No doubt the strategic location of the fort was the reason. Volguard taught that, depending on the defence capability of a particular position, you would want to ensure that you had with you at least four times the men, possibly even ten times, to ensure that you achieved a comfortable victory. To go in evenly, even with better-trained men, it would always be a risk.
That too was something that Oliver acknowledged that he'd overlooked before. The circumstances of the Skullic's soldiers were a degree more complicated than they'd first seemed.
Soon enough, the packing was done. Northman had their supply wagons – four solid carts pulled by sturdy-looking horses – all packed with their tents and their gear. They'd be taking it with them all the way to the fort, it seemed. There was little point in creating a weakness by leaving them behind. At least with the supplies under their noses, there would be less chance of them being stolen away.
"Alright!" Northman announced, clapping his hands together. "For those that haven't seen, that boy there is Oliver Patrick. You make sure you treat him with respect. He was sent graciously by General Skullic to ensure our work proceeds without a hitch. I know a few of you ungrateful bastards were complaining about the lack of numbers for this job – well, complain no more!"
His words were met with a few nervous laughs as though they were unsure whether or not he'd meant that as a joke. Oliver stood stoically despite it all, his hand waiting by his sword. He was less irritated than he had been earlier, after the honesty of Northman and Rofus had helped to cool him, but he still didn't enjoy being made light of.
Perhaps he'd been spoiled to have been taken seriously by as many great men as he had been.
"That wasn't a joke," Northman said, his voice heavy. The laughter quickly died. "You know the General. You know he's an odd man, but he's a good one. He wouldn't toy with our lives. If he believes that this force is enough to comfortably take the fort back, then you can damn well be sure that it is.
If it isn't, then it'll be our own lacking for it."
"I don't know why we have to use our men so far away from the Skreen anyway," Oliver heard a man mutter, somewhat bitterly.
That was something that he'd thought to himself, when he'd heard that Skullic was being used – amongst other forces across the country – to deal with whatever threats that popped up. Not just in his own territory, for it would make sense that Skullic would be defending his own lands, but across the country.
They were at least half a day by horse away from the Skreen, in another Lord's territory, a man whose men were currently employed in other tasks and so it had fallen to Skullic to give aid, by order of the High King.
The men murmured at Northman's proclamation, casting more glances towards Oliver, evaluating him, as though he were some rare bird. They seemed to try to guess his strength merely from his appearance alone. He turned to meet a few of their eyes. It was only those people that had seen his eyes that seemed to be able to tell.
"Now," Northman continued, "the plan is simple. We march on the fort. That's step one, as basic as basic goes. If we get hit by an ambush along the way – because we know that scout saw us last night – then we'll turn and fight and crush them there and then. If they ambush us, all the bloody better, 'cos they'll be giving up that lovely little bowl that they've all made camp in. I doubt it, though.
Even peasants aren't that stupid."
Oliver walked at the head of the column, his new men trailing behind him. He didn't look back, nor did he attempt to make unnecessary conversation with them. To him, it seemed to be more a case of needing to show his strength and then the men would be able to understand his worth. It was a simple enough task, but it still felt irritating that he had to carry it out.
He was quite sure that if Skullic wanted to, he could have made sure that his reception was a far mightier one.
He imagined returning to Lombard's force for a mission . Now that welcome would have been mighty. If they'd been matched a hundred men to a hundred, attaching a fort, in a difficult spot and they'd been sent Oliver as a reinforcement, they would have been delighted with that.
Even if the majority of Lombard's men had been killed off, he didn't doubt that the new lot would have known what he could do.
Even as he thought such things, he shook his head at himself. They were appropriate thoughts for a boy his age, but they were childish nonetheless. He knew he had to let go of such pettiness. Life was complicated at the moment, but there was no point dwelling on that fact for too long. Besides, soon enough, blood would spill and that would ease the feeling well enough, wouldn't it?
The irritation in his chest seemed to be crying out for it as though thirsty. He wondered how unhealthy that was – that he'd become such a creature. In order to battle back the stress of his situation, it was combat that he sought. Was he not becoming a brute as wild as a Yarmdon.
"Become it," Ingolsol said encouragingly. "Leave this lot. Establish a fort in a village somewhere. Create a kingdom. We've played this game long enough."
"Patience, child," Claudia chided. "The world is a vast place. You can not expect to demand control over all of it in so few victories. A hero shows, a tyrant tells."
Both were different kinds of advice for different kinds of people. Whichever one was the right path depended on the individual more than anything else. Dyed in the different colours that Oliver would, he reasoned that he could likely slip into both.