"Then count on it, Northman, and tell your men to. No man has permission to die until he has fully bathed in the glory of our victory," Oliver said.
The aged Command gave him a stern nod, and clenched his fist. He looked around at the men nearest him, and saw the same hardness reflected in their faces. They were ready. By all the Gods, they were finally ready. It would have been a lie to say that he didn't feel the slightest shred of fear.
Even after all the experience Northman had gathered, fear would always come when there were tough battles to be fought. And here was the toughest battle that he'd likely ever faced, in terms of the odds. Skullic was ever careful to ensure his troops were not placed in situations where the chances of victory were so slim.
Yet here they were, and the gates were open. The dice had been rolled, and finally, they turned up in their favour. Now when Northman considered it, the price to get those gates open was thirty men, and the enemy had been paid nearly sixty men back over the course of their struggle. It was a miraculous feat, even if they would have preferred to achieve it unscathed.
Now came their opportunity to exercise on that struggle.
"POSITIONS!" Northman's voice rang out, loud and clear. From behind the wall of wooden barricades that they'd set up, the army was able to organize themselves however they wished. Given that they'd need to fold their line again towards the centre, though, those positions were allowed to be a little messier than they otherwise would be.
The closer they got to the gates, the intention was to have the men come ever closer together. Northman was sure his men understood that, but he still felt nervous having the likes of Oliver's newcomers relied upon to remember complex battle manoeuvres. They were strong, it was true, but the discipline needed for battlefield manoeuvring was something else entirely. Nevertheless, they had to try.
The men stood as close to full height as they dared to. They were tense with anticipation. Northman had rarely seen an army more ready than they were.
"BY THE CENTRE, ADVANCE!" Northman called. With it, Oliver's row took their way forward. He and Blackthorn marched behind the shields, whilst five of Judas' men carried them. It didn't make sense to leave their best Swords the burden of arrow defence, after all.
Behind Oliver, there came more of Judas' men, and after them, there came Verdant, with Jorah, Karesh, Nila and Kaya alongside them. Those men had different roles than Oliver's, as had been designated before the battle, but they were put far forward regardless, in case there was a need for the significant firepower that they could provide.
After them came the last of Judas' men, and then Judas himself. Only then, did the true central army begin, the Skullic's men, and with Northman in the middle of them, leading. Bringing up the centre's rear was Cormrant, whilst Firyr – much to his chagrin – was stationed right at the back, looking furious that he was left out of the action.
The men went forward in lockstep – a step that was mostly set by the Skullic men, conditioned over years of relentless battling.
The Macalister men were back on the wall, their arrows primed. Oliver glanced up. They looked even more numerous than they had before. Could it be that they dared to think that they could pierce them with their arrows, despite the thick shields that Oliver's men had surrounded themselves with?
The volley of arrows that was sent their way seemed to be evidenced by that mistaken fact. Oliver frowned. When an enemy displayed questionable competence, Volguard had warned that he ought to be most on guard. Oliver wondered whether their decision to continue the rain of arrows rather than sending more men down to man their gate was evidence of one such questionable decision.
"Prepare yourself," he told Blackthorn, as they drew nearer. The ex-slave men grit their teeth, enduring the rain of fire that came down on them from all sides. It had more to do with the pressure of imminent death than the actual weight that they were being forced to deal with. The sheer noise of the arrows striking the wood was enough to unsettle.
Soon, Oliver's feet found mud, where the hot flames of the oil fire had burned away the snow and ice, and the ground had grown sodden with the excess water. Now his attention was on the walls. More oil, after all, could be sent pouring down on them at the slightest second of opportunity. Nila was on guard against that, yet it wasn't a cure-all solution.
If the Macalisters tightened their shields, then even Nila's arrows would find it hard to slip through a second time.
Oliver's men gradually began to tilt their shields upwards. There were no enemies in front of them any longer. The enemies came from above, and off to the sides. The fort's walls felt even higher this close.
Soon enough, Oliver's feet found the first of the hot embers left by the oil fire. The melting snow was quick to attempt to cool what remained off, but it was having a tough time. Oliver could feel the heat through the soles of his boots, demanding that he not stand still.
"FORWARD!" Oliver demanded.
His unit sprinted the last stretch – some twenty-five men in total. Their goal was to breach the gates, before any oil could be attempted. The enemy had shown their card too late, Oliver concluded, and he was determined to take advantage of that fact.
It was a feat of speed that only the ex-slaves could perform whilst carrying such heavy shields. They sped up, chased by the heat of the fire, plunging past the remnants of the gate, and knocking loose more charred remains with their shields.
The gate tunnel was just as charred as the rest. A ten-foot stretch of quiet black burned wood, where even the snow and ice had trouble reaching. Oliver thundered towards it behind his men. Inside that tunnel, their shields were nearly useless, now that the arrows could not reach them, but they kept them all the same. Oliver's instincts forewarned him of a trap. Ingolsol's senses told him the same.