Good!"

It was difficult to keep the relief out of his voice. This part of the battle was the hardest part for them. They were an army of men that relied on their strength. Now that they were lacking it, they'd been put in a position of considerable danger in the opening act, but it looked like it was working out regardless.

There was a sizable bow in the centre of the Verna shieldline down. It was almost an arc. The carnage had been strangely uniform, but it wasn't as if Oliver was inclined to complain about that uniformity. If the enemy that they destroyed happened to fall into something that resembled a piece of art, then that was mere coincidence, the prerogative of the Gods.

"Is this…?" Jericho began, seeing the state of their shield line. Even with the hill to their advantage, the shield bearers had bowed far too quickly. A few steps more, and they'd be broken through. The shields relied on tight formations. As soon as the formations started to be strewn apart, then they would be picked to pieces. They'd be nothing more than men carrying excessively heavy equipment.

"According to plan," Amion replied calmly. "It is the Scribe Soldiers' way. Might is not the only thing that can defeat might. Observe."

Oliver began to withdraw back himself. The frontline was all but taken care of, even without him. Jorah directed his men, and had them fill in the gaps continually, not allowing the space for the Verna men to reform their lines. The way Jorah kept them moving, they were as good at finding the gaps as water was.

He made it look easy, even if he was doing it off the back of the advantage that Karesh, Kaya and Verdant continued to create.

"My turn!" Firyr said. He'd been made to wait, as the others had their fun. It was an act that he would normally have ardently denied, if not for the fact that he was given the main role this time. Firyr was a man that liked his glory, and Oliver knew that, as well as any. His patience had waned, and now there was no more stopping him.

"Tsch… You're content to sit back like this, and let them have all the fun?" Ingolsol said. "You lost your hand, not your dignity. You embarrass me, Vessel. There's fear ripe to be had. We can plunge through them."