The enemies that had been walking backwards were slow to react. The man that he'd targeted – without even bothering to feint his attempt, for he knew he didn't need to – tried a backward step, only to step straight into the wall of men that were retreating behind him. Pinned in place by his own allies, he fell easily to Oliver's sword.
The spears came rushing in after Oliver. Even the men that he did not officially command followed his order. He'd dangled in front of them juicy prey, pointing out the enemy's weakness. They would have been less than soldiers if they'd failed to commit.
Held in place by the same restrictions of bodies as the man that had fallen to Oliver, a good few more men fell victim to the spears. They attempted to dodge backwards, only to find that the men behind them weren't retreating fast enough. They were pinned in place and skewered, faster than any man could be.
In the chaos, their lack of discipline and leadership shone through like a well-oiled torch. The second row learned the lesson from the first and they turned around fully and went sprinting for the other end of the wall, and the ladders that awaited them.
Oliver, of course, followed. No peasant man would be faster than him. Even as a youth, speed had always been his forte. It was only after Ingolsol's curse had worn on him that he'd started to seem less significant in it.
Now, as a man of the Third Boundary, there was nary a pair of feet in any village in Stormfront likely to match him. Or so he thought. He sliced across two exposed backs as easily as a butcher separating a pig. The spearmen did their best to keep up with him, and many did so well enough, moving faster than the bandits, despite the chainmail that they wore.
More men fell, as easily as that, as they were forced back towards the ladders. Their unsuccessful rout proved to be as poor a decision as the earlier decision to attack.
By the time they made it into the wood towers at the end of the wall and towards the ladders that lay there, only two men were left – fleet-footed men, when compared with the rest – but even though they'd run so quickly, it seemed their lives had already escaped them.
In order to slip down the ladder, they would have needed a greater lead on their pursuers. Of course, their lead was basically non-existent. Oliver only slowed when he was cutting a man down, and then he was a whirlwind, chasing right after them again. His sword was furious enough to frighten his own men, never mind the enemy.
When the walkway finally ran out and they reached their long sort-after goal, the two men had already lost their will to run any further. Their legs went weak, as they went to the ground, so completely and utterly beaten they were.
"Please…" One man begged.
He didn't finish his sentence. Oliver chose to believe that he'd intended to say "please make it painless." And so Oliver did. He neatly pierced the man's heart, and then the neck of the man next to him, as quickly as he could, as though he were putting down an animal and trying to be as kind to it as possible.
It was almost awkward now that the men were finally dead. The soldiers had been in such a hurry to rush after them, that they'd hardly stopped to think. Now they stood next to Oliver Patrick, and a nervousness struck them. Few, apart from Oliver's squadron, had the opportunity to interact with him personally.
When viewed from a distance, over the course of the long day, he'd started to become quite the intimidating figure indeed.
Only those of Oliver's new squadron managed to keep their composure.
"Down?" Gamrod asked, looking down the bottom of the ladder.
Oliver considered it a moment. He wanted to see how Northman was doing before he committed to anything, but there was such a distance between the two of them now, on that long wall, that it seemed inefficient to do so.
"Two men head back and report our status to Northman, or Cormrant if he's near," Oliver said. "We're going to try a descent. Depending on the kind of numbers we find, we might be forced to make a hasty retreat. You two, see to it."
He pointed at two men, who saluted as stiffly as if he were a well-starched and seasoned officer.
"Yes, Ser!" They said, hurriedly scarpering back the way they'd come, despite how winded the sudden sprint had made them.
Oliver watched them go, before returning his attention to the ladder. "If there are any more bowmen waiting down there, then this descent is going to spell trouble," he warned.
"I doubt they'll be many, if there are any, Ser," Gamrod said, "if we're quick."
The bloodlust was getting to him. Oliver could see from the tenseness in his muscles that the adrenaline still had a tight hold of him. He hardly seemed to want to sit still. It was a state that was afflicting the other soldiers as well, as one would expect. Their strategy for the day had been speed, after all, from the very first attack on the forest.
They didn't want to slow, they wanted to use their momentum all the way through. Oliver could see no reason to stop that policy then.
"I'll go first, then," Oliver said, as ever taking the lead. The newcomers amongst the soldiers hesitated. To give the most dangerous position to an officer wasn't just disrespectful, it would often be detrimental. If their leader were to fall, then it would put them in a dangerous position themselves. They'd fall into chaos and disarray.
It would have made for a reasonable argument, if it wasn't Oliver. They didn't know Oliver's limits well enough to argue against him for certain. Had his retainers been there, they would have had a better chance than they.
Before they could come up with a solid argument, Oliver was already beginning to clamber down the ladder. He slid just a way, with his feet outside of the steps, and then he paused, to reevaluate what was beneath him.