A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 1187 The Revenge Strike - Part 2
1187: The Revenge Strike – Part 2
1187: The Revenge Strike – Part 2
In response, those five hundred, in realizing that they could not win in an encirclement, had instead allowed themselves to be encircled.
They dealt with the first pass, losing nearly a hundred men in the process, and now on the second pass, when the chariot men began to split apart, in the hopes of attacking both flanks simultaneously, the remaining soldiers were forced to bunch up together.
In truth, it was that left side that General Zilan had been more worried about.
As far as he could tell, in leaving their infantry, the right side had already blundered their advantage.
They’d given away half their force with nothing to get for it… Only, they hadn’t.
Somehow, that infantry, in their abandonment, had won out.
They’d punched through the thin line with hardly any casualties to show for it, and now they were rounding on the chariotmen before they could turn.
“INFantry…” General Zilan began to shout, only to quieten that shout as he spoke it.
He could feel General Rainheart looking down at him from atop the wall.
That man was waiting.
He had nothing else to do but wait.
He would not miss his timing.
The second that Zilan showed the slightest shred of weakness, he would be done.
“Damn it all…” Zilan said, gnashing his teeth.
If he was still holding the goblet, he would have crushed it then.
His heart ached to see even a handful of his chariots fall into ruin.
If he was made to bear any more than that small number, he wasn’t sure what he would do with himself.
Thundering they went.
The trap had been laid.
The risk had been taken, and now it was only a matter of seeing their reward well spent.
The chariot men were not far enough ahead now that they could make any turning maneuvers that they wished to.
They were being hounded from the rear by Oliver’s cavalry detachment, unable to do much more than continue to run.
“How far will they go?” Blackthorn said, managing to ask the question and avoid biting her tongue, despite the speed that they were galloping at.
“Not much further, I would wager,” Oliver said.
There was a point for the chariotmen where the flat group would begin to run out, and they fall into the thorny underbrush that began along with the first of many small hills leading out the plains.
There, the advantage of the chariotmen would only worsen, and if they made for it, their defeat was all but secured.
They had to turn prematurely.
They didn’t have the conditions that they needed for the manoeuvre to come into fruition properly, but they had to try it anyway, even knowing that they would be far weaker than they ever had been as they did.
“Forget the formation,” Oliver said.
He didn’t want to allow a single one of them to escape.
Even if be the lightest of scratches, he wanted every single one of those chariotmen to be forced to shed a degree of blood.
For the risks that they’d taken, they needed at least that much reward, if not more.
He dared himself to be greedy, and Ingolsol pushed him to be even greedier.
“We kill as many of them as we can.
Hunt them down.
Take whatever men with you that you wish.”
They parted.
Blackthorn first.
Now that she wasn’t forced to stay in formation, her sleek black warhorse streaked up ahead.
With her rapier drawn, she seemed likely to reach them first.
The handful of mounted Blackthorn men that she’d brought with her struggled to follow, but keeping up with that degree of speed was a hopeless endeavour.
Verdant nodded to Oliver, leaving next.
There was a particularly tense aura around him.
He’d seen the slight casualties that they’d managed to gather, and his reaction had not been a pleasant one.
For a man that usually always managed to keep his face endowed with a mask of calm, he had failed then.
‘And to think that at one time, he was the one counselling me to save my mourning until after the battle was done.’
Then there was Yorick, nervous.
He was galloping, but somehow his horse managed to look as if it was picking each bit of footing, as if it didn’t quite trust the plains to remain flat, or for a rock not to find its way under its hooves.
The Commander looked over his shoulder.
The highest proportion of men were his own.
“Take them, Yorick.
They will fight better under you than anyone else,” Oliver said, giving him the final push.
“Very well,” Yorick said, managing to keep his voice level.
“You as well, Yoran,” Oliver said.
“There are some red plumes waiting there amongst those chariot men.
You need not cover the same hunting grounds as me.”
“Ha, I need no orders from you, Patrick,” Yoran sniffed.
“I know well enough what I am doing.”
How wide his blood-shot eyes were as he said that.
Oliver did not think he’d ever fought alongside such a nervous man.
It was almost frightening.
It was a nervousness of an entirely different sort to what Yorick operated on.
This was a nervousness tinged with wanting.
It was reckless and erratic.
‘If such a thing is his usual state of mind, it doesn’t surprise me that he managed to find a home on the battlefield.’ Oliver mused to himself, watching the Colonel go.
The dispatching of the officers and the men that followed them allowed them to cover nearly the entirety of the chariotmen’s rear.
When they began to turn, there were already men waiting for them, preparing to drive swords into their backs.
Blackthorn swooped in first.
She’d been eyeing her prey from a distance.
She knew exactly where her talons would strike long before they ever did.
The three chariotmen on the back tried to protect their driver, but their efforts were futile.
Blackthorn was far too quick.
She evaded any attacks that were sent her way, using her natural agility, and her exceptional control of her mount.
And with every attack she dodged, more blood appeared on the enemies.
Even from horseback, as a counterattacker, she was exceptional.
