A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

"I've got shallow stuff the same," Gamrod said, "just a lick on my thigh. Don't even need stitches for it. I saw Amberlan get a lash up his back, maybe that's worth checking."

"Huh? Where?" Amberlan said, turning around to feel behind him. His hand came back red, but not awfully red. Northman moved closer to expect it, parting the gap in Amberlan's clothing for a better look.

"Aye," Northman agreed. "You'll want a few stitches on that."

"No dead amongst yours?" Oliver asked as he began to calm himself somewhat. He was quite sure that his own men were still alive. There were so few of them that he was aware of them as intensely as his own fingers. He wouldn't have missed any serious injuries.

"None," Northman confirmed. He, similarly, was just as aware of his lot. But more because he had the instinctive spacing of a Commander. His role wasn't just killing. It was to kill, pause, evaluate, and then kill some more. He had to ensure that everything was moving in the right direction continually before he lost himself entirely in combat.

"Same as you, three will need stitches, but the rest are fresh."

"None from Tommen's either," a Sergeant said, interrupting their conversation. "He sent me over, because he said you'd be asking.

"Gods be good," Northman said, shaking his head. "A hundred men dealt with without a single serious injury? Dare I say more? I'm sure Ingolsol would jinx it if he heard me celebrating too early, but damn it all. Those are the results. So that's the worth of a fledgling Patrick on the field of battle."

"A fledgling Patrick that you ain't even using right, yet," Rofus pointed out. "Got to say, serving a noble isn't seeming too much like a pain in the arse anymore. I could get used to this."

There came murmurs of agreement from Gamrod and Amberlan. "Aye, taking the vanguard when you've got a Patrick in front of you, it ain't so bad."

"Don't you boys be getting too used to it yet," Northman chided. "We've only got him once a month."

"Is that it?" Rofus complained. "That's no fun. We could storm fricken' castles like this, I can feel it."

"Well, you're in luck, because we have a fort to storm before sundown. And, thanks to Ser Patrick, we've got fifty men fresh with which to do it," Northman said. "How's the body, Ser Patrick? Are you in need of a rest?"

"Quite fine, Commander," Oliver assured him, "I'll join the attack on the fort and finish this off."

"Any thoughts on that? We could take some of these corpses and throw them down, crush their morale before they even start the resistance," Northman said. "That would make for a fine time."

"That would work," Oliver agreed. "Or leave them to their doubts, as they waste time calling for assistance that won't come. They'll be splitting their attention towards the trees, rather than entirely on us."

"Mm," Northman murmured begrudgingly. "Now that does sound like it could be preferable... Tommen! Are you all done with the cleanup?"

He shouted over to the Sergeant when he saw him once more returning to the centre of the camp, with an added ten slave girls now in his possession. They had haunted looks on their faces, as well as the cuts and scars of their physical abuse. True, they'd manage to retain their lives, but Oliver wasn't quite sure if they'd really done those women a favour by doing that.

All he sensed from them was an acute emptiness flavoured only slightly by fear. It was as though they were swimming in a bucket of roof tar. It was a frightening thing to even observe. It must have been even more hellish to experience.

"Just about," Tommen said. "We haven't stomped out all the fires, just got the worst ones under control. As for the kidnapped villagers, this is all we could find. Should we be driving the cattle out as well? There ain't much, but I suppose it might mean a good deal to one of these villages. The winter this year is a cruel one."

"Aye, drive them out," Northman agreed, "but do it quickly now. We'll be on our way towards victory if we can keep a pace up."

Just as the sun was beginning to set, they made their preparations for the attack on Fort Dollem.

They'd managed to bring back everything of value from the camp within the forest. Which, as it turned out, wasn't much. A few goats, a cow, some chickens, and a few docile women freed from their bonds. Even with the ropes around their wrists cut, they didn't look any freer for it.

That was a problem for a different day, though. Their return was met with a hero's welcome. Those that had been forced to stay behind with the wagons, in order to be fresh for the second assault, they'd waited for news of the attack with more than a little anxiousness.

Sergeant Cormrant was particularly surprised to see just how well off the men returned. He'd been muttering ever since they'd left about how they should have taken that extra twenty men with them, to ensure a comfortable victory.

He watched as they streamed from the trees, trying to find the familiar sights of limping men, or the bodies carried of the recently departed. He didn't manage to find any. Only more and more men floodd from the trees, until he counted their original number of fifty.
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He'd noted, a little begrudgingly, that Oliver's clothes were stained with far more blood than the rest. It was as though he'd laid under a cow as it was slaughtered, such was the coverage. From the way the other men were looking at him reverently, though, it certainly wasn't a cow that he'd killed.

To see such a difference in treatment in such a short amount of time, it was remarkable to see. Rarely did men return from combat laughing. There was always some slight sting of bitterness. Soldiers though they were, they did not welcome the loss of any of their comrades. They needed a drink before they could attempt to bandage that hurt.