A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1903 - 1903: After Victory - Part 6

"Does it not seem that fortune is on our side in this?" Oliver said. "Any later, and our victory would have carried much less weight."

"Consider only what is in front of you, Oliver Patrick. This information, from the time of flight of the first bird, until now, is four days old. Tomorrow, it will be five days old, and then by the time we arrive, it shall be six days old," Hod said. "Nothing changes as much as the potential future, nothing. So reserve your excitement for that which is in front of you. Grow not giddy. See no potential future as more exciting than the rest. Give them all equal weight, and prepare yourself properly for what you might face."

It was a harsh tutelage, of the sort that a much older man might deliver. It wasn't Hod's usual strict logic, nor was it that flourish of idealism that he wielded at times to fill in the gap. This was more wisdom, more of the style that Tavar might have spoken in.

It struck Oliver dumb enough that he didn't think to call out to Hod any further, allowing the man to retire to his tent, as he stood there staring after him. He wondered if Hod was even aware that he was doing it. For a second, though, it was as if Tavar was right there in front of him, warning him about something.

It made Oliver's heart creak enough that he had to grip at his chest. "Not yet," he warned himself, crouching in the snow, searching desperately to find strength again. "Not yet…" he gave those words of caution. Did all whom he considered to be wise in some form or another not see the situation ahead with far more caution than he? It only seemed to be Oliver Patrick, and their General Blackthorn, who had been so excited by the prospect of further bloodshed, who had made a stand as to otherwise. Nila, and Greeves, and even Judas, they had seemed so uneasy. Why that uneasiness? Why? When the odds were so in their favour? And why would a man as sharp as Hod feel the same, without any ounce of certainty?

Why did Oliver's own hands shake? Was it the grief? Or was it something else?

The following night, when they made camp again, Oliver made a point of walking through his men, and even the men of the Emerson army, so that he might gauge their mood, their morale, and build a better picture of where he was.

Since Hod had spoken his piece, Oliver's excitement had faded. He'd ridden with an odd caution. A caution that didn't allow him to reach too far – he couldn't allow himself to dwell in thought. His heart wasn't strong enough. His iron grip on it could only consider that which was in front of him. And so he moved, as if there were real physical problems in front of him to be pieced together. He looked at those men, and studied what his eyes saw, piecing together a new conclusion without directly thinking about it.

The Emerson soldiers, they were stiff. Fitzer was rigid of face, and Prince Hendrick wore no humour. Was it simple fatigue from the march? Were they unfit after being out of battle for so long? Oliver knew not. They did not even seem to notice his existence as he moved by.

Then there were the men that Hod had brought with him, remnants of Tavar's army, now set to fight for a different cause. They were gloomy beyond measure. Grief was the emotion that clung to them most, along with anxiety. It was hardly battle readiness that they carried with themselves. A weakness in their ranks that Oliver had not stopped to take proper note of, not since the excitement had carried him in other directions. A hidden danger that made his nostrils burn.

Then his own men. The Treeants were rowdy, and the Patrick soldiers with them were just as rowdy. Bouts of wrestling had been going on for the past couple of nights. The men wanted to get a feel for their new allies, and they put their strongest brawlers in for friendly competitions, old against new, to see who held the greater sway in matters of martial. Coins were tossed, and bets were made. It seemed, from a glance, to be an army riding high on morale – but there was that tension still, that undeniable tension.

The same tension that Oliver had put down to the newness of the soldiers they'd recruited. Naturally, there ought to be something there, but was it simply that?

The Sergeants that watched their men did so with half smiles. They weren't full of honesty. Oliver looked to the men whose instincts and judgements he trusted more than the rest, and he found a grimness there that he didn't like. Jorah was sombre, and silent, sitting alone. Karesh sharpened his sword steadily and relentlessly, his mouth a straight line. Kaya stared into the flames as if there was some answer that he might find there.

As Oliver stood to watch, a shape flashed past him. A familiar length of black hair, left to swing freely, now that they could relax from their march. There was no braid to be found there. A retainer of his. It ought to have been unthinkable for her to move past her Lord without a comment. He grabbed her arm to stop her.

"What's wrong?" Oliver asked her.

"Let go," Blackthorn said, struggling free. "Not happy. Don't want to talk."

Oliver let her go, but he didn't let her move off without another line of questioning. "What is it?"

"Don't know," Blackthorn said, twisting her lips, looking more unhappy than Oliver had ever seen her. She was a woman that rarely let her emotions show, but now her eyes pleaded an incredible sadness that Oliver could hardly stand to look at. "Maybe something. Maybe nothing. Don't want to talk right now. Please, leave me be."

He almost felt like a villain holding her in place any longer. He let her go, but could not help watching her retreating figure. There it was again, like some kind of shadow, gripping the heart of their morale. An uneasiness of the highest sort.