A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 622: Skullic’s Mission - Part 8

"Sergeant Rofus, Ser," he said, falling in the middle of the rest and saluting crisply before Oliver. He seemed to be an older man, like Northman, though his hair was already peppered with grey, whilst Northman’s was still a solid black. "The Commander thought it would be better for you to have a sergeant with you for now," he said, "give you better control of the men and that."

"I appreciate his consideration," Oliver said, perhaps a little too stiffly.

"So," Rofus said, relaxing a little as he leaned against his spear. "Is it true, Ser?"

The other soldiers flinched beside him and a few gave him stinging glares. Those looks made them seem more like gossiping women fighting to keep a secret than fighting men.

"Is what true?" Oliver asked calmly. There were a number of rumours going around about him. Any one of them could have been a candidate.

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"Is it true that you slew Gorm in single combat?" Rofus asked. He seemed cheerful. A bit too much of a free spirit for a sergeant. It wasn’t any wonder that the other soldiers were giving him warning glances and shifting uncomfortably for fear that he would say something wrong and get them all into trouble for it.

"No," Oliver said. "I was part of an encirclement with Lombard that finished him off."

"Oh," Rofus said, looking disappointed, as his shoulders deflated. By contrast, the other soldiers looked more surprised. It seemed that they hadn’t expected there to be even a shred of truth in it. "See, I’ve got two boys back in the Skreen. They’re wanting to be knights, y’see. Haven’t got round to telling them that it’s impossible, because they’re not nobles.

But anyway, they’ve always got all sorts of stories for me. Your name has cropped up. The youngins think you’re quite the hero."

Now that did surprise Oliver. He’d heard of the Skreen, the province in which Skullic governed – a mess of overgrown forests and rippling hillsides, apparently. Its main city was the Greenhert, but that wasn’t nearly as big as Ernest. It was a town in everything but name, really.

The landscape was such that it was near impossible to build a large city in one place – it favoured more small villages and hamlets.

For his name to have travelled even there by now, it seemed near impossible to him. Was it because of the trial? But that hadn’t been too long ago either. Surely news like that couldn’t have spread so far. Surely the battle with the Yarmdon would not have spread that far, either?

He did not realize the ripples that he made in the kingdom’s pond. His deeds reached the High King, every one of them and with that information network of the High King so open to listening to the exploits of Oliver Patrick, so too were the ordinary folk by extension.

There was a peculiar pressure on the news concerning him, created by the royalty themselves, as people seemed almost urgent to pass it on to one another.

"…Is that right?" Oliver said slowly.

"Personally, I think it’s a load of bollocks. Meaning no offence, of course, Ser," Rofus said easily. "I mean, if it were true, then what would be the use of a normal soldier, you know? I know, I know – they do make men that strong. I’ve seen Skullic and I know the man’s a monster. I even saw Lombard once. Enjoy more content from novelbuddy

But they can’t be doing that with hatchlings too, can they? It wouldn’t be fair."

"Yet here I am," Oliver said. Even with the slight glaze of disrespect that infected Rofus’ words, Oliver once more found himself appreciating the honesty. If a man could merely be straightforward with him, then there was progress to be made. He didn’t need the cold war of pointless hate, as they glared at each other from a distance. He’d rather solve their issues in a quick bout.

"That’s true, Ser," Rofus said, nodding. "That is true. And I knows I’m an’ old fool, else I wouldn’t have been stuck as a sergeant my whole career. I woulda got one of those nice quartermaster posts and be safe and sound away from battle. But still, I don’t know what to make of you, young Ser, if you would forgive my directness. Just what are you doing all the way out here?

Isn’t there meant to be a law preventing you lot from going to the battlefield as young as you are?"

"Begging his forgiveness, then you go ahead and say it anyway," the man next to Rofus muttered. "Can’t you just keep a bit quiet, you mad old dog?"

"Ehhh, I’m getting told off by the men already," Rofus complained. "Still, how come you’re here, Ser?"

"By order of the High King," Oliver said, more menacingly than he intended to. Those words were a cold breeze on any amount of humour that they’d attempted to have towards the situation. Even Rofus stood up considerably straighter as he heard that. There was a danger to those words, after all. The High King’s name wasn’t a mere name. It was the closest one could come to death with mere words alone.

To speak the High King’s name in a sentence alongside any sort of criticism, that was to forfeit your life as a nobleman. For the Serving Class, no doubt the standards were even harsher.

"…I see it’s complicated, Ser," Rofus said, as amiably as he could. "Well, I’m lookin’ forward to fighting alongside you, I think. If you’ve got even a fraction of that strength they claimed your father had, then we might be in luck. A hundred men isn’t enough to clear out Dollem Fort, after all. Not without a good few casualties."

He said those words lightly, as though death was the furthest thing from his mind, but Ingolsol saw through it. He saw the nervous thread plucking at Rofus’ heartstrings. The other men were feeling it too. They didn’t have the sort of confidence in their mission that you’d hope for from soldiers just about to charge into battle.