A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 1192 The Revenge Strike - Part 7
1192: The Revenge Strike – Part 7
1192: The Revenge Strike – Part 7
They were captains of different kinds of ships, those two men.
The Rogue Commandant had his giant galleon, overpowering enough to sink any other ship in the water, and Oliver merely had his swift but small vessel in comparison.
Indeed, it was a veritable fleet that he was against, with such a minor amount of naval power.
However, in such waters, it was the smaller, faster ship that had made their entry possible.
CLANG!
When steel met steel, and sparks rang brightly enough to see a mind blinded, the Rogue Commandant’s sword carried the strength of his position.
That of the Captain of his fleet.
His blade was not a swift one, but it was heavy.
Catching it, even Oliver found himself unsettled.
The stooped man, with his bent neck and shoulders, who had seemed so keen to run, put up an angry fight when he was finally forced into it.
The fact of his forcing seemed to be the reason behind his anger – or it could have been that a man like him was simply inclined to fight angrily anyway.
The anger bit back the fear in his heart ever so slightly, and for a second, Oliver’s grip on the man’s personality and intentions wavered.
He tried to counterattack, but his sword fell short.
There was something missing there.
He was rewarded with only air for his exertions, after the man dipped his shoulder off to the side, and spun away from him.
Travelling at such a speed as they were, all that man had to focus on was maintaining his footing, and warding Oliver away.
Oliver, for his part, had to keep Walter in alignment, and to keep his mount out of the wheels of the surrounding chariots.
There was more to his problem that he had to solve than that of his enemy.
But that wasn’t reason enough to make his sword miss.
“URAHHH!” The man bellowed, his strike coming without a proper windup.
It seemed to be at the finish of its arc before it had even started it, trying to bury its way into Oliver’s shoulder.
Oliver’s own curved blade met it.
Strength on strength.
It was a better test of how well recovered his hand was than anything else could have been.
With but his single left hand, he would never have been able to stop that blow – even with both hands together, he found his limbs shaking.
He grit his teeth.
There were some enemies that were strong, no matter the level of the man that might face them.
They were deformed, evolved creatures.
The stooped nature of the Rogue Commandant spoke to that.
He’d built his physicality up for one purpose.
The thick muscles of his back were indeed like a defensive shell, and that helmet of his, and the way he ducked his head into his chest, seemed to speak to a supreme sort of defensiveness that required not even a sword to get in its way.
He tried another blow.
This time, he went towards where the armour was thickest, just to land something, and test the strength of the Verna plate.
CLANG!
His sword left a scratch, but that was all.
The man’s eyes flashed down towards his chest, making sure that the sword hadn’t bitten in.
There was no blood, and in return, he gave a toothless smile of triumph.
Then his neck bobbed, the sword came again, and once more, Oliver was forced to catch it.
Every blow set his limbs ringing.
The Rogue Commandant’s arms swung in a far tighter arc than he was used to.
There was hardly any windup, but what strength the blow carried.
It seemed more like a hammer than that of a sword, and with every hit that he landed, the man’s confidence increased, and his fear faded away, drop by drop.
Oliver growled his irritation.
Much longer, and he would lose his opportunity entirely.
The path that Verdant had carved forward for him would be closed.
The formation would reright itself, and Oliver would be trapped in the centre of it, surrounded by those massive galleons of the flat plains that the Verna called chariots.
His usually refined style of swordsmanship wasn’t going to cut it.
The desperation of his enemy’s blade was wild enough that he kept him pinned back.
He needed not his sword for defence, the man had built himself to trust in his armour entirely, and it worked to a frightening degree.
Without something drastic, Oliver knew that he would be on the back foot for a time.
When the next strike came, as Oliver knew it would, he dared to take a risk.
The shape of the blade was distorted by the light of the sun.
It was there one moment, and gone the next.
If Oliver wished to catch it, then he would need to be waiting for it in advance.
Otherwise the sword would surely slip past his guard, and run down the comparatively light armour of his chest.
His chainmail couldn’t do nearly as much to stop the blow as the Rogue Commandant’s plate could.
“RAH!
RAH!
RAH!” Oliver shouted.
Speed, that was what he put his trust in.
Desperate, mind-numbing speed.
He lashed out across the Rogue Commandant’s torso, one strike after the other, hammering him backwards, no thought for defence.
His only aim was to make the man’s feet go from under him, to lose that solid base that the Commandant needed in order to land such cutting blows.
It was a wild strategy, and far too dangerous to have been carried out by the likes of a man in Oliver’s sort of position.
To risk the leadership of the entire thousand man army over the likes of gaining a single step of momentum… It was not a decision to be praised – but it was very much a decision of the sort that suited Oliver.
He watched the man’s feet, praying for them to shift from the chariot’s deck, if only slightly.
He’d put all his force and speed into those attacks, but the man’s defensive might was not to be underestimated.
He was a veritable boulder.
Cutting him was one thing, shifting him was quite another – and his sword was coming.
