The results of the fire, after those three hours were obvious – the gate was done, just as General Talon had predicted. A hole had been charred clean through it. The barest remnants of the gate still clung to the fra, betwixt the two thick log walls, but even they seed charred enough to fall at any second.
In other words, the Macalister Fort, at last, had been breached. That was a fact that was undeniable.
"My Lord," Verdant said, patting him proudly on the shoulder. He saw it just as well as Oliver did. They'd managed to bridge that gap, finally, without losing another man. Now, their fighting ground with the Macalister General was all but level, aside from the cruel number differential that separated them.
"Yeah," Oliver nodded. If they moved now, they would be able to overco the last flickers of the embers rely with quick feet. The last push would be straightforward enough. They needed only gather up their shields, and march stoically towards the gates. Arrows had already been deed ineffective at this point, and as soon as they passed through the Macalister gates, they would be made even more so.
"Give the order, Verdant, gather them up. It's ti we prepared to move, before this sun gets much further down."
There were still a good couple of hours of daylight left, but Oliver did not want to risk having the nightfall and catch them off guard. Whilst they still had the advantage – or at least, an advantage – he wanted to push forward, and seize what he could.
The n had forced food and water down themselves, and they had rested, and kept warm with their fires. It wasn't optimal conditions to be in right before a major battle, given how stiff it had left many of their legs, but it was as good as they could do, given the circumstances.
Verdant's order transmitted down the length of the line, as one by one, each man got to his feet, shaking out the deadness from their legs. They stomped out the last of their fires, and submitted to the cold. Now it was only movent that could warm them up again.
"Formations?" Northman asked, as the n gathered themselves.
"The sa," Oliver responded. "We'll fold in around the centre. Centre first, then left flank, then right. Keep to the sa groups, so we can reform the line if necessary."
"You plan to lead again, Captain?" Northman said.
"But of course," Oliver replied. In truth, he was a little hungry about the narrow opening of the gate. It was the perfect place for a man of strength to multiply his effectiveness. Ten n could hold that opening against ten tis that number, if they were strong enough. There would be no opportunity for flanking.
Oliver dared to hope that the enemy General would dare to fight him in that enclosed space, but sohow, he doubted it. If even a fledgling strategist like him knew that it would be the worst use of the enemy's numbers, then this General most certainly knew it.
"Are you prepared, Blackthorn?" He said, speaking to the woman to his left. She'd been sticking to him like glue since he'd left the battlerams. In truth, she seed a little disappointed that she'd been left out of that.
"I am," she said resolutely. "I will see your back well protected, Ser Patrick."
"I'll be covering you as well, from a distance," Nila said.
Jorah winced a little at that. Oliver noticed it, and sought to reassure him. "I appreciate that, Nila, but don't forget your first post will be seeing Jorah, Karesh and Kaya well protected. They're a central pillar amongst our n, and we can't allow them to fall."
"I could say the sa for you," Nila put back, rely to show that she could argue if she needed to. "But I've got sense enough to tell when I should be doing what, haven't I? You still haven't praised for earlier."
"Did I not say thank you?" Oliver said.
"That wasn't praise," Nila said.
"Well, if you want praise, it was a hell of a shot. Good work, Nila," Oliver said. Even with a bloody charge right in front of them, the routines of old did not grow stale. They offered so source of comfort, rely from the fact that they were so predictable.
She smiled, for once taking the complint without a hint of embarrassnt. "It's your turn now, Oliver."
"It is," Oliver said, "and I will not lose."
He spoke so resolutely as to make the people around him flinch. Catching those eyes, so full of colours, whether a friend or foe, a man was liable to feel more than a little unsettled. He wore his intensity like a cloak. His sword hand ached. As far as he could tell, the strategy had built him his bridge, and now passion and strength would fill in the remaining pieces.
There were more than a few officers gathered around him, and from the re way he turned his head to look up at the wall, they felt his sharp confidence.
Cormrant had dismounted for now. They'd tied their horses with leftover stakes. With the assault prepared on the gate, the cavalryn would be vulnerable without shields. He, who'd been one of Oliver's most outspoken critics, watched him as intensely as anyone else. To his dismay, he found himself being swept up in the sa emotion that seed to guide the rest of them. A restlessness of belief.
'Could he be..?' Cormrant murmured to himself. Dare he believe that Oliver Patrick was what those heroic rumours made him out to be? Dare he believe that he was beyond that?
"It doesn't feel like the right thing to say before a charge, but I'm feeling like I should speak it regardless," Northman said. "It's been an honour to share the battlefront with you for as long as we have, Ser Patrick. I am looking forward to seeing you loosed once again. Just like at Fort Dollem, I have no doubt that as soon as your sword is in reach of the enemy, victory is all but guaranteed."
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