A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

"Honour…" he said through quiet breath, as the light dimmed from his eyes, and the blood ran to leave his body.

"I swear it," Oliver said, answering it as though it was a question. Gently, ever so gently, in a storm of arrows, he lowered the Commandant to the ground.

"Thank you for your assistance, Yamon," Oliver said, acknowledging the man that had carried a shield for him. "Tell the others – careful with the dead. There is no need to disrespect them any more than we already have."

"Yes, Captain," the man replied, looking slightly pale, as arrows continued to sail past the two of them by the barest of an inch.

Lombard too was just finishing up his duel. Like Oliver, he'd needed a soldier to raise a shield above his head as he fought.

It was by no means a perfect arrangement, given that the soldier was forced to keep up with their movements in order to keep their Captains safe, but it was far preferable to the situation that Amion and Jericho had been placed in, having to keep their shields raised above their heads, and all but losing an arm of their own.

It was that very shield arm that Lombard targeted. Already, there was a vicious cut across the forearm, and Jericho was losing blood at a worrying speed, just as the arm too was losing strength, and the shield was beginning to dip. Lombard targeted the same wounded area without mercy, opening the Violet Commandant up more and more until he was forced to drop the shield entirely.

Then, it was just a matter of time. An arrow pierced Jericho's shoulder first, but the man only staggered, before charging into his next attack. He didn't seem to realize that Amion was dead yet. It was as though he believed entirely in the man, that he judged it to be an impossibility that he would ever lose.

Calmly, Lombard brushed the charge aside. He kept his movement as tight as he could, confining his positioning where he was able, in order to give his shieldman the easiest time that he possibly could.

Again, Jericho came, just as another arrow caught him in the same arm that Lombard had already wounded, and drained his momentum by the slightest amount. Lombard kicked out at him, turning his charge away before it could get any closer to home. The kick spun the man around, and Lombard flashed a long and deep cut across his back.

That was a blow that put weakness in Jericho's knees. He staggered, but he didn't fall. He made to turn again, when a third arrow mercilessly caught him in the back. Then he wobbled, threatening to go down there and then. Lombard might have watched. A less experienced soldier might have, but Lombard had seen too many men die to wish the process any longer than it needed to be.

He ran his sword through Jericho's back, finding his heart, and finishing the job there and then.

He allowed the body to fall slowly to the ground, and then he took stock of his surroundings. "You should not have waited to call news of your victory," Lombard said. His first words, as ever, were a pointed correction.

"I would not have wished to interrupt your duel," Oliver said.

Lombard did not even crack a smile. It was all just bloody work to him. He turned around, and performed the task himself.

"OLIVER PATRICK HAS SLAIN ROGUE COMMANDANT AMION! VICTORY BELONGS TO THE STORMFRONT!" He declared, in the loudest voice that he could muster. The troops responded in kind. From where the centre were they stood, all the way to the rear, and then all the way to the vanguard, the troops heard the cry, and they raised their voices in jubilant acknowledgement.

"""AWOOOOOOOOO!"""

The loss of that single man was all it took to change the state of the battlefield. Cards had been played that ought to have been saved, and still, the Stormfront men secured their victory. With the announcement of Amion's defeat, the last of his men's morale began to wilt. Scribe Soldiers or not, without their Rogue Commandant, they were inevitably weaker.

Their morale was weaker still, as the announcement of Lombard's own slaying was called out.

"CAPTAIN LOMBARD HAS SLAIN VIOLET COMMANDANT JERICHO!" Came the shout, to much cheers from the Stormfront men.

Even if the Verna soldiers could not understand the words in the Stormfront announcements, they could recognise the names that had been called, and they could recognise the cheers. Those cheers brought about the significance of the call quickly enough, even more than ordinary words might have.

"PART WAYS!" Came a call, far too quickly after their victory had ended. Neither Oliver nor Lombard were given the time that they needed to recover. Already, horses were on the slopes, and Karstly was leading by the front, his sword pointed, ploughing through both allied men, and then enemies when he finally reached them.

"Reckless…" Oliver noted. He wouldn't have dared to bring his own cavalry on such steep slopes with such slick surfaces, especially now that they were coated with blood, but it seemed that such logics did not apply to General Karstly. He'd known when was the right time to make his entrance, and he did not allow himself to waste that opportunity, no matter the danger that it presented.

He came with Colonel Gordry behind him, mounted just as the same, and with another few thousand Blackthorn men behind them. In a single move, General Karstly had committed all his pieces. He was declaring to the enemy that this was already checkmate – that they needed no pieces left in reserve to counter any newfound threats. The momentum was already strongly enough in their favour.

Oliver found himself nodding in agreement. As tired as the men were, this was when their energy would be at its highest. They'd won this victory, and they'd taken the slopes. They needed not give the enemy the time that they needed to recover.

"Our work is done, Captain Patrick," Lombard said, as the horses galloped past them.

"It would have been pleasant to see the end of it – the finishing blow, when victory is seized properly," Oliver commented.