A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 842: Building Back - Part 1

"Sleep, woman," Oliver said. "Training can wait."

"Will you be sleeping, Ser?" Blackthorn asked.

"Soon enough."

"Then I shall sleep when I think you are. Until then, I shall endeavour to be more useful. This battlefield favours Nila Felder’s bow, but I shall not lose to her. The nobility have their own pride, Ser Patrick. I will have you acknowledge our worth."

Oliver sighed at his table when Blackthorn left. He still didn’t understand that woman, even if she was claiming to understand him. It was all a little too unsettling for his liking, but the fact that her mood seemed to have cleared was at least a positive. There was a focus in her eyes that was like the herald before the storm of progress.

Despite her own self-doubts, Oliver knew for a fact how brilliant Blackthorn was.

For her to be able to overwhelm men who were that much physically stronger than she was spoke to her talent. There was no doubt some of that Blackthorn heritage running through her veins, but the Blackthorns were famed for their physical might. For there to be a creature like Lasha that moved with such ferocious speed instead was a matter of great interest.

"Poor Nila," he remarked aloud. He doubted that Nila even knew that Blackthorn clearly saw her as a challenge, someone to chase after and to match. It was like a wolf eyeing an unsuspecting rabbit, though Oliver knew that Nila was no rabbit, being such an adept hunter herself.

Saying ’poor Nila’ aloud immediately led to his mind wandering back to the men that had fallen, and he corrected what he said. "No, the dead are the unfortunate ones… and if I do not do something drastic, we will all be joining them." As heartwarming as Blackthorn’s rivalry with Nila might have been, it didn’t do anything to solve the problem that they were currently at.

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Oliver ran his fingers through his hair, fighting back a yawn. He returned his gaze to the map, resolving to have something solid for tomorrow. Battering ram, indeed that was something. His men were stronger than most, and he already had barricades in place to supplement the battering ram.

The hill had constantly made him brush such an idea from his mind, but the more he thought about it, the less catastrophic it seemed.

Still, it needed some other element for it to work against a General as adept as the one he was facing. After the time he’d spent studying under Volguard, he was beginning to get a sense of the worth of different strategic ideas. He knew that some ideas, because of their sheer weight, would be far more likely to succeed than others.

Volguard had forced him to endlessly consider his strategies before presenting them, and that feeling of weighting ideas was what Oliver had developed in response.

The best strategists could far more easily summon up weighty ideas. Weaker strategists would be crushed under the weight of those ideas. Oliver doubted that this strategist that he faced would ever be pressed by any weak idea that Oliver sent his way.

In recompense for the dead that had fallen, he resolved to have something far more solid by the time that dawn came. There could be no more shallowness.

That plan, however, was shattered in an instant. Once more, there was a knock at the tent’s entrance, as someone gently rapped against the wooden tent pole in place of a proper wooden door.

Oliver sighed. Last time, he’d expected Verdant, only for Blackthorn to arrive. This time, he didn’t know who to expect. He supposed that by now, the conscientious Verdant would have assumed he was asleep, after such a time had elapsed since the funeral. He wouldn’t ever want to risk waking his Lord. Who then, if not Verdant?

Blackthorn again? Nila? Perhaps Northman?

He had no idea. None of the options seemed likely. He leaned back in his chair, and gave his permission for them to come in, resolving himself to be prepared for whoever might arrive. "Come in," he said.

The tent flap rippled, as a hand briskly pushed it apart.

"My Lord," Verdant said, bowing his head.

"Verdant…" Oliver said, the surprise seeping into his voice.

"I saw Blackthorn leave a few minutes ago," Verdant said, by way of explanation. "I thought you might have been having trouble sleeping."

"No," Oliver said. "I think sleep will come when I need it."

"But as of yet, you have no plans of inviting it in?" Verdant finished for him with the smallest of smiles.

"I suppose so," Oliver agreed, returning the smile as best he could.

Verdant joined him at the opposite side of the table. "Studying the terrain, I see, my Lord. None could ever fault your lack of effort."

"It is the least I can do, though no matter how long I look, the terrain offers no promise. The enemy will not move from their fortification. They’re intent on bringing us in," Oliver said.

"What plans have you come up with thus far?" Verdant asked.

"… Embarrassingly simple ones, I’m afraid. Given what has happened today, we can no longer afford to linger. The momentum will build against us, and continue to do so until we move. We cannot allow that to happen."

"Then, you plan to do something drastic tomorrow I assume?" Verdant asked.

Oliver nodded. "The men have had enough battle training. They would not be able to carry it out with any sort of enthusiasm, knowing that the walls are slowly closing in around them. The only option I can think of is to send a battering ram right up to their gates."

"I thought you had dismissed such options, given the hill?" Verdant said.

"I had," Oliver said, "but I don’t think we have a choice. Conventional wisdom would agree with that initial evaluation, but now that I consider it, I think that we hold an unusual number of physically strong men, so that such conventional wisdom might not apply as strongly to us."

"You are of course aware that they will no doubt cover us in oil for our attempts?" Verdant said.

"…I suppose I am," Oliver said. "There seems to be no avoiding that fact."