A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

'Calm yourself, Jericho,' the Violet Commandant told himself. 'The rock beneath your feet is unmoved, despite all the blood that has been spilled on it. You can be unmoved as well. You are just a tiny speck, on this massive battlefield. You are not so important as to be worth getting excited over.'

'Stay sharp, Commandant,' Amion thought to himself. 'The anticipation beats in your chest. Use it. Enhance your eyes. This foe will be weaker than you, but fight him like a man far your superior. Let him be a Fifth Boundary in your mind's eye, and fight him with all the caution you would afford to such a man.'

Oliver's curved blade sat in his left hand, ready. His earlier battling with his left arm had given him the experience that he'd previously lacked, but it hadn't given him an overwhelming degree of confidence in the limb. He knew just how much weaker he was without his right arm, but so too did he recognize what level of opportunity had presented itself.

'A perfect storm, created by strategy,' he reminded himself. It was not the blade that had won this situation. It was the strategy that he had neglected to wield properly on a battlefield in favour of his strength. He'd proved to a part of him that was still doubtful, that he could create opportunity with the ideas that Volguard had taught him, even with the battle raging around him.

His men were not so weak that they would fall apart the second that Oliver withdrew back from the front lines. It was a thought worth remembering.

Gently, gently, the two Verna men came, as the Gods watched, and men perished. The Verna soldiers around them did their best to avoid looking in the direction of their Commandants, even those men that hadn't heard the details of the plan. But they were Scribe Soldiers for a reason. Calmness in such a situation was exactly what was to be expected of them.

Oliver felt the pushing of their presence through his men, even without looking to see them. Three ranks separated him from his enemies now, and it was the Scribe Soldier shield wielders that pushed their way forward against him. The men nearest to him took a half a step back. It was far too quick a retreat for men of their calibre.

Of course, they were attacking troops, and unaccustomed to staying patient in a defensive position, but they were never likely to give way so easily.

It was a detail that told of the presence of another variable that ought not to have been there. There was no longer any secrecy. Amion too had guessed as much. He could feel eyes bearing in his direction. But it was no longer Oliver Patrick that he hid from, it was the men that he had yet to rally. He didn't need the extra resistance that an excited few rows of troops would have offered.

'He's inviting me in,' Amion realized. His pace slowed as he announced that thought to himself. He'd had an inkling of that, but now he was forced to confront it as fact. It made his heart freeze. Man still had the wild animal instinct in him.

When there was a beast that seemed confident enough in its abilities to beat him in a fight, man made the assumption that such a beast must have known better than he.

'Or, he's bluffing,' Amion noted. He started forward again, knowing that Jericho would not have hesitated. He would have believed in Amion's strategy to the very end. 'There is the possibility that he has only seen one of us, and that is the source of his confidence. Or… Or, it could be that he has a card that he has yet to play. Something that will overturn us, even in this situation.

But what?'

His mind raced. It tried to resolve numerous questions in the span of a few instances. His sword was clutched tight in his hand. In only a handful of seconds, he would have to use it, but still, his mind was full of the same doubts.

'There's no other option,' the Commandant told himself. 'We've bet it all on this. There is a time for thought, and there is a time for action. We can only commit ourselves entirely to what we have.'

From his crouched position behind the front row of shield wielders, Amion finally revealed himself with a single swift pounce. He buried his sword through the chest of a man dressed in mismatched armour, bringing a look of shock to his eyes, as he pawed at the wound with a hand.

Amion dragged the sword out mercilessly, and went to step past him, only for the arm of that very same man to bar his way. With blood leaking from the corners of his mouth, and a waterfall of red running out of the wound in his chest, the giant barbarian of a man stood in front of him.

The only semblance of order was to be found in the surcoat that he wore, bearing the mark of a beast, showing his position as a Patrick man.

The Commandant did not grow alarmed. That would not have been the appropriate emotion. A fatal wound was fatal, no matter how long a man stood from it. The fact that he had the strength at all to retain his legs was impressive, but it was no more than that.

"With honour, warrior," Amion told him, before he swung again, and took the man's head from his shoulders.

Oliver saw the body slump, and he saw the head roll away with it. He felt his teeth tighten together. This was the very thing that he'd wished to avoid, by bringing himself closer to the front. Indeed, this was the very reason that Oliver Patrick fought on the frontlines in the first place. The loss of a single man stung as badly as it was he himself that had been wounded.

"Longly…" He cursed, speaking the deceased's name. He took a step forward despite himself, even knowing that it was counter to the strategy that he had come up with.

"Your weakness, boy," Ingolsol growled. "What sort of leader does not make proper use of the lives of his men?"