A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

Oliver was aware of the pressure of his own position. He could feel it most acutely. Thousands and thousands of eyes were all directed his way. It was the Patrick forces, and the Amion men that engaged him that all eyes were pointed towards. Theirs were the only soldiers doing battle – they were the only soldiers with the space to do battle.

If the Patrick forces lost here, and retreated, Oliver too knew how that would affect the battlefield. He was three ranks back from the frontline, far enough away to think such future outcomes through. Possibly to a degree that was unhealthy.

He was stood in place, and he felt foolish for it. Years of battling, and this was the first time he'd withdrawn properly from the frontline. His style of fighting was to plan his strategy in advance, and then if it came to it, he would call orders to make changes whilst still being in the midst of fighting himself. Never did he stand surrounded by men doing nothing but thinking. It wore on his mind.

'What to do?'

'What to do?'

'What to do?'

That thought came, followed by endless variation. Verdant was still at the front, did they base an attack on him, and his surprising strength? He was of the Second Boundary. An enemy with an eye for auras would notice him as such, and be tricked by his own deductions, and end up treating the man lightly. There was surely an opportunity there.

But it was an opportunity that had already been snuffed out, for Verdant was already engaged in battle, and he'd already shown all that he could do.

What of Blackthorn? He'd yet to allow her to the front herself either. She was a card that he'd yet to play, and yet he held off playing her. It was about the only thing that he had to spare. It was with incredible temptation that he wished to give the order. But what would it change, playing her now?

Firyr was in the centre, pounding endlessly away. The row of shield wielders remained bowed. They hadn't managed to regain the ground that they'd lost, but nor had they given anything either. They shifted with the smallest movements. It was frustrating.

Their micro-level movements were on par with Jorah's command, but Oliver couldn't hear a single man that could be awarded the title of achieving such a display. He heard many men, shouting many different things. It was as though all their Sergeants were contributing to such a style – and that only made them all the more threatening.

'Calm yourself, Oliver Patrick,' Oliver said to himself, fighting to control his breathing. He'd strategized under pressure before, in the hours before battle. This wasn't much different than that. There was a time limit, and they needed speed. This was the pushing and pulling of true strategy.

'But how do we best this man..? Is there anything we can do?' Oliver said. He called for calm, but the second he did, he was irritated by his own lack of activity. All he could do truly was watch, in the hopes that more information might allow him to do something more.

As Oliver watched, his men continued to move. It was Verdant and Jorah who commanded the battlefield between them. They were used to strategizing in the midst of combat, and Oliver had always trusted in them to keep their men aligned, and in the positions that they needed to be in.

"They're not moving, Lord Idris!" Jorah called out his frustration. He looked for men to position better, and groups to optimize, but he could find nothing. He'd already given all the orders he could give as far as improvement. He felt suffocated. Normally, a battlefield for Jorah was a long list of things that needed correcting.

But here there was nothing to correct, and still, there was no way open for them. It seemed like a blank space.

"I am well aware," Verdant replied, lashing out with his spear again, almost testingly. He sent a man flying back, and skidding in the sand. "Hoh…" He said, seeing something in the exchange that no one else would have.

With another strike, he sent another man flying back with the same casualness, a few paces to the right of the other. He acknowledged the way in which the two gaps were filled. He listened to the Verna calls, as their Sergeants gave their commands. He didn't understand their tongue, but he thought he could understand their intent.

Another man Verdant brought low, and yet another. Each time, he seemed more interested in how the Verna would plug the gap than he was interested in following up, and making use of the small advantage he secured.

They filled the gap slowly. They surrounded the hole first, and only then did they begin walking in an attempt to fill it. It was a strangely pacifistic way of fighting – though even that seemed the wrong way of describing it. It was anti-momentum. They positioned themselves around each advantageous point so that they could smother whatever followed it up.

Theirs was a way of fighting that stopped advantages from spinning out of control.

He glanced back towards Oliver, and saw from the look that Oliver gave him that the boy had seen it too. The question was, how was such a strategy defeated? And in the position they were in. The slope gave them less charging might than they'd normally have, and the shields further reduced it.

"It wouldn't be a stretch to say that, positioned as we are, we're nigh undefeatable," Amion said. It wasn't confidence. Not the way he said it. It sounded a lot like he was stating a fact. There was a reason that General Phalem kept him stationed where he was, after all. He trusted in the defensive capabilities of the Rogue Commandant's men.

"But how long can we keep this up for?" Jericho asked. "Won't our men tire? Won't they just send out a fresh batch of soldiers and keep hounding us? We can't keep up forever."