A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

"Madness," Cormrant said. "You're putting blood on our hands, Patrick."

"The villages would bleed far more blood than I," Oliver said, "that I assure you, Vice-Commander. We have an opportunity. We have done well today, and proved our strength. Indulge my childishness for a mere few moments, but prioritise the lives of your men above mine. I will test the limits of this darkness."

"Damn it all," Cormrant said, stomping his foot. He shook his head with more anger than any sane man would dare project towards a noble. "I can't understand you, Patrick. Damn it all, I can't understand you." Nevertheless, he gave the signal. Experience new tales on My Virtual Library Empire

"MEN! PREPARE TO CHARGE!"

The men assumed the spear ranks as their discipline demanded from them. Even as their arms shook from the presence of the supernatural, they stood off, at the other side of the cavern, facing the bandits, their spears lowered, and their now-useless bows cast aside.

A front line of fifty spearmen, followed by another fifty swordsmen, for when the melee inevitably ensued. They hadn't brought enough spears down with them to arm every man with one, so it was a setup that would have to do.

The men certainly weren't ready to fight. They'd had a reasonably exhausting day, as far as soldiery went, with the multitude of battles that they'd been involved in. Despite that, they would have prevailed, if not for what that fire had in store for them.

"You're certain?" Northman clarified with Oliver once more as they lined up amongst the men.

"I am," Oliver said. "It will look ridiculous enough for me to rush over there by myself, hopefully enough to avoid having them all come after me at once."

"Luck to you, then," Northman said honestly, before turning to the soldiers. "ALL MY, HOLD!"

That was Oliver's signal to go. As soon as they saw him rushing forward, the soldiers tensed, as though to follow him. But seeing the raised palm of Northman indicating that they stay in place, plus the command that had just been spoken, that was enough to overcome that instinctive urge to follow.

Oliver went at a trot, with his sword at his side, his footsteps painfully loud on the stone floor. Or was that even stone? It seemed like half was tile, and half was stone, where the ancient tile had fallen into disrepair.

Whatever the case, it made poor footing for creeping forward quietly, not that such a thing was his intention. From the moment he'd stepped forward, all the eyes of the bandits were on him, so too were the eyes of the bull-headed man, as he continued to dance around that blue fire.

Oliver wasn't sure what changes it had made to the ritual, now that the man seemed to be conscious as he did it, though he hoped that at the very least it would be less effective.

Oliver kept to the corners of the chamber as he went, purposefully not moving towards that front line head-on. He'd hoped to approach from the side of the steps, if he could, not that the enemy were all bunched in one place.

But as soon as he detached from the side of the cavern, and began to plunge towards that central ring of stairs, the line of bandits shifted to meet him. Just ten or twenty men at first, whilst the others continued to stay on guard against the potential threat of the soldier's charge, as they loomed at the other end of the vast space.

Oliver didn't slow. Ten or twenty he could handle. Ten or twenty was the type of order that he could attempt to rush through, if he wanted to. Given that was all they dedicated to him, he tightened his grip on his sword, and made to pierce straight through, entirely by his lonesome.

It was as ridiculous a sight as he had expected it would be. An anomaly of strategy is what Volguard would have called it. When the enemy was forced to remain in place, allowing something stupid to happen, when ordinarily the right approach seemed to be to respond to it immediately.

"Fool!" One of the bandits shouted. A human provocation. A rather ordinary provocation. It seemed strange in this space that had grown so mystical, and from the mouth of a human that had seemed to be possessed just a few minutes ago.

The others were echoing it. "A sacrifice!" A woman said, her voice haunting in its eagerness. "Feed him to the flames, like the rest of them!"

"Feed them all!" Echoed a few others.

"Our plans will not be interrupted," the same woman said.

Those twenty men bunched up together as Oliver neared, until they were all but standing on top of each other. Only when he was that close could he sense something terribly wrong with them.

Ingolsol's eyes had no effect. He couldn't sense the slightest trace of fear from them. In fact, he didn't think he'd ever seen morale that high. It was as though they all were sat on a collective cloud of bliss, and nothing could worry them.

It was his traditional combat strategy that he was forced to rely on in order to get his opening to attack. Before he met them, he adjusted his step, zig-zagging, employing the role of the style of trickery.

They shifted in response to it, making their positioning less balanced than it had been before. He slipped his sword in his grip, until he was holding it in reverse. He crouched, like a goblin, making his movements even more erratic.

Again they responded, and only then, did Oliver hit.

Dancing like a goblin, he'd made to go for the left, but instead darted towards the right, employing the two different styles together, the style of the monster and the style of trickery.

The blood that he drew was evidence of its effectiveness, though the goblin-like grip that he had on the blade stopped him from delivering the sort of power in the strike that he would have wanted.