"Damn it all—!" Oliver cursed. He was half tempted to go forwards, but there were more bowmen waiting for him. They had seemed like heavy shield wielders earlier on, but now it was unmistakably bows that they bore in their hands. The men wielded both weapons as some sort of trick. It was more like a village magician's playful bit of pretend magic than it was any sort of true military tactic.
Still, Oliver was made to yield to it. He cut right, not going any deeper, and he raised his hand up in the air for the men to follow him. The weak part of General Zilan's formation that he had been goaded into targeting now reeked of nothing more than a trap. And he could hear the click, click of those heavy turning chariot wheels, as they set themselves forward to chase after him. It was not a trap that he could escape so easily.
"A drink, my Lord?" General Zilan's attendant asked of him.
