A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 1164 A Youth’s Command - Part 3
1164: A Youth’s Command – Part 3
1164: A Youth’s Command – Part 3
And then it was.
It had been given twice since Oliver’s arrival.
The front two rows would begin to run, carrying ladders between them, and they’d race towards the wall, under the spray of catapult fire and ballista fire.
They ignored the arrows that were sent their way, and focused only on running as fast as they could, trusting in the short shields that they carried.
If the rows of men were fifty by twenty, it seemed to Oliver that the corpses numbered just as much.
They were strewn all over the sandy dirt.
Wherever there was a patch of ground, a man could not walk even a handful of steps before he stumbled over another body, and another patch of ruby blood, with crushed ringmail filled with arrows, and poked through by broken bones.
Those were only the men of that morning too.
Indeed, in their disorganized state, those corpses seemed more numerous than the men that stood ready, waiting to be sent next in, as another potential corpse.
Of course, Oliver knew that they were not.
It was not even close.
But the dead commanded such a presence, and in that ruined patch of land that no man stood still on while there was blood still in their veins, the presence of bodies was more than amplified.
Then Oliver’s eyes wandered to the men that commanded the army.
They seemed otherworldly to him now, now that he needed to face them.
For every thousandth man, there was a man with a red plume hanging low from his helmet.
For every red plumed man, there were at least three purple plumes, and for every purple plume there must have been tens of those men with blue on their helm.
Every one of them was intimidating enough.
Oliver spied a blue plumed man, and found his gaze resting on him for far too long.
The man shifted about the ranks, muttering instructions to his men in their formations, correcting them.
He stepped through the loose dirt without ever seeming to disturb it, like a phantom in his approach.
When he would lay his hand on the shoulders of his men, they would nearly always give a start of surprise.
There were the weakest amongst their officers, and Oliver found himself evaluating him as if he were to be the deadliest of foes. freeωebnovēl.c૦m
As if he were Beam again, thinking about the frightening prospect of encountering a Hobgoblin.
For the Rogue men, Oliver’s heart couldn’t even bear to look at them.
In his mind’s eye, that horsehair that decorated their helms was dripping with fresh blood – the blood of his men.
Men that Oliver had failed to properly lead, who had now died pointless deaths.
When they happened to look his way, it wasn’t simply a matter of timing.
They knew he was looking.
That was what his heart whispered.
Wherever he stood on the battlefield, those Rogue Commandants would know.
They knew exactly what he was thinking.
Their eyes shifted beneath their helmets, and they saw straight through him.
It was some time before he could bring himself to look at his enemy head on.
The General of the Verna men that he was meant to be warring against, General Zilan.
The Verna were a collection of many different peoples.
It was a far vaster nation than the Stormfront could ever claim to be.
Once it had been many small different countries, of different ethnicities, who had found themselves united by the conquests of great men of times past.
If one looked at Zilan, and then at Khan, one would have supposed that they were men of different countries.
From their skin colour, all the way down to the style of clothes that they dressed in, they seemed to be worlds apart.
Yet here they fought under the same banner.
Oliver grunted, tightening his hands on his reins, beginning to feel the pressure.
He forced himself to at least look at the enemy head on.
He’d been shifting in his saddle, trying to do anything but that.
Drinking in all that he could of the enemy army, before finally evaluating the last of the men – his true opponent.
That which Karstly had pushed him towards overcoming.
As he looked to him, General Zilan could be found doing much the same.
He shifted his weight in his saddle, but his was an entirely different gesture to Oliver’s.
His was one of boredom.
His gaze was focused forward, along with his men.
He spared Oliver the occasional glance, but nothing more than that.
Their horses reacted to that, shifting differently as well.
Walter, Oliver’s trusty steed, was long used to his weight.
A slight change in the positioning of the saddle was unlikely to affect him.
For Zilan’s dark grey steed, however, even for its size, that slight shift seemed to bring it discomfort.
Its hooves sank into the soil, and it tossed his head in complaint, sending waves through its main as it did so.
A massive hand from the General calmed the beast.
As he leaned forward, the man’s long beard trailed on the top of the horse’s head, eliciting another snort from it, and a sort of dance, as it fought to free its eyes from the wispy dark grey hair, the same colour as its own fur.
The chestplate of the General was round enough that it could have belonged to a barrel.
Something was being kept hidden around his stomach, and whatever it was, it required a considerable amount of room.
Room that a good deal of precious bronze metal had been wasted in order to account for.
“What do you make of him, my Lord?” Verdant asked, seeing Oliver looking in the direction of the enemy.
As of yet, no orders had been forthcoming from the young Patrick.
Verdant was not the only one keen to hear a word from him.
“I don’t know,” Oliver said.
“I wonder how it is he doesn’t sweat, though, as large as he stands.”
That was an odd point that Oliver found himself distracted by.
The Verna General was round enough that the shape of his belly was made obvious through his chestplate, and yet, despite the scorching heat of the day, he hardly seemed to be affected by it.
