A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 1037 A Cunning Foe - Part 3

1037: A Cunning Foe – Part 3

1037: A Cunning Foe – Part 3

“Notice, Jericho, only out front three ranks at most are engaged in this combat.

That’s a mere fifty men, on both sides, that are engaged in this fight,” Amion told him.

“Such a small-scale battle for so many men.

We can continue this fight near infinitely, if it were to come down to it.

The same is not true for the enemy.

They arrived weary, you can tell by the look of them.

General Khan did not let them get away lightly.”

“Hah…” Jericho said, breathing a sigh of admiration.

“So it’s over before it’s even begun?”

“Well,” Amion said, “at least until they bring forward their General.

It will be then that the battle shifts.

But in leading with their General, they have already lost.

They will not have the might to take the top of the mountain in such a condition.

But by then, our job will already be done.”

“FILMA!” The Verna shieldbearers cried, firming up their shields once more.

They’d already switched one group of men from the third rank, into the second, allowing them the time that they needed to rest, and by the look of things, they intended to do the same with the first rank.

They were keeping an eye on their men’s stamina, keeping their immovable wall at its highest.

“Gently,” an older Sergeant cautioned for what must have been the hundredth time.

His voice was more suited to a tea shop than the battlefield.

The look in his eyes was wizened.

He held his spear as if it was nothing more than a walking stick.

For all the malice that the Stormfront men sent his way, oozing their bloodlust, he gave no emotion but peace in return.

He was not the only one, either.

He was the norm, rather than the exception.

The Scribe Soldier Sergeants, or Lapis Commandants as the Verna called them, were selected for their abilities to hold up such a calm.

It was not their strength, nor even their cleverness.

It was merely that calmness.

It was another oddity to the Scribe Soldiers that kept their men as strange and effective as they were.

“There’s nothin’!” Firyr fumed.

He’d been spearing man after man, and nothing had occurred.

He was meant to be in the main role of the attack, but never had he felt so useless.

He’d been stood on the same patch of ground for far too long, and sweat was streaming down his face as a result of his efforts.

As strong as he felt, from having recently crossed into the Second Boundary, he couldn’t exercise that strength.

He was not the only one amongst his men that were growing frustrated either.

They were all the eager sort.

Those that hadn’t matched Firyr’s style of leadership had learned to adapt, and those that had failed to adapt had been shifted into other portions of the Patrick army.

What remained were some of the most impatient and aggressive men to ever set foot on the battlefield.

They were such polar opposites to the Scribe Soldiers in front of them that it was almost laughable.

“They have a clever one,” one Verna Sergeant in the second rank commented.

He saw something familiar in the way the Stormfront ranks folded in on each other.

In the fluidity of some of the soldiers’ positioning, as they were micro-managed to an impossible level.

It was much the same style of battle that the Scribe Soldiers endeavoured towards.

Though, of course, it too was very different in the way those results were achieved.

“He intends to match us, Master,” acknowledged a younger man.

Even in that statement, there was a shift from their teachings.

“Don’t compete,” the Sergeant replied gently.

“Simply move, and react, ever so gently.

This is war, not an argument.”

It was a contradiction.

For such peaceful men to be so engaged in the battlefield.

But it was a contradiction that had kept that ancient order of the Scribe Soldiers going for thousands of years.

It had kept their temples highly respected by the nobility of the Verna, and it ensured that open-minded leaders such as Rogue Commandant Amion would continually seek their services out. freewebnσvel.cѳm

“This is… frustrating,” Oliver said.

His hand clenched into a fist, and his eyes were wide with rage.

He could hardly stand still.

His wrath, when let loose on the battlefield, had never failed to achieve some sort of effect.

So how was it that they were still standing as they were, without having taken a single advancing step forward?

Indeed, he saw what it was that the enemy was doing.

They were simply moving to suffocate every bit of momentum that they could.

They allowed the ground to be given, only to surround that given ground and ensure that it couldn’t multiply any further, and that soon enough it would be taken back.

It was frustrating to degrees that Oliver hadn’t imagined was possible.

His rage was of the type as Firyrs’, for though he might have been able to hold up a front that was considerably more civilized than Firyr’s, the fact did not change that Oliver was an impatient man.

“BURN THEM!” Ingolsol cried.

“BREAK THEM APART, BOY!

THEY MOCK US!”

It did not help that the Dark God shared such a rage.

Whenever Oliver grew angry, Ingolsol was there to make matters worse, and to encourage him to further degrees.

Even as a Fragment, Ingolsol could not bear an insult.

‘Burn them’, he said, though they lacked the fire to achieve anything of that sort.

Crush them, he might have said, if there had even been a chance of them being run over.

Verdant had gone to the efforts of testing the enemy’s strategy, to supply Oliver with further data, but he didn’t feel himself any closer towards coming up with a solution.

In fact, he felt increasingly foolish.

He felt immature.

In their calmness, the enemy seemed very much like they were mocking him.

As if they were making the passion that the Patricks fought with look lesser in comparison.

“It is not lesser,” Claudia said gently.

“But the right tool must be used for the right job.

It is not an insult, but a problem.”