For an ordinary man, that slight opening would have been a prime opportunity to get an attack in. Against Oliver Patrick, it was a death sentence.
His whole body felt as though it was floating on air. Every action he took exploded with profundity. The early entry to the Third Boundary lent him a flow that he would normally not be able to tap into on his own.
Three slightly off-centre spears, with eyes off-centre, and with a sweep of his blade, a sudden tensing of his back, and a rapid turn of his hips, Oliver used his strength to send them staggering. The first man stumbled into the second, who stumbled into the third, rendering the left side all but ineffectual.
Oliver then focused his attentions on the right. He slipped past the thrust that came for him when the middle man recovered his senses, and he ran his sword down the length of the spear, keeping it in place whilst he closed the distance between himself and the man.
He was back cutting goblins then. There seemed hardly any difference between it all. The Horned-Goblins had attempted similar formations, and he'd dealt with them in similar ways. His sword opened up the lower part of the man's jaw, before he whirled left, to cut through the other man's shoulder, opening up a mighty gap in the centre.
Indeed, it felt the same as back then, but it wasn't. Now He had both the shovel with which to dig the hole – that was his strength – and the stake to plunge into it. His men formed a mighty stake indeed. Even being known to him as they were, it did not require a detailed explanation for them to know what to do next.
Oliver killed another two men, one to the left and one to the right, opening up a four-person-wide gap in the centre, which his men promptly filled, joining him in taking the centre and thoroughly dismantling that resistance that had started to form there.
It was a complete and utter slaughter. Northman had again paused to watch it and only after seeing Oliver kill another two men did he remember to wake up and fulfil his part. The camp was in flames and the last few scraps of that centre-made resistance were coming to pieces. He joined the fray, adding his own red to the white snowy canvas.
They weren't to realize it, not as busy inflicting death as they were, but not a single man had escaped their encirclement. The fear that they'd instilled had been too bold, and the quickness of their execution had been too swift. The men were all able to plunge towards the centre of the village with a ferocity that shouldn't have been allowed.
The foundation that Oliver had established there radiated outwards. It robbed the enemy of their own stability, indirectly collapsing all the budding resistances nearest it. His men dealt with the centre by themselves, only ten men though they were, they collapsed that brick wall of spear-wielding men number thirty and they hardly had a wound to show for it.
Whenever the slightest friction would start to build, Oliver was there, as though he'd sensed it in advance, and his sword would be with him, ready to sweep out the legs from underneath any of the men, turning their rock-solid footing into a bloody show of red snow.
When Northman and Tommen reached the centre, they only found a mound of corpses, and ten men gasping for air, covered in red, as they attempted to recover from their mindless exertion. Oliver tracked the carnage with calm eyes, his clothes fully painted the colour of his enemies' insides. He couldn't find a man still alive in all of camp.
Only those quivering slave women were left, though that wasn't to say that all of them had survived. A quick cursory glance was enough to find a couple with their throats torn open by dull knives, the victims of spiteful killing before their captors dared to flee.
"That's it," Oliver said finally, "you can relax."
Only then did Rofus and the rests shoulders finally drop. Soldiers weren't meant to fight at an all-out sprint. It was measured combat that they were used to. Half of them collapsed to their knees, as they used their swords to keep them upright.
Northman did his own evaluations of the scene. He paid particular attention to the raging fires of the tents. It would be problematic if they were to spread, but he doubted the flames would make it far in the heart of winter as they were, when every bit of tree bark in seeing distance was afflicted by some kind of icy residue.
"Gather the slaves," he said to Tommen, "and stamp out these fires as you go. We'll ensure that no man's left hiding amongst the corpses."
Tommen nodded sternly, ever the serious man. His side had seen the least amount of action, though it had still seen its fair share. The majority of the enemies had been concentrated towards the centre, and then the rest had been towards the left.
Northman's group had all inflicted their fair amount of carnage, and he could see the satiated yet intoxicated expressions of men that had done an awful amount of killing.
"Ser Patrick," he called over as Tommen left. "It would seem that I've still not gotten all the use I can out of you."
A small smile came from Oliver in return. He could still feel Ingolsol thudding his glee inside of him. It would take time to calm down. He didn't feel the exhaustion of battle like the others did – or at least, not yet he didn't. He was more eager to get back and seize the fort than likely any man there. His was the impatient stance of a shadowy sentinel.
"By all the Gods," Rofus said breathlessly. "I've never killed so many bloody men so quickly. I thought I was fit. Now I can barely breathe."
"I hear that," Gamrod said. "Commander, Skullic still pays extra by head, doesn't he? Are you going to confirm it, and get me my extra through coppers for the month?"
"A silver for that work, I'd think," Northman said. "You mad bastards. You plunged straight into the thick of it. Are there any injuries?"
"I've got a cut on my arm," Rofus announced, holding up his forearm to display a shallow river of blood.
"Any wounds that matter?" Northman repeated.