A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 993 - Opposing Schools of Strategy - Part 6

993: Opposing Schools of Strategy – Part 6

993: Opposing Schools of Strategy – Part 6

To Oliver, the time was right.

He felt the weight of the moment, and he danced in it.

Three years, he’d trained, and he’d achieved a level of comfort.

But that was not who Oliver Patrick was.

Oliver Patrick did not endure comfort, he reached deep within himself continually, to the point of insanity, and he forced himself to arrive with something new.

He did so again.

“CLAUDDDDIA!” Oliver said, raising his sword to the sky.

His men returned the call.

They were good Stormfront men.

They would fight for their Goddess.

Karstly heard it too.

He felt his steadfast heart stir, ever so slightly, as he looked out towards the battlefield that Oliver was creating.

“What is he doing, that boy..?” He murmured to himself.

He’d been given an order, a direct one at that, and look at the position he’d created in response to it.

He was facing the opposite direction – and yet that passion was undeniable.

There was a boy filled to the brim with belief.

He told that belief to his men, who bellowed it to the world, demanding that any within ear’s reach evaluate it.

“Claudia,” he’d shouted, invoking the hero’s power.

Indeed, it was the hero’s power that bore the weight of his soldiers.

But the hero had changed over the years – Claudia herself had changed, as had Ingolsol.

Within the crucible that was Oliver Patrick, the two had tainted each other.

Now when the hero spoke, he did so with demands for his men.

Oliver filled his sword arm with power, feeling that familiar stirring that Claudia offered.

It was beyond the style of overwhelm that he’d toyed with.

It was the very border of divinity.

The style of overwhelm used all that Oliver Patrick had, whilst the power of Claudia combined a power that the two of them shared.

When he struck his next man, it was as though that man was naked.

The armour on him was no better than paper.

Oliver’s sword went through shoulder, to collarbone, and then up through shoulder again.

A blue plume was blasted backwards, along with the body of the man hit by such an immense wave of power.

With how dense the soldiers had been positioned, the man’s flying body dragged down another couple of men with it, and still, Oliver continued to swing.

“BEGIN!

WE CHIP AWAY NOW!” Verdant said.

Yorick’s attacks had continued, keeping the dense left side from overwhelming Oliver’s line from behind.

Now Jorah and Verdant joined it, with the Blackthorn’s in behind them.

Three disconnected groups, but the trusty Vice-Captain of the Patrick army held them together.

In time with Oliver’s calling, he led a charge, three hundred men with him.

The Blackthorn’s were ill-placed.

They didn’t manage to match the timing of the Yorick cavalry exactly.

Nor too did the Patrick men, though the difference was subtle.

They hit as three separate groups, and then with a sudden effort, they began to draw back again.

With the second charge, the difference between them lessened, as their ears were filled with battle, and the chants of “Oliver Patrick!”.

Soon enough, Jorah’s men were joining in too, speaking the same words.

“Red…” Firyr said.

He who could cut down men even in the depths of fear.

In fact, it was fear that made him stronger.

Fear filled him with an endless adrenaline.

He hit every foe with the full might of his spear.

But this red creature was loud, and it was ever so big.

Where it roamed, men’s lives were snuffed out, one after the other.

It was a restless, bloodthirsty thing.

It frightened Firyr, but it was that very fright that drew Firyr towards it.

He caught flashes of reality through the shadowy world that the fear created.

He saw a horse, and then a half-moon sword, and then a red-plumed helmet, followed by one of Firyr’s Sergeants getting cut down, with a sword across his chest.

“Urdry!” Firyr shouted, already seeing the light fade from the man’s eyes.

He’d been a slave just like Firyr, and he’d crawled his way up to the ranks of a Sergeant.

He’d found his place of freedom on the battlefield, and he swam in it.

Just the night before, the man had spoken of a woman back in Solgrim that he had intentions of courting.

“C-commander…” Urdry said weakly as he fell.

By the time he hit the floor, the man was dead.

“Hehhh?” Inka said, acknowledging a man that was still standing within the circle of his influence.

He didn’t like that.

Inka needed to move quickly, whilst he still had blood in his body.

His wound was oozing red, and it showed little signs of wishing to slow.

Through the lens of Inka’s endeavours, Firyr was an eyesore.

The red-plumed man rode at fear.

The half-moon sword flashed.

Firyr dove out of the way.

His fear heightened, and his movements heightened with them.

He rolled with a shoulder to the ground, and he came up again.

“FIRRRRYRRR!” Oliver howled, still searching for the man, as he cut down an endless stream of enemies.

His men encircled his horse, and they ploughed the way forward together, vaguely drawn towards the purple-plumed targets whenever there was one.

In the dusty dirt, Firyr heard his name called.

“Captain…” he muttered, drawing himself to his feet.

“DAMN IT, OUT OF MY WAY!” Oliver said, his left eye was entirely of gold now, and his right was filled with purple.

He could feel the fear of his enemies continue to grow, as Claudia’s power made light work of them.

His men were establishing their position, and they were growing excited for it.

The Inka charge had all but been extinguished.

Another few purple-plumed deaths, and Oliver doubted they would ever get up again.

He gave his order with Ingolsol’s might, and the men began to move despite themselves.

They moved straight into the path of the soldiers.

All of a sudden, there were axes being buried into their shoulders, and spears being lodged into their guts.

Some Patrick men even tackled their foes to the ground, preferring to finish them on the floor, in a messy flourish of dagger-wielding rage.