A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 824: The Masked General’s Response - Part 4

"Oh, B—Ser Patrick," Judas said, almost slipping into his old ways through exhaustion. He was drenched in sweat. The lot of them were. They didn't seem to notice that fact themselves. Whilst the soldiers had been constantly switched out to perform different tasks, the slaves alone had been worked relentlessly. Like dogs, some might have said.

Despite that rigour with which Oliver was training them, they endured well. They didn't even seem to realize for themselves that what was being asked of them was a lot. The fact that they had a twenty-minute break with every battle that they fought seemed like a luxury to them. After all, few slave owners would be willing to give his slaves that amount of rest.

The men hadn't realized it for themselves, but there was a distinct area in which they had the advantage over every soldier. Sheer endurance and resilience. Now that they were putting on weight and most of them were returning to their natural body weights, that endurance was only increasing. They'd been far too malnourished for the work they did as slaves, and yet they'd survived it.

"Gather them round, Judas," Oliver said. "I'd talk to them for a while, if you would."

"Yeah, of course. Yeah… I'm sorry, you know? I thought I would be able to do more with them, but it looks like I still don't understand what it means to be a soldier. They're on a different level," Judas said. He seemed to be taking the responsibility for their lack of progress all for himself.

"They're useless, nothing to be done about it," Firyr said hotly, stomping his foot. "Maybe they're a bit more alive now, but it'll do them no good with how clumsy the bastards are, mistake after mistake."

"Leave it, Firyr," Oliver said. "You've put in effort and you've said your piece. Don't ridicule them any more than they deserve."

The man went quiet with an obvious reluctance, but he still stood with a massive scowl on his face, his arms folded crossly as Judas began to gather the slaves, bringing them over. They all meekly made a point of staying well out of Firyr's way. Apparently, he'd been making no friends.

Oliver was pleased to see that as they gathered, the Sergeants came to the front. Yol, Illy, Sebastian and Zarm, the same men that he had spoken to days before. They looked better, Oliver thought, though he wasn't looking at their faces, so much as their hearts, through the eyes of Ingolsol and Claudia. There was more life there. They were burning with more heat.

As were all the slaves in general, though perhaps not to the same degree.

'As they are now, I might be able to reach them…' Oliver murmured.

They were standing to attention, but their heads were hung. They all seemed to feel guilty for their lack of performance. It was a ridiculous thing to feel, when one considered the difference in training between them and the soldiers, but Oliver found that he liked that fact. It was a sign of life and of want. One couldn't feel bad without wanting something to be different.

For newly freed slaves, even negative emotion like that was a good thing. It implied feeling, rather than the numbness that so often afflicted them, as they feared even feeling itself.

They stood, awaiting reprisal. They'd already received it from Judas and Firyr. Sometimes, a word was just as bad as a whip. Almost. Now it was Oliver Patrick's turn, and they feared it even more.

Instead, as he often did, Oliver shattered their expectations, with a playful smile on his face, knowing full well what he was doing.

"Allow me to teach you how to win."

It was like a lightning bolt. Only now that Oliver was beginning to have a grasp on their hearts and their humanity could he afflict such a shocked response from them. They straightened up with a suddenness, it was almost like he'd dumped ice down their backs. They didn't know what to think.

Firyr's mouth flapped, and Judas frowned, as though he didn't understand. And that, indeed, seemed to be the heart of the problem – that lack of understanding.

"Or do you not wish to?" Oliver said. "FIryr, I thought you were looking forward to knocking Cormrant off his feet? Was once enough?"

"You're damn right it isn't! That snooty Stormfront brat! He needs stomping! I'm through with him," Firyr snarled. "I'd do anything to knock him off his feet again, but with this lot, that's impossible."

"If you'll do anything, then that includes making use of 'this lot' as you put it," Oliver said.

"How?" Firyr asked.

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This time, Oliver spoke his reply to the rest of the men. "Your suffering has not been useless," he told them. "You may have lost these past two days, but you have put effort in, enough to make me proud. Lesser men would have quit long before. You have the resilience that only slaves will know."

He spoke to them from a place of knowing, because he indeed knew. He spoke to them in a way that only Oliver Patrick – or Beam – could hope to speak to a slave. His heart was more open to their plight than any Commander could hope to be. Even the peasants amongst them, he was nearer to them than all else.

"Slave or peasant, make use of what you are," Oliver said. "Make it your strength, and you will triumph. Those soldiers," he pointed over to where Skullic's men were sharing bread and water, as they wiped away sweat. "They beat you down not just with their weapons, but with the weight of their experience. They spent years training with the spear whilst you were struggling to feed yourselves.

That's experience, but it doesn't weigh nearly as much as their experience in battle does."

"But they ain't got experience in battle, Ser," Judas said. "Maybe if they were with us in Solgrim, they'd get what you're saying, but they haven't got anything like that…"