A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1694 - 1694: The Cause of a Tempest - Part 2

The horse had lived like a warrior itself. Some mounts were trained for the fight, but Walter had the instincts of a creature that seemed to seek the fight out. Oliver was almost irritatingly proud of the animal. He spoke his praise of it at times to those around him, and the weary looks that they'd worn in response to it was enough to indicate that they'd heard the same things a thousand times before.

It was the losses that otherwise might be considered small that really found their way to sting Oliver. Indeed, it was sentimentality that brought him riding as close to Solgrim as he did, with their horses crunching down the icy snow, compacting it afresh, leaving only their hoof prints in what was otherwise an unblemished blanket. It was enough evidence – if ever they needed any – that Solgrim had not seen visitors since last they were there, just a few days before.

He brought his party circling around it in a loop. It wasn't in a bad state, considering the battle that had been fought next to it. The Emerson's hadn't acted to reduce what was in the end their own captured defences, and Oliver and his men had never gone as far as sieging it. There were only the most minor of repairs that needed to be done.

All things considered, it was remarkable how well it looked. It was enough to make one believe Fitzer's rambling – of which Oliver had now heard them too – that there was some kind of spell of protection on Solgrim, to have it kept safe from all the invaders over the years that would do it harm. A will that was watered with the blood of the people, and added to with each fresh enemy that they overcame.

Oliver shivered at the thought. There was an undeniable presence to it. As he pulled his party away, he could almost feel the village mourning his absence. It pulled him to it, willing him to walk those streets again, to see himself settled in the Lord's house, where Ferdinand had once dwelled.

"Soon," he told it aloud, ignoring the strange looks that he was given for speaking to himself. "Soon enough."

With his final little departure of sentimentality, he set himself to his cause. There was a cold wind already blowing. They were dressed up warmly. There wasn't a man among them that wasn't wearing a thick pair of gloves on their hands, and a cloak, or a fur coat over their armour. It was a neck scarf that Oliver wore, in place of a helmet, and a little fur hat to go along with it. It looked almost childish on his head, and Nila had remarked that it seemed far too cute for the likes of the work that he was doing. He'd grinned at that, and decided to keep it regardless.

South they went – finally, after going back east again, so that those Blackthorn men who were watching atop the wall would know that he hadn't lied to them in his intentions. He wondered if they could assume as to the nature of the detour that he'd made. But then, he supposed, that too mattered not.

Their horses bore the weight of saddlebags, but it hardly seemed to slow them. He'd had enough supplies gathered up between them to last a handful of days. He wasn't quite sure of his own intentions yet, how long he intended to be out there, or the exact nature of his plan. But he realized that he preferred that. There was a certainty to how he rode, despite that lack of a plan. He knew there was just a one thing that he intended to find – and that was a storm.

He pushed the men hard through the night – for the night came far earlier in those winter days than a man would wish for. Only after a few good hours of riding in pitch darkness did he finally give them leave to rest.

Even when they did rest, it was of the most uncomfortable, fitful sort, given the cold. The clothes they wore were sufficient when they were pushing themselves in their riding, and they had the natural heat of exertion to fuel them, but when they were sitting in the snow and the cold, unmoving, the frost quickly wormed its way beyond the fabrics, straight into the muscles around the bones.

He allowed them their fires. That was at least a comfort. But as to their bedding, and their shelter, there was nothing but the snow to work with. There were two spades to pass around between those thirty men, and they worked them to make some little dugouts in the snow, a few feet deep. Just enough to keep them away from the worst of the wind, but not enough to protect them from the snow when it began to fall during the night.

When dawn came, they were half-submerged. Every man had his cloak pulled up tight past his head. Other parties might have passed them, and not at all realized that there were men sleeping in the snow there – not if they failed to see the smoke of the still smouldering fires, or the depressions that had been dug out.

"Well, that was a thoroughly miserable night," one man commented, a little too loudly for the Minister of Blades.

"Is that a complaint, Soldier?" He asked sharply.

"No, my Lord," the man said, instantly yielding.

"It was a harsh night," Oliver agreed. "Forgive me. Such will be the nature of this exertion. Such is why there are only thirty of us."

"They will last," the Minister of Blades said. "Lest they embarrass the Yoreholder name with further complaints."

"Quite right, my Lord. We will last, General Patrick, so please don't pay any mind to my complaints," the same man said.

"Then I shall push you further today," Oliver said, taking a small amount of amusement in seeing the man's confident look plummet.

They were mounted again, and out they went. Further to the south, plunging through the thinning snow. The weather warmed up noticeably, though it was still winter no matter how far they ran, it was lesser than the winters to the north, where Solgrim and Ernest lay. The snow grew shallower, and the skies sat less angry, with more sun peering through the clouds.