Tens of blows fell upon him, but Zilan was unable to knock the boy from his saddle. He showered him in wounds, but none were quite enough to take his life, or force him out of the way. A frown began to grow on the man's face, and the furrows of impatience dug trenches upon his brow. He too had more weight that he could find within him, and gradually, that weight crept into his blows. Bit by bit, their intensity increased.
Sparks of metal crashing against metal filled the air. None of the lesser Verna troops dared to come close to lend assistance to their General, nor would Zilan have wanted them to. They had another foe, still remaining on the edge of the battlefield. The few hundred men of Oliver's employ that had managed to defeat their share of the chariots. Though they were few in number, their very existence pervaded as a problem.
"Move, boy!" Zilan shouted, using the Stormfront tongue to lash at him.
"Move, I tell you!" He said again.
