A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

He turned his horse for something to do. Blackthorn came with him, and Verdant began down the other side.

"Tell your men as well, Blackthorn," Oliver said to her. "You will need to stay close with them, when the battle comes. We can not afford to lose communications mid-combat. It will be your role to ensure they do not become isolated."

"I know that…" Blackthorn said carefully. She, finally, was growing tense herself. She was very much a creature of the battlefield. Over the years, she'd grown to find herself even more comfortable on it than Oliver was, but now her nerves were showing. She pulled her reins to overtake him, and do her duty, but before she could leave, Oliver snatched her arm back.

"Blackthorn," he said, holding her gaze, knowing that this was likely her last chance to speak to her properly before the battle. "Trust in our strength. When the opportunity comes, we will do what we always do. We'll target something important, and hit it with everything that we have."

The woman's lips twitched into the smallest smile. She was far, far too comfortable with the battlefield, Oliver thought. She nodded at him. "Yes," she said, seeming almost excited by the prospect. "We will crush them as we always do."

She plodded on ahead to tell her men the same.

"Grasping for something, my Lord?" Verdant said. It would have sounded like a jab coming from someone else, but Oliver had learned to discern Verdant's meaning from his occasional bouts of strangeness.

"We were at least told what men have worth amongst the Verna," Oliver said. "The plumes of their helmets and the colour of them. The closer they are to gold, the more valuable they are. We can use that, at least."

"Very good, my Lord," Verdant said approvingly. With a single fact, they were able to take control back. When working with the likes of a new General, or a new Colonel, it was near impossible to guess what they wished for an army to do, unless the men themselves were given the order.

In the place of an order, Oliver snatched at a solid truth that could almost never be disadvantageous – that of simply targeting high-ranked men, whenever they were lost enough to need to do so.

It was a subtle thing, but it made all the difference. Verdant recognized that immediately. For an army that had been raised as independently as the Patrick forces, it was a lifeline that kept their confidence high.

As Oliver went to speak to Jorah, he said much the same thing. "Keep an eye for the plumed helmets, Jorah. If it comes to it, those will be our targets. We will do what we always do, and smash straight through them."

"Very well, my Lord," Jorah said, with a hint of relief. "It will be business as usual. I will inform the men."

"Kaya, Karesh, you heard the same," Oliver said. "If you can bring me a Sergeant's head, or even a Commander, there will be reward for the both of you. In fact, that goes for all troops," he continued, raising his voice, so that more could hear. "Spread the word down the line of that as well, Jorah. I'll send good coin for every high-ranking man that they manage to slay."

With talk of such things, Oliver took note of the reactions of the men. They were nervous, but not as nervous as some of the other armies. When they heard of the competition, with more coin up for grabs, that nervousness dampened even further. It really would be the same as usual for them – it was something that Oliver often did, in particularly arduous missions.

He offered coin for the number of men slain, to the best that his purse would allow it.

"I hope you've brought a chest with you then, Captain!" Firyr shouted over, overhearing the discussion. One of his Sergeants immediately thumped him on the shoulder, urging him to be quiet. But it was too late, by now, they were already earning a harsh glare from Colonel Gordry. If he hadn't been in the midst of speaking to other men, he would not doubt have come over to scold them.

Oliver went over to Firyr in his place. "Steady yourself, Firyr," Oliver told him. "There's glory, and we've the might to seize it, but you need to steady yourself. Don't forget we're bound by a different command structure now."

"But it's the same as always, ain't it, Captain?" Firyr said, hefting his spear on his shoulder, wearing an impetuous grin. "We just smash what's important, and we make a name for ourselves. Kill a dozen Commanders, and it doesn't matter who the enemy is, their army will fall apart."

It was the simplest of strategies, but the sort that resonated with men like Firyr, and even the likes of the slaves. It gave them a feeling of their own importance. It allowed a single man the power to change the course of the battlefield, and they all aimed for it. They weren't just soldiers whipped into place in a line, like most Stormfront armies were.

The Patrick forces were instead barely controlled ferocity. They were as bestial as the sigil that they wore.

"Even if we think that, we can't say it aloud," Oliver told him, dropping his voice an octave. "This is merely an insurance measure, Firyr. Don't get carried away. We follow the plans of our General until we're lost enough that we need to rely on our own."

"You're our General, Captain," Firyr said, not getting the message. "We follow your plans – your plans bring victory, and that's what we're after."

"Then do that," Oliver replied, giving up. "If Karstly's plan aligns with my own plan, we'll call it mine, and you'll follow it."

That made Firyr scratch his head, but soon he was grunting in agreement. "Aye, that makes sense. So we just follow your orders anyway. Same as always. Nothing to worry about, fellas."