A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

"...A rogue wielding Command," Tavar mused. "It's a question of whether to fight them as soldiers or to try them as criminals. They certainly do walk that thin line. A product of Oliver Patrick's time spent in Solgrim, perhaps?"

Then there was that troublesome girl, with her red hair, and her bow, who had fired continual arrows in Tavar's direction since the battle had started. She made his concentration wane, for how often he had to shift, to avoid a fatal blow, or to avoid his horse from being struck.

Now, with three hundred men of her own, she was stalking forward, and sending arrows from an even closer range, daring any to attack her, for the wall of men that stood between them. And then she had her remaining bowmen peppering the lines of men that were out of reach, keeping them on their toes, and keeping them fearful. It wasn't a direct assault, but she applied a significant amount of pressure to both Tavar and his men nonetheless.

"Troublesome, troublesome, they all are indeed…" Tavar said, having to move his horsemen and his bodyguard once again, to escape the range of Nila's arrow. Though, in doing so, he had to put himself closer to General Blackthorn, and his never-ending efforts of plunging forward.

With a start, Tavar realized now where it was that he stood, and he had to wonder, when he looked at her, had the girl understood what she'd done? Had she held those intentions from the start? She had seen him chased, right into the path of another hunter, as if it was the most natural thing in the worst. She'd done it without betraying a single aim, to the point that Tavar had not been able to get even the slightest whiff of a trap from her, and yet it had been carried out all the same.

Tavar had to laugh. Every single one of them, all of those soldiers that Oliver Patrick had given command to, they all were troublesome in their own right. Even the girl with her bow, who ought to have affected the least amount of danger, somehow was the very instrument that made Tavar shift right into the jaws of danger – almost fatally – had he not recognized it and corrected it before it happened.

Catching a whiff of him so close, however, was enough to reignite a Blackthorn that was finally flagging, and the General raised his glaive, and gave a howl to his men, who, in their heroic efforts, plunged forward once again, seemingly with endless endurance, if one chose to ignore how their limbs now flagged with a slowness that hadn't been present a little while ago.

Tavar had very much the feeling that he was walking a tightrope, as he committed to his act of endurance. He was losing men, and he was losing position, but finally, it did seem, that all of the Ernest army's cards were spent. Every soldier that they had was committed to an attack, in some form or another. They were thudding endlessly against Tavar's walls of soldiery, and as of yet, not a single one of them, despite all their prowess, had the power to break completely through against those superior numbers.

Now Tavar could breathe in his deep breath, and he could feel once more the dust begin to settle. He could feel his position of control start to gather, and like a snake, he could begin once more to coil his way around the enemy, to limit their movements even more strongly than before, for the fact that they no longer had the options of retreat.

He gave the order, reckless, it might have seemed, but he gave it anyway. "Advance," he told those men of the encirclement, who were already half-plunged through. And they moved quickly, as if it was his fingers that Tavar was telling them to move.

A good few ranks swam past the many arrows that had been lodged into the flesh of Tavar's great army. They went down the side of them, past the moment of highest danger, and then in again, towards the flanks, and towards the rears. They suffocated not the charge head on, but from the sides. That was where the Patrick army was weakest.

"Tavar…" Hod growled, gnashing his teeth. Endlessly, the old man seemed to have another trick up his sleeve, another strategy. A tactic like that, the sort that undermined so many efforts in just a single move. It was that which made Tavar so difficult to deal with. It was as if, no matter what happened, the Gods always sat firmly with Tavar. As if, no matter the course of battle, destiny always supposed that it would end up in Tavar's victory.

Those men of Oliver's that had been so independent before then were forced towards the same course of action, albeit angrily. They couldn't plunge any deeper, and break through, for fear of losing the men they left behind, and being isolated. They had to turn, and make efforts to break free again. The multi-directional will of many different leaders were reduced to just a single well-defined aim.

Their individuality was robbed of them and declared limited by the magnitude of Tavar's authority, and his strategic control of the battlefield. Such was Hod's turn to move. It was a strategic decision that needed to be made, he was certain of it. But just as he opened his mouth to speak, another spoke before he could.

"Men of the Patrick army," he said, and indeed, that was all he said. But that there was the most important thing. They had been set free moments before, and they had hunted and flown alone, and they had found that strength which was unique to them, which they had held back for so long. They had proved to themselves, and those around them, that they were more than mere men. That they were Tigers in their own right. For that moment, and all the moments that followed it.

But when those words were spoken, there was a reminder to those Tigers, who now felt the crushing brutality that came when one's own will was insufficient. When one's own talents had run out, and they could find no other easy course of action, other than to turn back, and pray that time would offer them better alternatives than that which they currently faced.