A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1619 - 1619: The Fingers of Man - Part 6

There was an edge to Oliver's words as he said them. For he knew two Generals that had been in such a position themselves. Against the Verna, Blackwell and Karstly were faced with a similar choice. After securing a mighty victory for themselves, that still had all the troops of their enemy remaining, ready for war, should they be so bound towards it.

Now that Oliver had to make such choices himself, he could well see the temptation. He allowed that sense of danger to sit in the air, making even colder that which already turned all moisture icy.

The look of horror that Fitzer shot him showed that he understood the unspoken threat. Just from the presence that Oliver stood with, it was there, as a warning, as a set of bared teeth, if Fitzer were to go too far. And something about the way he stood – or maybe it was the way that he had done battle up until that point – told Fitzer that Oliver Patrick was indeed mad enough to operate like that.

He said nothing further, and cast his eyes to the ground. The General came to his own conclusion that obedience – for now – was in all their interests. They had to preserve what resources they still had left. For as long as there was life, there was potential.

"THROW YOUR WEAPONS TO THE GROUND!" Oliver said, speaking up then, and giving his order as a bellow. "YOUR GENERAL AND YOUR PRINCE HAVE BEEN CAPTURED. FOR THE SAKE OF THEIR HEADS, YOU WILL SURRENDER!"

He gave the order, even knowing that they would hardly budge. They were a broken army, but there were still thousands of them gathered together, against such a puny force. The illusion of those numbers gave a false confidence that made it difficult for a man to part with the weapon that he so intensely gripped. They stood off against him defiantly, as Oliver had half-expected that he would.

"THROW DOWN YOUR WEAPONS!" Fitzer shouted, before Oliver could even prod him to do so. "THROW THEM DOWN IF YOU WISH TO RETAIN YOUR LIVES!"

It didn't come as a desperate plea, it still carried the force of a proud General, but that was still the sentiment of it. The man wished not to see another man die. He decided, rather obviously, on the path of preservation, though he kept his eyes to the ground in the hopes that Oliver Patrick would not so quickly see through him.

With their General's emphasis on the order that Oliver had already given, the deed was done. Fitzer's most loyal officers did as he told them to, even before the ordinary foot soldiers could, and then, in a great wave of surrender, those weapons were cast to the floor in a steely rain.

It was a different sort of power to overwhelming an army with brute strength. To make them cast aside their weapons, when they stood so mighty in their numbers… It hit a strange note in the hearts of the onlookers, a strange sort of itch that they had not yet known they would need to scratch.

…

…

It came to something when the cleanup of the battle, and the detaining of those that they had once called their enemy, seemed almost as exhausting as the battle itself. The three hundred of Oliver's number that still remained standing wished for nothing more than to drop to the ground on which they stood, and sleep not just for that night, but all the nights for the next week to come.

While steel still glittered, however, there could be no rest. Oliver gave the commands, though he felt guilty doing so. He forced the gathering up of the discarded weapons, pulling them away from the enemy that had once wielded them. It was such a mass of steel that storage was as much a difficult matter as moving them.

"What the pissin' hell are we going to do with all these…" Firyr had said, when he and his men had been forced to take part in the cleanup, given that they had exerted themselves physically to a good degree less than the rest – though the psychological burden they'd had after spending so long quietly hiding in enemy territory hadn't done wonders for the levels of their energy.

"I think a hole would be a good thing to be dug," Jorah said. "The General mentioned it earlier."

"Did he now?" Greeves said, perking up at the mention of that. He'd been forced to help out, just like the rest, though there was no end to his complaints as he did so. The prisoner that he'd captured, in the form of Prince Hendrick, had been taken back into the walls of Ernest for safekeeping, under a strong guard of Oliver's two Swords, and another dozen men along with them. Oliver expressed his guilt in using the Minister of Blades as a common guardsman, but the man had been quick to set his worries at ease, given that it wasn't an ordinary man they were guarding – it was a royal Prince, and a great General along with him.

"If he's ordering holes to be dug, then I reckon I can guess what that little shit is thinking," Greeves said, leaning on one of the spears that he's carrying. "They'll do it like they did against the Verna, have all those rows of holes… Just as a threat. If they're there, even if he doesn't use em', that's a psychological advantage. Aye, that's what he'll be up to. He's a sick bastard, he is."

"From you, of all people…" Firyr said, shaking his head. "I doubt the General wants to use those things, even for intimidating. He wasn't happy about em'. You weren't there, so you don't properly know, but just the sight of it is enough to make a man sick. It's not right, it isn't. Burying people alive like that. That's a part of my head that I wish I could cut out with a nice sharp knife."

"Now isn't the time for such morbid thoughts, Commander," Jorah said. "We are victorious. Show the men that it is so. Don't bring up the grim and grizzly. We're all tired enough already."

"Hard to feel victorious when you're stuck doing manual labour like a slave," Greeves said. "…We ought to be using that lot. They've got no use now. They're just a drain on the supplies."