A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 808: Victory’s Skeletons - Part 2

They rode their way into the middle of camp, where soldiers were now standing as a crowd of onlookers. A true mixture of men, with Oliver's own ex-slaves amongst them. Northman was standing at the front, wide-eyed, and Judas wasn't far down from him. Every man there wore an expression of shock.

That shock transformed into something else when they saw the heads dangling down from the side of their saddles.

In the centre of the camp, Oliver made the first deposit. Five heads. He threw each one down singularly, and each one landed with a solid thump, a sound that by now had encapsulated the camp. Not a man made a sound. Thump, thump, thump. They didn't know what to make of it – they couldn't think of anything to say.

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If it was a spell, then they were thoroughly hypnotised from it. Usually, expressions of violence like this were used to intimidate the enemy. No one knew what to make of it when they were gifts from their allies.

Verdant came next. No matter what barbarity Oliver engaged in, that man showed his utmost trust. He wore the proud expression of a member of the high nobility. Clutching heads, as he was, you would have thought they were jewels, or some sort of family heirloom. He made his own deposit, the heads thumping and rolling into the snow, joining Oliver's pile.

Then came Nila. She didn't like it. That much was clear on her face, but she trusted in Oliver enough to carry it out anyway. Then Blackthorn, who seemed as battleshocked as one was likely to get. Then the three retainers, each of them grimacing as they held the severed heads, even the ever-eager Karesh. It was on the soldiers and the slaves that didn't show much of an expression.

They did their work in silence, added to the pile, another brush stroke on the canvas that Oliver Patrick had created.

There it was – a mountain of fifty heads, flashing in the firelight.

More intimidating a sight it was hard to get. Oliver urged his borrowed horse forward, and stood in front. He turned his head, meeting the eyes of each man in turn. He sensed the Command, as he had with Skullic. Back then he'd come up with a story to tell to close the gap between him and the guards. Here, that pile of skulls painted a far more vivid picture.

"Fifty horsemen," Oliver said, "dead by the hands of twenty. Look hard men, and look with understanding. We do not come here as soldiers, to fight as equals. We are giants, overriding lessers. We seize victory without needing to take a single cut. Inspect these men, ask them – see if you can find a wound.

No matter how long you look, you will not find a thing, only the blood of our enemies, and the solid men that spilt it."

Never before had Oliver spoken with such a hungry audience for his words. The silence had almost been suffocating, but no one had dared break it. When Oliver finally did, they were like men fresh from the desert, finally getting the first sip of water in days.

He glanced at them again, feeling for that Command that he sought to establish. It was there, a slight shine. He was beginning to see a hint of something beneath. It wasn't there yet, but it was well on its way. It was not the sort of thing – as Volguard had predicted – that could be established in a single night.

Oliver withdrew from the mound, allowing them to get another good look at it. He'd said all he could think to say. It was a performance, in truth, but that was the sort of thing that soldiers looked for. The very heart of Command seemed to lie in demonstrations of some sort. They were the only thing that could rival the steady accumulation of experience.

That seemed to be the signal that they could finally speak. Oliver nodded to the soldiers, dismissing them. The story would spread more quickly from their tongues than it ever could from him. It would lend it a certainty and power, for Oliver was quite sure that they hadn't yielded a single wound. At least, not any sort of wound that had hindered the men from walking.

He made his way to his tent – which also doubled as the planning headquarters – trusting that the men of rank would know to find him there. Nila dismounted after him, as soldiers rushed to take care of her horse. Cormrant had already given commands to see the animals settled somewhere more sheltered amongst the trees, it seemed. A welcome reprieve.

There was a bronze jug full of cold juice sitting on the table, full to the brim. A thoughtful little gift for a Captain that was set to return from his patrol a good while ago. He poured himself a cup, and fell into the chair, waiting, using the short few minutes of quiet to process what had happened.

'A mistake,' he murmured. But not one of the General's making. It was a problem of insubordination. Of too excitable men following on when they were not ready to. Could Oliver still dare interpret that as a weakness in the General's way of doing things, or was he right to assume that they still hadn't caught a hint of the man's potential?

After all, it did seem as though the General had predicted their power, in his orders for his men not to follow them into the woods.

Oliver shivered at the thought. If he'd seen that far, then he would make quite the foe. It was a tiny weakness that they'd been allowed to exploit. A veritable gift from the Gods, if he had to put it any other way. The men were already celebrating it as a victory, but Oliver could not be so optimistic. He knew that, in all likelihood, it had hardly changed the tables at all for them.

They were still presented with the same problem – how to assault those high walls.