A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 1165 A Youth’s Command - Part 4
1165: A Youth’s Command – Part 4
1165: A Youth’s Command – Part 4
He wore a wide-brimmed hat, with a feather stuck through it in the place of a helmet.
That was all.
From the black colour of it, it must have been hot enough to melt, but the man didn’t show the slightest signs of discomfort.
If anything, he looked dry.
As if there was no well from which sweat could spring forth.
If the man had no moisture, he certainly had soldiers in endless supply.
His hand went up, and another wave was sent out.
Gently lapping against the sea.
He betrayed no reaction when ladders were cut down, or when men were filled with arrows.
He didn’t seem to mind that barely half the soldiers that went out came back.
He just kept up his endless attack.
THUD!
THUD!
THUD!
The steady rhythm of war that General Zilan beat.
The lever of a catapult when soaring upwards once the mechanism was released, and with it, there came a giant boulder.
The castle groaned from the attack, as if it was very much alive.
Even the ground was trembling from the horror of it all.
And it was on that battlefield that Oliver was forced to fight.
It was he that was meant to put an end to it all.
It was the tide of a raging river.
It ignored Oliver, even after his arrival, and continued to do what it had been doing for over a week.
It pounded the rocks of General Rainwater’s castle, and was content with the steady erosion that it accumulated.
The men were quiet and they waited.
One would never have thought that they were at war.
They were as dry in expression as their General was in skin.
Only those that committed themselves to the charge gave a battlecry, and when they did, it seemed pathetically quiet, with only two rows of men to lend to it.
The field was robbed of any sort of passion.
As hot as it was, no hearts seemed to be afflicted by it.
They were void, empty and dry.
Oliver didn’t know at all where to begin with it.
He needed some sort of reaction to play off, some sort of weakness somewhere, but he didn’t know where to find it.
“Have them advance, Lombard, let us see if we can get them to look our way,” Oliver said.
His order was relayed through the aged General, and his men were set to moving.
They were before the enemy, and they were met with narrowed eyes.
A few short squints.
No more reaction than that.
There was no threat of attack, no spears were pointed outwards.
It was as quiet as if they had been further away.
It tempted Oliver in, like moisture drawn to a sponge.
He brought them forwards again, into the desert that was their enemy.
They were barely twenty paces away.
Enough to smell the scent of the enemy’s horses, as they pawed at the ground in anxious readiness.
If they had been given the order then to charge, Oliver wasn’t sure that he could have made his escape in time.
The only option would have been to attack.
Forward again – it was a tempting notion.
Oliver parted his lips to give the word.
Get within sword’s reach, and lash out at the enemy’s shoulder, make them look, and force them to react, to bend their strategy to accommodate for the outsiders, just as Karstly had managed to do.
Walter tossed his head as Oliver urged him forward.
The horse didn’t move easily.
He stood his ground, as Oliver’s heels dug into his side.
“Come on,” Oliver urged his mount.
The heat of the day was getting to him as well.
He needed to establish himself on the battlefield before it grew any worse – that was what he felt.
Walter refused again, however.
Another toss of his head.
It was as if what he saw in front of him was not sand, but molten sludge.
He wanted no part in it.
He refused as strongly as he would have if there was a solid wall ahead of them.
Only then did Oliver catch the glance of General Zilan’s eye.
Just the slightest little look.
It was the look of a cat, as it carelessly wandered near where a bird stood.
Even though Oliver couldn’t see the man’s lips, he thought he could hear the sound of a tut.
A shiver crawled his way down his back.
“Forward, my Lord?” Verdant asked.
“No further,” Oliver said, his voice hoarse.
He stared at the spot on the ground that he’d almost passed.
There was danger in it, but he didn’t know quite where.
He saw no scorpions, nor spikes, nor even archers pointed his way.
But there was danger in it regardless.
He pulled Walter back, finally trusting the animal’s instincts.
“Good boy,” he said, running his hand along the side of the horse’s head, giving him a firm pat.
“Good boy.”
Now his sweat was streaming even more intensely.
He had to pull his helmet off his head, as the metal began to heat up like a pan, making matters worse.
It was hard to think in that sort of heat.
And this was meant to be the mildest of the Verna territory.
He dreaded to think what was to happen when they wandered into a true desert, and they could no longer draw the water that they needed for their men.
“I suppose I’m already in that desert,” Oliver muttered to himself.
He could see nothing for his men to sup on already.
On that field of battle, there was no standing still.
Those that weren’t gaining from being motionless were those that were losing.
Zilan was content to maintain his position for as long as it took, for his attack was proceeding endlessly, with no intervention.
For Oliver, however, every minute that passed was a minute that brought him closer to death.
He needed some source of weakness, or some shred of hope in that dry desert that Zilan had built for him.
And finally, he spied it – in the most unlikely of places.
He caught sight of a chariot pulling itself ever so slightly out of formation.
The rider had let loose the reins from his hand, and the horses had pitched forward in their new freedom.
They dragged the chariot forward, one step, then two, the strain evident on their faces, leaving deep gauges in the earth from where those wide chariot wheels spun.
