A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 1203 The Chains of the Wicked - Part 1

1203: The Chains of the Wicked – Part 1

1203: The Chains of the Wicked – Part 1

Chapter 17 – The Chains of the Wicked

There was a certain flourish to Zilan’s blows.

When the glaive came to land, the man would twist his wrist ever so slightly.

If a weapons instructor had seen the action, he would have condemned the General, pointing it out to be a weakness, for the vulnerable position that it put his wrist in.

But when it was delivered by a man with as much overwhelming strength as Zilan, that weakness became a strength.

It allowed the strike a penetrating quality, with the extra turn that he gave it.

Oliver had come to know that strike better than he had known any other strike before.

It was only stubbornness that he felt.

No conscious thoughts slipped into his mind.

And yet, repeatedly exposed to the same sort of strike, his body could not help but put together the strings of knowing, creating a solution to that problem that presented itself.

The General had attempted to make a dash forward, and each time, Oliver had been there to harry him.

The exchange had been less than two minutes long, but that was long enough to put the Verna army in danger, with General Rainheart already on the move.

For General Zilan, it seemed as if time was growing shorter.

Each second seemed to slip through his fingers.

For Oliver, it was the opposite – every moment struck with an eternity.

And when his counterattack finally came, it struck with a fraction of the force of that eternity.

The twist came, as predictable as ever.

Oliver didn’t put his sword there to defend against it.

So many times he had tried that, and the twist had been able to bury the blade straight through his guard, leaving another wound that his armour was unable to block.

This time, he waited for the moment that the wrist began to unfurl itself, weakening the joint and destabilising the muscles – and that was when he put all the strength that he had into a blow.

Right against the glaive itself.

He didn’t have enough speed to strike at the body of the man beyond it, but that simple bit of retaliation on the glaive was more than enough to bring a frown to Zilan’s face.

His wrist stung, forced into hyperextension.

The lightest touch would have done it, given the weakness of the position.

But the force that Oliver had been able to muster, for a Third Boundary man, it was not to be underestimated.

Any further, and it might have strained Zilan’s wrist entirely.

“Damn it,” the Verna man cursed again, using his own native tongue.

He was forced to withdraw, just for a second, whilst he readjusted for the sake of his wrist.

But that was a precious second – far too precious.

And he was all too aware of those remaining Patrick men that hovered a distance away.

‘Cunning bastards,’ he thought of that.

Even with a Captain to give them orders, they’d positioned themselves to strategic perfection.

Seeing their Captain under such heavy assault, a normal army would have rushed to his defence, but this lot, they played it with a good degree more cunningness.

They simply maintained the tension, holding themselves at a distance, and waiting.

It kept the chariots that Zilan had remaining in check.

Without him, they couldn’t over-commit.

It locked the battlefield down into what was essentially a duel between one Captain and a General.

Until Oliver fell, that tension seemed likely to remain.

Zilan understood that, and with renewed vigour, he resumed the attack.

CLANG!

Again, when the wrist turned, almost on instinct now, Oliver struck out, timing it perfectly.

It was like an exercise that Dominus would set for him.

He’d been given all the time he needed to get used to the new drill.

He wasn’t likely to miss it.

The counterattack interrupted Zilan’s onslaught again, and he was forced to take another second.

Now when he did resume the assault, he had to force himself to avoid twisting at the wrist.

That lack of twist stole strength from his blows.

They didn’t have the digging quality anymore.

They couldn’t come down quite as much as they had previously.

Oliver’s sword settled in their way, and it was seeming more like an iron wall.

The speed of them too was lesser.

Zilan needed to put conscious thought into the strikes now.

As heavy as they might have been, given his position as a General of the Fourth Boundary, as long as they were eased up every so slightly, Oliver showed no signs that he would be falling anytime soon, even with the bloodied state of his body.

‘Troublesome,’ Zilan said, forcing himself to remain calm.

Rogue Commandant Torn would hold even if Rainheart were to come out of the gates there and then.

It was just a matter of picking his way past these particular obstacles, to out strategize him.

He landed on something cunning.

That horse of his was soon keen on getting in Zilan’s way.

‘Then let him,’ Zilan decided, charging straight forward, inviting the check from the other beast.

As expected, Walter stood in his way, but Zilan didn’t pause to accept the confrontation.

He drove his larger horse straight into the side of the exhausted mount, forcing the two to wrestle for position.

As he did so, he began to rain down blows on Oliver once more.

Walter staggered, rearing off to the side.

Oliver shifted in the saddle with him.

He looked certain to topple, but by an incredible effort of will, the horse refused it.

He dragged himself back in close, and continued the wrestling march with the larger beast.

And in close now, Oliver’s sword had the advantage over Zilan’s glaive.

Having already made the decision, Zilan stuck to it, and Oliver forced him to remain in place all the same.

He picked up an attack of his own.

He saw opportunity, and he began to set the pace and the timing, hammering towards the very end of the glaive, forcing Zilan to deal with its leverage in the enclosed space.

It wasn’t enough to throw Zilan back, but it was enough to trouble him.

The extra leverage gave Oliver’s blows more strength.

They almost pinned him in place.

Oliver’s body began to understand, and with the time those blows bought, the veil of darkness that had been cast over his exhausted eyes began to lift, ever so slightly, and he could just barely make out the form of Zilan.