A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 813: Victory’s Skeletons - Part 7

"Come on!" Judas shouted. "Do something! Don't back away!"

But they were already backing away. It was the natural reaction when there was a wall of men closing in on their faces. The slaves all but fled, some sustaining a few bruises, but most of them gave way before they even really tested the resistance of the enemy.

"Embarrassing…" Nila said, putting a hand to her face, and shaking her head. It seemed thoroughly ridiculous to see such brawny men cowed by weapons that could not reach them. If this was how they reacted against blunted point spears, how would they have faired against the real deal?

"That is our victory, I suppose," Cormrant said, though even he didn't seem to know what to make of how easily the slaves had run.

"C'mon, at least let us get a hit in before you run away!" Rofus called. "I know Amberlain is ugly, but he ain't that ugly. You doesn't need to run so quick."

"What did you say, Sergeant?" Amberlain said.

"A poor showing," Verdant noted. "It seems that there are obvious flaws to be had in purchasing men whose wills weren't already broken."

"DAMN IT ALL! DAMN YOU ALL!" Firyr said, exploding in rage, throwing his spear on the floor. Though it was a mock battle, he wasn't dealing particularly well with the loss. He moved back to grab a man. "WHAT WAS THAT? I OPENED IT UP, WHY DIDN'T YOU FOLLOW, EH?"

The man didn't have a word to say in response, he was merely cowed, ducking his head and avoiding eye contact.

"Well, apart from him," Verdant noted, seeing Firyr's temper. "If only there was a way to make the whole army revolve around that sort of passion. I do think that we would be better for it."

"They have potential," Oliver said. Slaves had experienced more suffering than most, and Claudia rewarded such things. So too did they have the natural advantage of size and strength. "It's just tapping into it. I suppose we need to find the leaders amongst them. Nila, send all the ex-soldiers over that Greeves found."

"Right," Nila said.

Greeves had been careful in his purchasing. They'd known that it would be difficult to whip slaves into proper fighting men. Greeves had bought one military man for every ten men that he purchased, making for five in total. He said that the majority of them were disgraced Sergeants, but of course, Oliver had been able to check that fact for himself yet. Except with Firyr.

Soon enough, Nila had five men marching towards Oliver, with Firyr in the centre of them, looking thoroughly pissed off.

"They're rubbish," Firyr said. "I do not know what you Stormfront people expect from your soldiers, but these are less than men. I do not wish to fight alongside them."

"That is unfortunate," Oliver said. "For you will fight among them. You four – you have military experience as well?"

The men shared looks, as though to decide who might speak first. There was a painful lack of confidence there. The best that Oliver was given was a shaky nod in return. "And, what happened there? Did any of you lead?"

Two men nodded.

"Sergeants?" Oliver asked. The men nodded again. "And you two? Soldiers?" There came a nod from the other two. They seemed to be Stormfront men, from the look of them. "What did you do to get yourself enslaved?

Speak up when you answer me – less nodding."

"Captured, Ser," one of the Sergeant's said, his voice barely audible. "By the Yarmdon, Ser."

Oliver felt a pang of sympathy at that. Life as a Yarmdon prisoner – and then slave – was bound to have been tough. It wasn't much wonder that there was hardly any of him left.

"And you?" He asked, pointing at the other men. "Captured as well? All three of you?"

"Captured by Garsh those three," Firyr said, sticking a finger in his ear with disinterest. "Can barely get a word out of them. They're broken, just like the rest of them are. Doesn't matter how good they might look on the surface, if they can't wield a spear then they're no good at all. We're wasting our time."

"I will be the judge of that," Oliver said, a touch of ice in his voice. "You performed well yesterday, Firyr, and you will be rewarded for it. But you will show the appropriate respect, or you will find yourself punished. Do I make myself clear?"

Firyr scowled, but he nodded regardless.

"Speak, man."

"Yes, Captain," Firyr said, with a touch of reluctance. "I suppose it doesn't feel so bad to call you that, given your strength. But I won't show any respect for these other men. That one over there – I don't like him. His skin is like milky water. A pale foreigner, and weak behind the eyes." He was pointing at Cormrant as he said that.

"I want to crush him. He deserves no victory over me."

"To beat Cormrant, you'll need to be more than one man. I thought you were a Sergeant, Firyr? Do you not know how to use men?" Oliver asked.

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"I do," Firyr said, almost furiously. "But good men – not this lot of rubbish."

"This rubbish is all you have," Oliver told him. "Those men from yesterday, who were blooded. Take them now, and make use of them. You can have the pick of all the men – just make sure you lead them. Off you go."

"Fine," Firyr said, leaving to do as he was asked.

"As for you four, I expect the same from you," Oliver said. "You're free men, and Stormfront men, so that makes this easier. You know what you'll get in serving me, the same thing promised to you when you first became a soldier, and more still. To win this battle would be a great victory, you understand that, do you not? You will be rewarded appropriately for this endeavour."

Even with Oliver trying to convince them as such, none of the men looked particularly enthusiastic. When Oliver looked towards them through Ingolsol's eyes, all he felt was swirling fear.