A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 1185 A Passing Result - Part 8
1185: A Passing Result – Part 8
1185: A Passing Result – Part 8
“YOU WILL NOT UNSEAT ME, MONGREL!” Yoran bellowed, pushing aside a sword that came for him as well.
Few were spared.
The initial moment of passing was the most dangerous.
They had to cling tight to the chariot formation, in order to speed up the path that they were travelling.
And that speed was all the more necessary now, when their infantry were being made to deal with the chariots head on.
The blades of a chariot wheel came closer to Walter’s legs.
Spinning and spinning they went, as relentless as the wheel of a woman’s loom, but far more deadly.
There was already blood on this particular blade, even without it having yet met its enemies.
It seemed a weapon deadly enough that even its allies were not completely free of the danger that it posed.
Oliver dared to reach down with his sword to fend them away.
The chariot rider spun his cart at the last moment, trying to catch Oliver off guard, giving the chariot a sudden lurch, and dragging those deadly spinning knives closer to him.
The parrying of a chariot wheel was up there with one of the most foolish things that Oliver had ever done.
As soon as steel met steel, he confirmed that to himself.
It wasn’t at all like slapping the blade of a man.
It was more like trying to lunge with a spear into the heart of a whirlpool.
With the weight of the heavy cart supporting it, the act of parrying could not have grown any more futile.
It was Walter’s instincts that saved the two of them.
When the stallion felt Oliver’s shift of alarm, it responded immediately, and set them further to the left, just shy of the meat grinder that awaited them.
Then they were free.
Past the wall of death.
They’d climbed a cliff, littered with sharp rocks, and their hands came away bloody from it.
Just from the initial passing, a quick glance told Oliver that he had already lost ten men.
They might have been able to use the maneuverability of their horses to their advantage, but the chariot riders had been able to use the experience to theirs – they knew more than a few tricks, designed to catch the unwary when they were least prepared.
“QUICKLY NOW!
STRAIGHT THROUGH!” Oliver said, pausing Walter where he stood at the top of the column, and waving his cavalry past him, eyeing each man as they went, making certain that they had all made it before he once again regrouped and took the lead.
In the short handful of moments it had taken his cavalrymen to gather themselves back into formation after having made the initial pass, the chariots had already trundled nearly two hundred feet.
The clash with the infantry was inevitable, and it was set to happen long before Oliver and his cavalrymen could come in to relieve any of the pressure.
It was an army of stampeding bison, against the likes of mere mortal men.
Firyr took the command, as Oliver had told him to, but even his enthusiasm began to seem foolish.
There was a transformation offered by technology that strength could not breach.
Only after trying to fend away the blades of those chariot wheels did Oliver begin to truly appreciate that.
But Firyr was undeterred.
He faced off against the foes, as brave as any man was likely to be.
He was the jutting rock of the peninsula that dared to thrust itself into the sea, enduring the most vicious of stormy waves.
The fate of every peninsula, however, would inevitably end up in a pile of dust.
As much as Firyr trusted in the point of the spear, and seemed to believe that it would break through the impossible wall in front of him, Oliver only had doubts.
A split second decision, something that he was forced into, and he was already beginning to regret it.
There were Rogue Commandants amongst that chariot number.
To leave only Firyr and Jorah to stand off against them – it seemed a fatal miscalculation.
The men had formed an arrowhead formation, sitting directly behind Firyr.
‘That’s Jorah’s work,’ Oliver realized, knowing that Firyr was unlikely to have been paying much mind to the likelihood of formations as he placed his feet, readying himself for his foe.
“This will be a slaughter,” Yoran said, his voice grave, as he pulled up alongside Oliver.
Had he said it another time, Oliver would have thought there to be ridicule in that tone.
But now they were beyond that.
Given their situation, the man could not even take pleasure in Oliver’s failures.
“A slaughter?” Verdant echoed, thrusting his way between the two of them, forcing Yoran away from his Lord.
His eyes twinkled.
“Ah, I seem to have been underestimating you, Colonel Yoran.
To think that you would have seen so far beyond the veil.”
“PLLLLANNNNTTTT YOURRRR FEEEETTTT!” Firyr sang out.
He dug his feet into the dry soil, until it spilt up over the heels of his shoes.
His men did the same – and burly men they were.
Solgrim’s finest.
That such mountains of men should come from such a mountainous place, it almost seemed to make a degree of sense.
Against the likes of that great tidal wave of chariots, however, even mountains were made to look small and insufficient.
The water was destined to run straight through, and flood all in its path.
About the only saving grace they had was the fact of the chariot men’s single flat line.
They’d fanned out, in order to capture as many of the opposition as they could, and in order to complete the encirclement.
It was the perfect counter, but it made them weak to a single thrust.
Oliver’s heart thudded a beat against his chest.
Ingolsol’s wanting tickled at him.
Was it genius, or was it folly?
He wanted to know.
If the point of his spear was strong enough, then it was genius.
The flat line counter had found its single weakness… But the more likely result would bring all their infantry to ruin, and they would have lost the strategic exchange after just a few short moves.
