A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 847: The Strength of Resolve - Part 1

He opened his eyes and gritted his teeth. The golden flecks of Ingolsol and the purple flecks of Claudia danced around in his irises. He hardened his heart. If this was the only option, then risk or not, he would have to make it work.

With that decision made, his resolve came frightfully easily. Such was the stubbornness of Oliver Patrick. On the most arbitrary of decisions, he could build a castle, and defend it to the death, until he was otherwise convinced that there was worth in abandoning it.

"Verdant," Oliver said, his voice regaining its earlier strength. He hadn't forgotten the deaths of his comrades, and he'd far from gotten over it, but now, as Oliver was, he had the strength to set such emotions aside until there was a time to properly deal with them.

"My Lord," Verdant said, kneeling before him. "You have orders for me?"

"We attack mid-morning," he said. "Inform any men who are still awake, and urge them to sleep. We'll need every bit of strength we can get. Find Blackthorn. If she's training, force her to bed. Do the same for Nila, if she's doing what I think she is."

"Very well," Verdant said, "it shall be done. I do believe this decision to be the right one. The mere fact of your own strong resolve gives me energy already. I have no doubt that it will affect the men just the same. What shall you do now, my Lord?"

"I will rest," Oliver said. "When your job is done, Verdant, you should do the same. Your counsel has been invaluable this evening. I will have even greater need of your eyes tomorrow."

"Those eyes shall always be yours, my Lord," Verdant assured him. "I will see you tomorrow – or I suppose, today, in a few hours. I have every faith in our coming victory."

Oliver had never been a particularly good sleeper. At the most important of times, he would never be able to rest. In the most important situations of his life – situations where he'd needed to perform – he'd always been functioning on a lack of sleep.

That night, however, perhaps due to the fact that it was already so late, he slept with a soundness and suddenness – the second his head hit his pillow, he drifted off, into a deep sleep.

A single short dream was all that he was privy to. A dream of trees as thick as two-story houses. Trees that had been cut down, and scorched. He had a vague feeling that he'd dreamt such a dream before, but he had no idea what it meant.

When his eyes flashed open, a light surge of adrenaline was already pumping through his veins. It wasn't nearly the same amount of sleep as Oliver normally required – he'd missed a good few hours – but the strength of his resolve functioned as energy enough. He pushed him out of bed with the same strength and quickness that he would have if he'd already been awake for hours.

He regarded the map spread out on the table as he passed it, and smiled a wry smile. To think, after all that time spent pouring over it, this was the strategy that they'd come up with. It must have been a poor feeling for the map, to end up seeming so useless.

Food had already been left, just inside the flap of his tent, in a basket. Whoever had left it was clearly taking great efforts to ensure that they hadn't accidentally awoken him.

Bread, and meat – some of the rare cuts of meat that they had that weren't dried entirely. He didn't feel an ounce of hunger, but he forced them down regardless, and washed it down with the mug that had been set beside it, downing the liquid in a few short gulps.

Only when he finished did he notice the taste. He scrunched up his face. It certainly wasn't water. There was a distinct bitterness to the flavour. Undoubtedly it was alcohol of some sort – he assumed ale, but he didn't have much experience with such things.

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It almost worried him, so limited was his experience with alcohol. He wondered whether he'd be forced to fight drunk, but he soon reassured himself that the liquid had still been well watered down. It must have been part of the soldiers' rations – he often saw them drinking the stuff. Perhaps someone had put it out for him by mistake, forgetting that he was as young as he was.

Regardless, he at least knew enough to guess that he shouldn't be getting drunk off such a small cup of the likes of ale.

Setting the odd awakening behind him, Oliver felt for the sword at his belt. He'd already checked his armour, and he was wearing his surcoat. His helmet was fastened. He was as ready as he'd ever be. He took a deep breath, and prepared to confront the morning.

Already, the camp was in a whirlwind of activity. Sun streamed through the fur branches above their heads, lighting the clearing. Somehow, that sun made the snow seem even colder than it was, and it gave it a rather shiny appearance.

Seeing so many men active, Oliver began to worry that he'd overslept. The bright sun lent to that illusion.

But then he saw Verdant in the centre of it all, giving commands, and he saw the wagons being filled with oil, as they'd discussed the previous evening, and he realized that the man had likely seen through him, guessed when he'd awaken and then planned this all with the intent of having it almost ready by the time he came to greet them.

At times, Verdant's foresight was an almost uncomfortable thing. Oliver caught his eye, and Verdant gave him a quick salute, before finishing giving the men the rest of their instructions.

Few had seen Oliver yet. It was the perfect opportunity to evaluate the men properly, and their condition. He watched with keen eyes. The funeral had only been held the night before, and the ashes were still smouldering to prove it. There was indeed a sombreness in the air, but not as much as Oliver had expected.

Nor indeed had he expected to see such hardness in their eyes, resolute with determination.