A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

"Ser Patrick?" Rofus prodded, when he'd been quiet a while.

There was his own road too, though. There were people that Oliver owed more than complete strangers, people who had recently saved his life. They expected things from him, a certain level of strength and justice.

The country collectively decided that these bandits needed to be dealt with and it was the country that Oliver now served, even if many of the nobility seemed to view him with the same revilement as the criminals that he executed.

It was not his role here to think.

He drove his sword through the man's chest with as little of his intention forecasted as he could. He would kill, but it wasn't his intention to make the man suffer. The man didn't even seem to notice the sword in his chest, not until he was already strongly within the throes of death.

Oliver Patrick the executioner didn't wield power enough to make moral judgements. Perhaps the Oliver of the future would, but that was a problem for future Oliver. For now, he would do his duty and he would do it without remorse.

He left the body leaning against the tree as he cleaned his sword off using the furs of the man's shoulder.

"I'm going to scout this encampment," Oliver told the rest of them. "If his intelligence is right, it shouldn't be too much of a distance. I'll be far less likely to be seen if I go alone. Besides, I can move more quickly like that."
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"I can't help wondering why you brought us, Ser," Rofus said aloud. "It seems to me like you could have done this whole thing far more quickly yourself."

"I brought you for the extra sets of eyes," Oliver said. "With your assistance, I was able to locate the tracks more quickly. Now that the camp has supposedly been discovered, we'll prioritize speed. How long do you estimate has passed since we left the Commander, Sergeant?"

"…I'd say nearly forty minutes, if I had to guess," Rofus said, looking upwards out of habit towards the sky, though he couldn't see it particularly well for the cover of the trees, and he certainly didn't manage to catch a glimpse of the sun.

"Then you five start heading back," Oliver said, "I'll ensure this intelligence is truthful and then we'll make it back to the Commander before the hour is up. It'll be far quicker going back than it was getting here – at least we know where we are now. Mark your way back, Sergeant, if you need to. Just be sure you can find this place again.

You shouldn't have trouble if you use our footprints, but you never know."

"Aye, fine, Ser," Rofus said, "I'll be sure of it. You just don't go getting yourself killed right at the final jumpin' hedge, eh? C'mon boys, we'll set a nice pace. I can't say I feel too safe standing in these woods with all these branching paths anyhow."

Oliver spared them a glance as they left, ensuring their departure. Then, giving the corpse one last look, he headed in the direction the man had pointed.

He briefly counselled himself towards speed. He knew that their efforts at tracking the camp hadn't exactly been well disguised. If someone were to find their tracks, they'd probably think it somewhat suspicious. Or perhaps they'd overlook them entirely, when there were so many different tracks heading off in so many different directions. It was hard to guess.

One thing they wouldn't overlook, though, would be the corpse of the drunkard bleeding out against the tree.

The man was right. At a run, Oliver was on the camp before he knew it. The trees here were seemingly bereft of the usual dead-hanging lower branches that seemed peculiar to spruce trees. Either they'd been knocked out by frequent walkers, or they'd been collected as dried kindling for firewood. Whatever the case, it made Oliver's efforts at staying hidden far easier.

Brushing past a few thick trees, he saw the rising of smoke. Then the tents seemed to emerge out of the forest out of nowhere – and then there were people and voices and the air of frigid dissatisfaction that hung over them.

On the outskirts of that camp, Oliver stood tight by a tree, taking what time he could take to drink it all in.

The man estimated a hundred people, but there must have been twenty or more tents. It made sense, if they'd all come from different areas and they weren't particularly comfortable with each other, but it was still a stark contrast from the efficiency of the military encampment.

It reflected what the bandits really were, even more clearly than the words that had come pouring out of the dead man's mouth. They were just villagers armed with axes, desperate enough to steal.

Several communal fire pits burned and skinny men – many of them unshaven and unwashed – hung around fires. They seemed like smaller Yarmdon men with their hatchets swinging from their belts, but there wasn't a shield in sight to confirm that image.

As Oliver watched, he caught a glimpse of goats and chickens and cows – not many of them, but they were there, tied to the trees, with pitiful amounts of hay and feed in front of them. It was clear that they'd been stolen in a haste. The bandits certainly didn't have the means of looking after them.

He caught sight of women as well. Some were dressed as the men, in Yarmdon fashion, their fur coats and their gloves held tight with string and ready for action. Others bore bruises and bloody noses. Some had ropes about their hands, tied to trees and left in the cold with far too little clothing to keep them alive for long.

Slaves, in other words.

"Seems they took far more than just cattle from those villages," Ingolsol noted gleefully. He loved things like that, Oliver had learned. He loved to see the worst of people. He loved to see their sadistic little desires, as well as the brutal states of the downtrodden, as he delighted in their suffering.

"Maliciousness and greed are short roads," Claudia said with a sigh.