A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 1039 A Cunning Foe - Part 5

1039: A Cunning Foe – Part 5

1039: A Cunning Foe – Part 5

His interpretation was a cunning one.

He saw a few moves ahead, as was to be expected from a Violet Commandant like himself.

However, his cunning conclusion merely brought a frown to Amion’s lips.

He saw his men beginning to edge forward, to fill in the space that Oliver Patrick had given him, and his eyes began to widen in alarm, as he saw the state of the front line following it.

“N-no!” He stammered it, the words sticking in his throat, before he hardened his voice, and he gave his decision more firmly.

“ORDER THEM BACK!

NOW!

BE SWIFT!”

Oliver heard the shout, and he looked in the direction of it.

He thought he might have guessed who it belonged to, though he couldn’t quite see the man himself, only the very tip of his red-plumed helmet.

The panic in the man’s voice brought a smile to his lips, even if it meant the death of his plan.

“Tsch,” he said.

“So he’s seen through it.”

The enemy had indeed seized what they were given.

In any other instance, the added space might have been an advantageous thing.

But not when their centre could not come forward to match the line.

Oliver’s men stayed firm in their arrowhead, with Firyr remaining at its very tip, and Verdant just behind him.

He was all but immovable.

The result was an increase in the arc that had already been created – a dangerous increase.

It brought their ranks close to snapping.

If they’d come any further forward, then that was exactly what would have happened.

The men to the middle of the Verna formation were forced to attack Firyr with even more vigour in order to cover the fixing of their formation, but Firyr was immovable.

Whatever they threw at him, he returned back a hundredfold.

This was exactly what he’d wanted.

He’d been searching for the opportunity to show his might, and now they gave it to him.

One man exposed himself, slipping his shield to allow for a better reach of his spear, and that was where the disaster began.

Firyr’s spearpoint was through his throat before he could even finish his battle cry.

The next man came, doing much the same, abandoning his shield entirely, the wide sleeves of his Scribe Soldiers’ robe billowing as he put everything he had into the thrust.

Firyr stepped to the side almost mockingly, allowing the thrust to harmlessly pass him.

Then, with a smirk, he ran the man straight through.

Three more came at him at once, widening the gap of two that he’d already created.

Now they were being caught up in the momentum.

As calm as the soldiers were, against the likes of a provocative creature like FIryr, when they were already beginning to show their cracks, there wasn’t much they could do to hold themselves back.

They tried to race him with shields in one hand, and spears in the other, but those shields were far too heavy for continued close combat.

Firyr kicked the man in the middle, and then it was all but over.

Their wall was broken, and he stepped through the gap he created.

He headbutted the man on his left, helmet to helmet, and then a quick thrust of his spear took care of the man to the right.

His men bellowed their approval of that victory, and Firyr rose up his spear to accept their praise.

“THERE IT IS!” He howled.

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THE DAY I GET BEATEN BY A VERNA IS THE DAY I LOSE THE USE OF MY COCK!”

As Jorah’s hand palmed his face, the cheers of Firyr’s men only increased.

The man knew his audience, even if the man of the other Commanders didn’t react with quite as much enthusiasm.

“There’s our spark,” Karstly acknowledged.

“Barely creeping its way back into existence… I’ll praise you for that one, young Patrick.

But it isn’t enough.

This isn’t nearly enough to get five thousand men to move.”

Gordry was hesitant to agree with the General.

From his perspective, this was already the beginning of the end.

He could spy the gap that Firyr had created even from a distance, and he felt himself grunting his approval at the Syndran Spearman’s display.

“If he had a lick of discipline, he’d be a fine soldier,” he said.

The way he saw it, Firyr had nearly single-handedly managed to create the spark the Patricks needed to snatch their victory.

But just as soon as that spark made its appearance, it was gone again.

Aminon’s order reached the men.

They soon pulled back, and the arc was decreased to the depth that it was before.

The whole formation took two steps back with it, giving them the time they needed to replace the men.

Two steps they’d had to give, but in return, they were nearly back where they started, with only the slightest arc in their frontline.

“It will not be so easy, Stormfronter,” Amion said.

It left a sour taste in his mouth to have the Scribe Soldiers made to look so foolish.

It was a trap that only they would likely fall for so effectively, given their way of battling.

“There is still much more to show you.”

Amion had spent more time with the Scribe Soldiers than any other in their army.

His family had owned the lands on which one of their temples was housed.

His father had used that as leverage to allow him to train with them, even without having to follow the strictness of their usual entry requirements.

He was the only one amongst the Scribe Soldiers allowed to go home after he’d finished his training.

That was a place of the utmost discipline.

Amion knew they would not allow a small defeat to affect their morale.

It was a conclusion that Oliver found himself quickly coming to.

They’d been pushed back two steps, but those Scribe Soldiers at the front remained as implacable as they always did.

Their two forces were put back in the same position as they were before, and Oliver was left with one less trap that he could use – but he felt not the slightest shred of alarm.

They might not have managed to reduce the morale of the Verna frontrunners by much, but it had done a great deal for the morale of the Patrick forces, and for the morale of Oliver Patrick himself.