"He's surrounded by men, Commandant!" Jericho pointed out. "Any one of them could hold a shield for him as he fought."
"And all of them are his inferiors. Besides, he does not have the hand to grip a shield, only a weapon. He's even more stuck than we are. Whether General Phalem saw it or not, his decision works in our favour, Jericho. Our plans do not change. With these borrowed shields, we will swim through arrow rain, and we will take the head of a son that we did not know existed."
In the face of such steadfastness, even the shaken Jericho could not do much but nod. Given their position, there was no other choice. It was forward, to claim the head that they set out for, or it was death, trapped in a ring of enemy men, buried beneath their arrow rain.
"Thank you, Yamon," Oliver said to the man holding a shield above his head as if it were an umbrella.
"Your hand, Captain…" the man said. "You can't hold it?"
