A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

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With the falling of General Zilan, time was not wasted in seeing the message spread. Even if every man on the battlefield already knew it, it did not harm the Stormfront position in the slightest to see the message shouted even louder, so that they might dig their claws into the remaining morale of the enemy.

"GENERAL ZILAN HAS FALLEN, SLAIN BY CAPTAIN OLIVER PATRICK!" Came Verdant's shout.

The remaining men of Oliver's army – which just so happened to be comprised nearly entirely of the original Patrick forces that he had brought – barely numbered over three hundred after dispatching the last of those chariots. But the fact that they were alive at all was a cause for celebration.

With the death of Lombard, there had come a defeat that would not be overwritten. Oliver had glanced at the head of the fallen man only once, and he'd done so with gritted teeth, before turning his attention back to the battlefield entirely. He filled his head with all the information that he could cram into it, blocking out thoughts of anything else, leaving no gaps for grief to yet crawl through.

The decision came as to what they might do next. Having achieved their duty in surviving, the men that still remained alive could not be called well rested. They looked exhausted enough to have collapsed on the spot – but still a good number of the officers amongst them remained.

There was the Blackthorn Colonel Yoran, doing his best to keep his displeasure of his face, and there was Commander Yorick, stooped in his saddle having sustained a sword injury to his side.

And there was Jorah, still managing to stand up straight, despite the blood that covered his armour, and Firyr, as battle hungry as ever, and both Verdant and Blackwell kept their saddles, despite their wounds being even worse than some of the others.

"Do not look at us with worried eyes, my Lord," Verdant said. "If you have a cause that you would put us to, we are ready to fight for much longer. We still have to see General Rainheart to complete victory, do we not?"

Verdant pointed to that, even with the state of Rainheart's battle proceeding firmly in their favour. The Rogue Commandant Torn that General Zilan had put in charge had managed a valiant effort. He'd repelled the Stormfront's piercing attack for a time, but that defence had ended with the arrival of General Rainheart, and the death of Zilan.

Now the old General led his army from the front, and he was nearing the very centre of the enemy formation. Once there, no doubt, he would see that the army scattered.

If it was only that battle happening, Oliver would have allowed his troops to rest. But with the uncertainty of the battlefield to the left, where Khan and the rest were warring, he was hesitant to do so. He did not know the exact state of the Battle board over there – he could only tell that the fighting was fierce, and he gave his own predictions as to what that meant.

"We will apply pressure, nothing more, until an opportunity presents itself," Oliver told his men. "You have fought well, even in my absence. Commander Jorah, you are to be praised. You held position without losing your head – it was that, amongst other things, that won us this fight."

Jorah dipped his head humbly. "Our victory here was based on many uncertainly built bridges… But my Lord, when I say this, I think I speak for all of us. Your victory over Zilan is what ought to be praised. Nothing else can come close."

"I was going to say that I put in my fair bit of work…" Firyr mumbled. "But against that, I can't compete, Captain. You win this time – but I'll catch up to you."

"I have lost too much to call the beating of Zilan a victory," Oliver said. "I have failed you this day – we have lost far too many men. Colonel Yoran was right. This responsibility came far too early for me. I ought to have refused it."

"My Lord—" Verdant tried to interrupt."

"It is fine, Verdant," Oliver said. "There are other things to be carried out. I will not lose myself in self deprecation here. I have been given this duty. I will see it through to the end."

The men marched, unable to share in the stinging sombreness that afflicted Oliver. They did not have the closeness with Lombard that he had. He knew that well enough, and he knew it would have been childish to say anymore, to strip away from the high morale that they were afflicted with. What he'd said already had been far too much, and he regretted it, but he had been unable to help himself.

On the edge of Rainheart's battlefield, they placed themselves, just close enough to make the nearby men nervous.

There were no chariots anymore to scare them off. They could go as close as they pleased, especially with the archers so firmly focused on the main body of men that Rainheart was bringing further forward by the second.

That was exactly where they stayed, bloody and exhausted, watching the battlefield as if they were spectators that had strolled up just for the thrill of it. The screams of dying men and the clatter of steel on steel were numb to their ears. They were much too tired to summon up anything more than the barest of emotions.

As they waited, the adrenaline of the troops began to wear off, bit by bit. It afflicted those with the worst wounds first.

Beside him, Oliver saw Lady Blackthorn begin to rock in the saddle, with one hand on her reins, and the other hand cradling the wound that had caught her across the stomach. It put a pang through his heart to see the state that she was in. To see such a beautiful woman so thoroughly wounded felt like a crime – and it was a crime that he had committed.

Before she could fall off to the side, he pulled closer on his horse, and get his shoulder to steady her.

"Captain Patrick," she said, speaking formally, and making an effort to pull herself upright in the saddle, and appear healthier than she was.