999: General Khan’s Head – Part 5 999: General Khan’s Head – Part 5 Karstly’s n were exhausted, just as the Patrick n had been.
Charging forward endlessly without anything to show for it was taking its toll, and now they could barely lift their weapons to finish off the foes in front of them.
The only saving grace was the lack of extended lees.
Every charge was over as quickly as it had begun.
Of course, that too was likely to change, as General Khan continued to eye his prey, in search of the opportune mont to strike.
“A poor showing, Samuel, a poor showing indeed… They’ll think that we Stormfronters are nothing but physical might,” General Karstly said.
“We’ll be defeated before we can show any of what we’re made.
It will be Oliver Patrick that they rember, and the strength of his four hundred.
We will be a re side note, in the mind of that almond-headed foe that we face.” “…I expect that is likely true,” responded an exasperated Samuel, though he thought there were far more pressing matters of concern than how the enemy was likely to deal with them.
“Then we must move our pieces,” General Karstly said.
“Where there was a spark, and the barest smoulderings of a fire, we shall build a great blaze.” “You have orders?” Samuel said.
General Karstly gave him an irritated look.
“This might be death and carnage for you, Samuel, but for I, it is my canvas.
Do not interrupt when I feel the flowing pulls of poetism.
I will see comrades reunited, and I will allow them to cause their carnage.
Notify Captain Lombard.
Tell him to pull that fiery little youth of his out of his trap.” “…Very well,” Samuel said, studying his Lord with eyes that did not exactly sing approval.
The look only lasted a few seconds, but Samuel was sure enough that Karstly took his aning, and he turned to carry out the task that he was given.
“Now then…” Karstly said.
“With the tools that I have at my disposal, it seems that we are in exactly the right place to create a healthy sort of competition.” His lips curled into a devilish smile.
This was Karstly in his truest form.
He called himself a poet of the battlefield, to any that he could trust not to repeat it to anyone else.
A poet, or at other tis, an artist.
The Battle board had always bored him, and so he invented stories for himself, to make the moving of those pieces far more interesting.
It just so happened that those stories had strategic significance, and a re ga or codic tale from Karstly was enough to make even the most hardened of strategists sweat.
“The Blackthorns,” Karstly said.
“I think it’s about ti you put in a showing worth the number of you that I’ve taken, mm?
If you would dance for , but a little, I might not have such harsh words for your master when we return ho.” He chuckled to himself at the thought, knowing very well that he would never dare say anything to Lord Blackthorn – at least not to his face, and not directly.
Behind a carefully crafted taphor, perhaps, but there was always a risk that Lord Blackthorn’s finally honed instincts would see through it, as they often did.
“…More coming from the rear,” Lady Blackthorn suddenly perked up.
They’d endured a second volley, as Oliver ordered his n to make shields of the corpses beneath them.
He was eyeing the archers in front of him, and giving his n the due ti they needed to rest before he made the charge.
That was the only way he could see out of their current predicant – at least, so far, even being as bad an option as it was.
Oliver’s eyebrow twitched.
He cast Ingolsol’s awareness outwards, and confird Lasha’s observation to be true.
She was a rare creature, at tis.
She reminded Oliver of an animal.
She seed to be able to tell when thunder was coming, even before there were clouds in the sky, like she was so sort of nervous horse.
And at tis too, those instincts manifest themselves on the battlefield, just as they did now.
A second wall of three-rank strong shield wielders were coming, to join the three-rank strong wall already there.
The intention of the manoeuvre, as subtle as it was, seed fairly obvious.
They wanted to march them down.
They intended to advance, forcing the Patrick n away from the safety of their at shields, and in towards the relentless arrows sent by the bown.
“He’s a ruthless one,” Oliver noted, running the back of his sleeve across his forehead, freeing it from blood and sweat.
“We had simply need be more ruthless then.” He could feel his fury returning, as he prepared for a frontal assault.
They’d break through the line of bown, and then straight through the shield wielders behind them.
It would be difficult, reckless even, but it wasn’t impossible.
Not now that his n had the chance to catch their breath.
Besides, it was the only option that they had, wasn’t it?
“…Lord Karstly has shifted,” ca another observation, from another one of Oliver’s officers through the mouth of Verdant.
“His strategy has changed.
We ought to wait before making a decision.
We should see his intentions.” ‘”If we are able to do it quickly, then by all ans,” Oliver replied.
“But will he throw us a rope?
He seed quite content to let us drown earlier.
Why would he save us now?” “Because he is forced to,” Verdant said with the smallest smile.
“We’ve made too large a splash for us to be discarded so easily, no matter what orders we might have taken lightly.” When Verdant spoke as such, it was akin to foreshadowing.
His already pale blue eyes would get even paler, to the point of being glassy.
It was like he was looking straight into a pool that foretold the future.
And indeed, they did not have to wait long before they saw a dust cloud arising, and the shifting of n, with so three hundred soon speeding towards them.
They were far enough away that Oliver couldn’t figure out who they were, but Verdant had an answer ready for him in an instant.
“Captain Lombard,” he said, his eyes widening.
“Interesting…”
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