A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

He grunted, turning the blade aside. He couldn't waste too much time with Jericho, for Amion was there, on the other side, sending down towards him the same sort of crushing attack, in the same sort of style, as if they'd practised the same sort of martial art.

The blow came from above. Whether that was intentional or not it was hard to tell – but that was the exact position that Oliver was finding hardest, when he had to catch the blade entirely.

His sword met it just above his head. It stopped the half-moon blade for a second, before it began to wilt, and his left hand gave under the pressure of the two-handed attack.

He stepped backwards, before the blade could reach his shoulder. It was only to the barest degree, but he'd managed to at least avoid any injury – for now. That fact rang like a victory to Oliver. His forehead was drenched in sweat. It was taking every effort that he had merely to stand his ground. Thoughts of a counterattack were foreign.

He'd given up on hiding his injured right hand as well. He'd had it tucked behind his back at first, so that they could not see the bandages that covered it, but that had proved an even more impossible feat. Even if he couldn't use the hand itself, the arm was still invaluable as a counterweight, allowing him to generate a bit of extra force with its swing.

The two Verna men seemed to have filled in their own stories upon seeing that bandage. The mismatch of Oliver's clunky left-handed movements with the elegance of his footwork suddenly began to make a great deal of sense. As did the mismatch of his aura between the actual fighting strength that he was currently able to put forth.

"Icaron be blessed, for the luck of the Gods is with us this day," Amion muttered under his breath. Victory was suddenly beginning to seem like a definite prospect, rather than the fleeting thing that he had assumed it to be when he'd first heard Oliver Patrick's name, and felt his presence.

"Not yet!" Oliver told Amion, as his sword came for a counterattack. His eyes flashed a brief gold, and Amion felt his blade slow for a second, as the full force of Oliver's presence hit him at once. It surprised Amion to feel that fear in his chest, but he soon recovered, and he did not slight himself for it. To fight the spawn of Dominus Patrick, and to not feel fear?

He'd have to be mad, or at least ignorant.

That burst of energy that Oliver put forth only left him open to another attack from Jericho. For a Second Boundary man, Jericho's combat potential was impressive. His techniques were efficient, and refined. Even if he didn't have the strength of the Third Boundary to back them up, they caused no shortage of trouble alone.

The worst part about it for Oliver was seeing the gaps, and knowing he could have pierced through those men with ease, if he hadn't lost his right hand so foolishly. Not, the only thing the hand was good for was keeping him focused, through the endless throbbing pain that came with the broken bones.

Jericho went low, feigning a thigh slash, and Oliver was forced to hold back on checking the feint. At the very least, he thought his eyes to be over a level above the Second Boundary man, so he knew not to waste too much of his time with a feint.

The true attack came as a thrust to the chest – an unconventional strike for the half-moon shape of his weapon. Oliver was there to swat it aside at speed. Predicting the strike in advance made that job far easier. Even with his clumsy left hand, he was sure he could have followed up and gone for the killing blow, had Amion not been there to steal his attention.

"They're pushing forward at a remarkable rate," Karstly noted. "Another few minutes, and we might be able to make our entrance. There will be nothing left for us to do."

"True enough," Samuel said. "Though I wonder what the cost of that advance will be. It isn't looking too promising for Captain Patrick. Is it me, or does he seem to be getting slower?"

"Accumulated inefficiency, I'm afraid. One can have all the conditioning in the world, but if their movements are inefficient, they're to tire sooner," Karstly said, as if it didn't concern him. "Regardless, have your men readied, Gordry. We will be entering in soon enough."

There were the two sources of tension on the battlefield. Two areas in which total victory could be achieved. Through the claiming of a Rogue Commandant's head – or that of Captain Patrick – or through the obliteration of either side's advance forces. Both Generals had paused to review the flow of the battlefield, and they'd make their decision of how to respond at different times.

"Forgive me for the interruption, Amion," General Phalem said, having already prepared the troops earlier. "But I can not allow the fate of the battlefield to be dependent on a single duel. We will have our victory."

With a downswung arm, the flag bearers relayed Phalem's order, and the stalemate that was forming between Oliver and the attacking Rogue Commandant Amion was broken. Men rushed the slopes above them to their left, armed with bows, filling in the gap that had long since been left open, threatening to be used, and now it was being.

Arrows began to rain down in short order, directly down towards Oliver, and directly down towards Amion and Jericho. The three men were faced with a similar problem, as their eyes went up to the sky, and they hurriedly summoned up the solution necessary for their own safety.

Oliver quickly found a shield in his hand, offered up by one of his men, whilst Amion and Jericho hurried to snatch shields up for themselves, killing any man that refused to give them over.

"Phalem--!" Jericho said. "He's already moving! He didn't give us the chance! He's set to kill both of us with the enemy!"

"Or, he believes that we'll survive, no matter what he throws at us," Amion said, choosing to interpret the arrow assault differently. "He needs victory here no matter what. With the two of us, we're at an advantage. One can shield the other. The same is not true of him."