A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

They'd been given a single command in all of their marching. "In the event of an attack, form lines to either side of the supply line."

They were a great snake that had been slithering across the country, and now that snake had been brought to a sudden halt. As a snake, their spine was most certainly their wagons full of supplies. Each group of men had kept their wagons on their inside, whilst their men marched to either side. Now that the order came, the already positioned men settled into their ranks.

It took Oliver but a moment before he was echoing the shouts of the signalman.

"Form up!" He said. "Firyr, hold them tight! Jorah, prepare to be flexible. Yorick, detach! Hold position a distance away, and await further orders. Blackthorn, come left, with an eye to the forces behind us.

If they need assistance, you and your men will be going."

At once, his men fell into action. The second the signalman had given his shouts, they'd frozen, and they'd looked to Oliver. Only now that he spoke did they descend into movement. Firyr was on the left, and with the loudness of his deep voice, he whipped the men into a long tight line, with their weapons extended outwards.

On the right, Jorah did much the same, though with a far more refined approach. Spears, axes, swords and all sorts of weapons pointed menacingly at the space in front of them. In those three years of fighting, Oliver had ensured that each man had received the weapon that was suited to him.

It made for poorer group tactics when compared to the likes of the Stormfront longspear, but given the sort of men that he was working with, Oliver viewed it as the superior option. It gave their attacks far more bite, after all.

Lasha was moving as well, towards the rear of the Patrick chain, gathering up where their carriages met with the group behind them. Oliver was unfamiliar with the Captain that led them, but their soldiers certainly did not seem irritated to have more forces near them on hand to assist.

"Did you see what it was?" Oliver asked Verdant.

"A scouting party, my Lord," Verdant replied. "Or so I think."

The certainty in Verdant's voice told him that it was a fact, rather than a guess.

"They've mobilized the whole line for a scouting force?" Oliver asked.

"Three hundred men sit in that force," Verdant said. "The Verna have fifty thousand. They're making use of their numbers at whatever opportunity they get. I suppose, the intention here is that this is both a scouting force and an execution unit. They seek to gobble up our smaller forces."

Towards the front of the line, Oliver could already hear shouts. It was too far away for his liking. He would have preferred to be amongst the throng, or he at least would have preferred to be somewhere that he could see the action happening.

As it turned out, Yorick seemed to have the best position, with his cavalry just away from the supply line, able to see off towards the army's head, where the clamour of battle was already beginning to echo.

After minutes that felt far too short to Oliver, there came another signalman from down the line.

"RETAIN RANKS! CONTINUED MARCH!" The man said.

And just like that, they were moving again, as if nothing happened. The men were tense, but they moved regardless.

It was not until they'd reached where the front of the army had been did they see evidence of battle. Three hundred corpses lay dead on the grass. From the sword strokes on them, it had been a thoroughly one-sided battle. Most men were cut down in a single blow.

"…There really were three hundred," Oliver commented. It wasn't as if he'd doubted Verdant. What he'd doubted was the speed with which those three hundred men – all cavalrymen – had been dealt with.

He thought that, given their superior mobility on the horse, it would have been impossible to catch up with them, even if they were on horseback themselves. But the way these men had died, it was almost as if they'd been caught from the side, unaware that the enemy was even there.

It didn't make a lick of sense. They were an army of five thousand. There was no way they could sneak up on anything. The terrain made it even more difficult. The trees were sparse where they were. There was the occasional patch of tiny forest, but it wasn't the sort of thing that men could hide for long in.

"Strange…" Oliver murmured. It was a victory to be celebrated, but he couldn't overlook the fact of its strangeness. To have had a group of mounted men fall prey to them so easily. Just what had General Karstly done?

If those three hundred men had escaped with their lives, no doubt their task would have been put in immediate danger, barely a half a day in. The very fact of their absence though seemed just as likely to incite calls to enemy action.

When evening came, their march continued. Oliver had expected with the setting of the sun that another flag bearer would come running down the line at any second to tell them that it was time to camp for the night, but he was given no such sign.

For several hours their march continued in the complete dark. That was meant to be a foolish thing to do. Marching in the dark would give rise to unnecessary injuries, and even lead to the entire army drifting off course. That logic apparently didn't seem to apply to General Karstly, for he kept them going, and going, even as the men began to lag.

It was not until the moon was high up in the sky did they finally stop. Oliver looked around him, squinting as far as his eyes could see. He thought that they'd surely marched for so long with the purpose of aiming for a better place to camp. But what even was there around them? He could still only see endless grasses, rolling over hilly terrain, with the occasional tree here and there.

The flag bearer that he'd expected hours ago came storming down the line.