The battle hadn't even truly begun, but already Vol could see that their army had lost.
He turned, as another man came at him, another one of Oliver's soldiers, moving with all the swiftness and confidence of a folktale hero. He lashed out at Vol with a sword, his movements fast, nearly impossible to follow.
Vol tracked it, barely, recognizing the technique, recognizing the gap between himself and the enemy.
'STRONG!' He realized. Every thought came as a shout.
He wouldn't beat this man in a duel. He hadn't trained for such things. All he'd trained was to swing his axe – he'd hoped that the rest would fill in for itself. He hoped that his strength would carry him all the way.
It shouldn't have – but it did.
When the sword came for Vol again, he was forced to take a slice across the stomach. He had to give a wound, in order to match the man's speed. But there he reached out a meaty hand, trapping gripping the man's neck between his thick fingers.
For a youth of fifteen to do that against a trained soldier, it should have been a death wish. Yet, for Vol, with such strength on his side, it was mighty effective. He pinned the soldier in place, as his axe once more came searching for his face. The sharpened steel – meticulously taken care of – cut through the man's nose, and shattered his skull. Vol dropped him with a thump.
Before he could even catch his breath, two more soldiers were on him. These were the second wave. Men with spears. The famed Stormfront long-spears, for their group fighting tactics. These soldiers bore the same mark of strength that the rest did. In all of them, Vol could see the mark of Oliver. The grandness of his command infected them, so that he was present in five thousand men at once, without even needing to make his way to the battlefield.
A point jabbed at Vol's chest, forcing him around. He hissed in annoyance. Fear hadn't made its way toward him yet. Nor had the pain, despite the earlier wound across his chest. The thrill, that skill of his ancestors, it overwrote such mundane problems.
He might have called the failing of his army mundane as well, but as he was forced to spin off to the side to dodge the spears that came for him, his eyes caught glimpses of what was left of his comrades.
A street filled with blood, and corpses. Not a single one of them twitched. It had only been the span of a few short minutes, and yet Oliver's army had punched through them all as if they were mere children.
Blood ran hot and thick, melting snow.
Already, the buildings were burning. Men with torches and oil tossed flames upon the roofs. He heard the cries of women and children as they attempted to flee, only to be cut down mercilessly with the sword.
Vol felt a flash of anger at that.
Not because of the slaughter of the innocents – he would have done the same, given a chance. That was what the Yarmdon were. No, his anger was toward the hypocrisy. The rumour spread an image of Oliver as a civilizer – as a great, and merciful man, like Arthur that had come before him. This was no mercy. This was a slaughter.
"OLLLLLLLLLLLIVVVVVVVVVVERRRR!" Vol howled, as more spears came for him, and his anger burned at him even more strongly than before. "I SWEAARRRR IT! TO ALL THE GODS! DARK AND FOREIGN! YOU HEAR ME? I SWEAR IT! I WILL HAVE YOUR HEAD, IN THIS LIFE, OR THE NEXT!"
A spear point found its way into his back. He grunted, as it pierced him, seeing his blood carried through him, as the point came out the other side. He'd been so focused on keeping the enemies to the front of him at a distance – there were nearly five of them by now – that he hadn't noticed the group that came up from behind.
The others, all of them, were already dead.
It was only fifteen-year-old Vol who had managed to last this long. And it was only Vol that had managed to kill one of Oliver's men. The others hadn't even managed to wound them.
On a hill, two miles away, Oliver's golden eyes watched, and he let out a sigh, as his men's spear points surrounded that giant youth. He watched until the moment he saw the boy's heart get pierced, as ten spear points punched through his body at once. He watched as the body hit the floor, melted snow amidst cobbled stone and blood.
Another great life – another great Tiger, snuffed out by Oliver Patrick before they could mature.
With a flick of his reins, he turned his horse away.
…
…
Three days passed. Cold days. It was still cold winter. They had not quite reached the heart of it yet. The wind whipped, and several inches of snow fell all at once, adding to the masses that were already there.
Had this been just a few days earlier, the townspeople of Bolrif would have been out with their spades and their reaching sticks, slapping the snow off their roofs, before it got too heavy, and the thatching caved, forcing the whole thing to collapse.
But now, amidst that snow, during a rare half hour of winter sunshine, when the streets ought to have been full of people, when the markets of the town ought to have been bustling, and yet, there was only silence.
The occasional flapping of wings, as a crow took flight from one body, and drifted to the next, stabbing a sharp beak into frozen, perfectly refrigerated flesh, and tearing off a mouthful.
The fires had only just stopped smouldering the day before. Not a single full roof sat on any one of the town's many buildings. Not a single corpse showed the faintest signs of life. No person moved for miles and miles around.