A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

The day was light, and the camp was a bustle of activity. Men moved with urgency, completing the endless tasks required to keep an army like that running.

Oliver looked back out of his window, towards his men. He gauged the reactions on their faces. The new cavalry remained stern, being the well-trained group that they were, but the rest of Oliver's soldiers were unable to hide the awe that they were feeling.

He saw Karesh nudge Jorah, his eyes wide as he pointed. Jorah nodded grimly, and murmured something back. Oliver wasn't sure what, but he could guess. As the two talked, Kaya was unable to take his eyes off the thousands of soldiers. He was completely struck dumb by them.

The ex-slaves wore much the same expressions. They'd never seen the like. Amongst them, Firyr walked with his chest puffed out proudly, and made a show of not finding the scene before them all that impressive.

"Ohh, I've seen thousands and thousands," Firyr said, his normal speaking voice was as loud as a shout. "It isn't as impressive as it looks, let me tell ya. Once you get in amongst them, they're all meat the same." He tapped his surcoat, indicating the Patrick sigil of the beast. "This here – we'll chomp through the lot of them, we will. Doesn't matter the number, we'll punch right through."

"He's rather reassuring, isn't he?" Verdant commented. He didn't need to look out of the window to guess what was going on.

"He is," Oliver agreed with a smile. Men like Firyr were invaluable at times like this. It made Oliver appreciate the eclectic mix of personalities that functioned among his forces. It was one of the many things that made them so different from the stern-faced and quietly disciplined infantry of other armies.

As they drew closer, riders were sent out to meet them. They greeted the cavalry first, given that half of them were riding in front of the carriage, and then one of the cavalry Sergeants brought the riders to the door of Oliver's carriage.

"Ser Patrick?" The man asked, saluting. It seemed both a question and a statement.

"Along with Lord Idris and Lady Blackthorn," Oliver said.

"Three hundred men, is that correct?" The Sergeant said, looking down the column. "You have been as good as your agreement, Ser."

So he said, but there was clearly something more on the tip of his tongue that he was hesitating to ask.

"Worried about being impolite?" Oliver asked. "Do not worry. Lady Blackthorn elected to move ahead of her men. The hundred that was promised to her shall be arriving within the next day or so."

"Very good, Ser!" The man said, breaking out into a smile. "If you would continue onwards, Captain Lombard will welcome you."

"Thank you, soldier," Oliver said.

"…That was genuine relief," Verdant noted as the man rode away. "It seems that even the infantry are counting the numbers. The likes of a hundred extra men makes a big difference to them."

"True enough," Oliver said, as he turned to Blackthorn. "And if you were trying to be even a fraction of the officer that a Blackthorn should be, you should have rode with those men."

Blackthorn had the grace to look chastised. She looked at the floor with the smallest pout. "They would not have been able to move quickly enough to keep pace with me. Besides, they're more you're men than mine. It's you they'll be serving."

"Woah!" Oliver said, alarmed. "Don't say that. You'll set your father against me for the rest of your life. If he thought that he was giving you men, just for you to throw them off over to me, he'd be as angry as a Dark God."

"Insulting," Ingolsol growled. "Do not use my name for your petty points."

"He's right, Lady Blackthorn," Verdant said. "They are to be your men, given to you as such. You must lead them, as your own."

"But then… how will I fight under Ser Patrick?" Lasha said, tilting her head. "The reason I wished to come was to fight with him. How am I to operate when I've never led men before? I don't want to be thrown off on my own."

"Ah," Verdant said, smiling. "That's a simple command structure, my Lady. A General has Captains and Commanders, does he not? Men lead under him with their own men, but they still obey and act on the orders of the General. Surely you've seen it yourself, by now?"

"…" Oliver was at a loss. He'd been on so many missions with Blackthorn by now. The fact that she'd overlooked something so basic was… so in character for her. He'd asked her to attempt leading more than once, and each time she had refused him, all the while ignoring the aspects of the battlefield that did not concern her.

"You're right," Blackthorn said suddenly, looking up at Oliver for confirmation. Oliver was forced to give her an exasperated nod, which prompted a true smile to blossom on her face.

When she smiled like that, whole rooms would light up. Her eyes would crinkle, and her cheeks would rise, and you would get a sense that there was an actual human behind that impossibly beautiful mask of a face. Then that smile would fade, and it was very much like talking to a wall.

"Don't tell me that you've left Pauline and Amelia behind with the soldiers as well?" Oliver asked.

Lasha stood up so suddenly that she whacked her head off the ceiling of the carriage, only just remembering. "No!" She cried. "I've done something terrible!"

With a palm to his face, Oliver heaved a long sigh. It was another case of Blackthorn forgetting that which usually didn't concern her. Pauline and Amelia had never come on any of their missions before, so it did almost make sense that Blackthorn would forget they were joining her for the campaign… but still, it was a rather cruel mistake to make.

"Sit down," Oliver said, as Blackthorn rubbed her head, half wailing. "They've served you long enough, they'll expect it from you by now. They will arrive tomorrow with the others, I imagine. Make sure you apologise when they do."