"Right-most cavalry unit to the thirty-first square," Oliver said, pointing to one of the hundred labelled squares available on the battleboard.
That move came with a wave of murmurs from the crowd. Even the peasantry were beginning to understand the simpler options. It didn't take a genius to see the mistake that Oliver had made. It was as blatant as they came. Against Bookthorne's threat of an arrow bombardment, Oliver had made no moves as far as defence. He'd left his pieces, with no recourse, to bear the brunt of the attack, seemingly without reason.
Oliver looked at the man across from him, seeing his frown. The minutes ticked by, as the man thought on the position, as if looking for the vein of cunning that he supposed Oliver to have laid, in making such a sacrifice. No one parted with their men so blatantly without good reason, after all.
