A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

"Verdant!" Nila said, drawing her bowstring back. Verdant didn't need Nila to tell him. He was already running. He was one of the few with the strength to block a charge with that kind of rigour. And here he was, posted towards their side. General Talon's men bore their flank to all as they beelined straight for Oliver, looking for his head.

Nila's arrow flew, in the same instant that Verdant went charging forward. It rushed towards the side of Talon's head, enough strength in it to brush through steel plate.

But Talon barely turned to look at it. Oh, he caught it – his eyes darted to the side, and he tracked it – but he dealt with the contempt of a man dealing with a fly. He swatted it aside with the blade of his glaive, and his momentum wasn't halted in the least.

By now, it was more than evident that Verdant wouldn't reach in time. He was strong, but he wasn't fast, and he wasn't agile. He pushed his own men aside in order to reach that arrowhead of charging cavalry, yet there was no way to match the speed of such good horses.

"Blackthorn," Oliver said, his voice calm.

"W-what?" She said, surprised to see her own legs shaking. She looked to him in the hopes of salvation. He seemed to be the only one not terrified. He'd lowered himself into his sword stance, and it looked as if he was about to confront that charge head on.

All around him, men were running as the horses drew nearer, from the ex-slaves to the Macalister men, no one wanted to be in the way when that charge landed.

"Run," Oliver said.

"What?" Her eyes widened.

"Judas," Oliver said. The man, ever loyal, had rushed towards him. Oliver looked him in the eye with an unusual amount of seriousness. The strength of the Command-forged bond that Oliver had with him was stronger than nearly everyone else. He didn't need words to explain what he wanted.

Judas grimaced. He pulled a face riddled with self-hatred, and shook his head, but his body couldn't resist the command. He took Blackthorn and hefted her over his shoulder, as if she were nothing more than a sack of rice.

"VERDANT!" Oliver shouted. He could see Verdant's struggle, even from where he stood, amongst so many scattered men. The priest looked up, his usual calm expression was one of misery. "TAKE COMMAND!"

That was it – that was all the Gods would allow Oliver to say. It was almost cruel that the attack hadn't been more sudden. Three heartbeats awaited before the horses would reach him. He saw a mountain that he couldn't yet climb bearing down upon him.

"Oliver," Claudia said – not the Fragment, but the Goddess, from her place by her pool of water, tears streaming down her face. "Be brave."

The General's glaive came for him, as hungry as a serpent, and with all the force of a crashing waterfall. Swung from horseback, it was all the worse. Oliver braced his legs to take it, and dared to put Dominus' sword in its path, despite knowing full well that he couldn't take the hit head-on.

With death looming so near, there was hardly a single man that could operate as his body intended. Talon's oppressive aura only made that worse. A man that was not much larger than average height, and yet so close, he loomed a giant. There was a size to him there Oliver had never dealt with before – a size that came with experience, and with Command.

Talon said nothing. He put it all into the blade. His was a roaring greeting, and also, a crushing and overwhelming farewell. It was a lifetime's worth of experience in a single stroke. Sentimentality and ruthlessness, somehow together, as the most unusual of bed-fellows.

The second their two blades made contact, Oliver realized once again that he'd made a mistake.

He'd been intent on redirecting the blow. He'd known it would be powerful, but he dared to believe that he might be able to send it off to the side, should he strike it right. Despite his fear, he'd kept his mind calm enough to lock his body into place for that single feat of precision, and he'd achieved it, yet there was nothing to show for his efforts.

CLANG!

A sharp sound of steel on steel, and he was flung backwards, his blade brushed out of the way. Oliver's eyes widened, as he saw his chest exposed and his guard broken. Talon's blade did not stop. Oliver hadn't been able to alter its course at all. The glaive slashed deep across his chest, and through his mail, drawing a fountain of blood.

Oliver was not even able to think about getting his feet back under him. The second the force of the attack was sent through his body, his consciousness left him, and his world went black. He went skidding in the snow, landing hard on his back, like a wet sack of meat.

…

…

The battle ought to have been over then, but it was not. They'd seen their Captain's death, and yet they fought on.

Verdant seized command in an instant, and he reorganized the lines that had been made messy as a result of the cavalry attack.

"ORDER! FORM THE LINES! REMEMBER YOUR RANKS!" Verdant said.

They currently had to deal with enemies on three sides. That spear wall to the right of them, that they hadn't been able to deal with yet. Then the cavalry sent by Talon, and now the bowmen that were arming themselves with spears and coming streaming down the wall.

Verdant fended off a group of three with his spear, as he continued to bark orders. The men were stupefied. Of all the soldiers on that field, only Verdant managed to retain his calm, and that reason was twofold. The first was that he was ordered to. Oliver had seemed to predict himself that he would fall.

The second – and that only aroused now, when Verdant was given time to think – was that he could still feel Oliver's presence, though weakly. Through the strength of the Command connection that they shared, he was certain that Oliver was still alive, for now.