The fire in the man's heart was obvious to see with the aid of Claudia. It had been dampening earlier, almost extinguishing itself, but now it was sending off sparks, trying to get something to boil. Oliver's shout lent it more light, and with a shout of Firyr's own, it burst into a furious heat.
"GAHHH!" Firyr bellow, a primitive and rage-filled shout, enough to pull vocal cords. He unconsciously took a step forward in front of the line of spearmen, as though he'd intended to shoulder that burden alone. He thrust once at the empty air, before the beasts could near. "HELL, COME AND TAKE ME!" He called his threat, his emotion igniting passion in the men next to him.
"FUCK! AN AMBUSH!" The Macalister soldiers finally recognized what was happening.
"IT DOESN'T MATTER! RUN THROUGH THEM! KILL THEM ALL!"
That was the sentiment, as was to be expected from cavalrymen. The most destructive of all the army's divisions, the mounted man had every right to believe that they could blow apart whatever obstacle was put in their way, be it a spear, or the like, even if it meant they'd have to sacrifice a horse or two.
That was their intention – but Firyr had other thoughts. His body had put on weight rapidly once the food he was given had gone up. His already hard-tanned Syndran arms were looking remarkably bigger. They were flexible underneath his simple boiled leather armour, the veins of the bicep visible.
It was one thing to meet an enemy horseman with a spear extended, it was quite another to time a thrust for the moment that the collision occurred. Oliver watched just for long enough to see that happen. With ten horsemen bearing down on him, Firyr stood strong. His spear was drawn back.
The second the horse's hooves crossed into his range, he gave a magnificent thrust, straight into the beast's underbelly, using all of his strength. The horse gave way instantly – he must have hit something vital. Then, Firyr disappeared under a mass of horseflesh and men as they collapsed on top of him.
With Firyr taking the brunt of the charge, Skullic's men were up next. Oliver tapped both Blackthorn and Verdant on the shoulder, warning them to prepare themselves. They visibly tensed from the gesture, their grips on their weapons tightening. Blackthorn's breathing seemed more regular now, and her eyes had a distinct determination to them.
"STAND YOUR GROUND, MEN!" Oliver bellowed, filled his voice with Command. He reached out the tendrils towards Skullic's men, intent on stoking the fire that Firyr had already been building. There was a response – some sort of mild connection. The fury and discipline and unwillingness to step back remained all the same – it seemed to be a product of their pride, rather than Oliver's hold on them.
The next line of horsemen came crashing, their speed slower than before. Firyr had dealt with the man using a Syndran spear, considerably shorter than the long spear's that Skullic's men wielded. Three horses were pierced upon those deadly weapons, unable to slow, the others managed to turn at the last minute, shouting violent orders.
"STEADY! AMBUSH!" They shouted, warning the men that were coming after them. The horsemen kept streaming. They'd managed to place a rock in front of them, slowing their momentum for a second, but now the pressure was once again building. Oliver had felt the same sensation many times before in battle – he knew it would come, and he'd waited for it.
"NOW!" He shouted, his command was for Verdant and Blackthorn. Jorah he'd left to his own devices, trusting that the boy would be able to judge when it was right for him to go forward.
Oliver dashed forward, going around the left of the spear wall, with Verdant and Blackthorn hot on his heels. The horseman nearest to him had brought his speed to an absolute halt, as he attempted to wheel his horse around, out of range of the spearmen. It made him into a most perfect target. Oliver hit him with all the force of a dozen men, sending him slamming from his saddle.
He had half a mind to shout another order of warning, but he decided to keep such a command for himself, instead of posing that limitation on his men. He maneuvered around the horse, despite the danger that it posed.
Oliver would never know whether Verdant had read his intentions, for with a strength like Verdant's, it would have been far easier to go for the horse itself. Instead, as he dashed past Oliver, it was the man mounted into the saddle that he went for, his spear hitting his chest like a cannonball, raising him up out of the saddle, and depositing him on the floor.
Then it was Blackthorn's turn. She found her feet. She'd recovered her breath. Another horseman sat stationary, all but offering himself to her. His eyes widened as he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and his sword shifted. Before he could do anything with it, though, a rapier pierced his neck, splattering a beautiful woman with blood, freezing her in place.
"Not now!" Oliver said, sparing the moment, despite the heat of battle, for he knew it would come eventually – these newer men that he'd brought for this reason. "Don't hesitate, Lasha. Dwell on it later. You're a Blackthorn here and now – smash through the enemy!"
The soldiers he'd struggled to connect with, but he'd known Lasha for a long time now. He'd never commanded her on the battlefield, but his Command reached her all the same. He attempted the connection, and it was established with all the solidness of a main road. She conformed to him, almost as astute as the Solgrim villagers had.
His own sturdiness became her pillar of support, allowing her to lean on an energy that was not her own. Determination returned to her eyes, and Claudia saw the great sparks of progress begin to alight around her.