That, amongst other things, inclined Northman towards agreeing to it. He got the sense that if he pushed for it and insisted on seventy, Oliver Patrick would not have argued back. There was a strange humility to his assertions, as though he was fully prepared for every one of them to be dismissed.
"Then we'll take fifty, and look forward to the privilege of working with a Patrick," Northman said finally.
"Should we not take the other twenty at least for runaways?" Cormrant suggested. "It seems a waste. Those woods are big. Even with a cliff behind them, there's going to be runners."
"They'll run," Oliver agreed. "Fifty will still do."
The boy didn't seem to notice the twist of dissatisfaction around Cormrant's mouth. More than the other sergeants, he didn't like the idea of a noble coming in and taking over. Taking the glory away from men that had worked hard for it. He'd been strongly opposed when they received the order from the General.
No one sided with him, though. Oliver's original proposition was attractive. Getting it all done in a day. Even the most lowly of soldiers quickly understood the importance that momentum played in a battle. If they slaughtered half the force in an instant and had enough men rested to continue the attack on the fort, then they'd be in a considerably better position than with just thirty men left over.
And in truth, more than a few of them wanted to see what a Patrick could do, once he was fully unleashed in battle. They'd heard stories of Arthur and Dominus – what man hadn't – but they hadn't been able to see much of that sort of thing themselves, not unless it was from their General Skullic.
"Rofus, give the orders. Organize fifty men. Once you're done, you and your men can rest," Northman commanded.
"Yessir, Commander!" Rofus said, saluting. "I'll carry that out right away. But with all due respect, I wouldn't miss this for the world. A nice clean counter-ambush? Since when does killing get any easier than that?"
Within twenty minutes, they were nearing the edge of the bandit's encampment, following the trail that Oliver's men had made through the forest earlier. They moved with as much stealthiness as they could muster, but after a while, even those efforts seemed pointless. They didn't catch hair nor hide or any man until they were close enough to see tents.
By that point, they were crouching on the ground, waiting for the order to charge straight in.
Northman led twenty men from the left, whilst another one of his trustworthy sergeants would bring in another twenty from the right. Oliver and his ten men would take the middle, whilst Cormrant was left in charge of the camp in their absence. His job was to make a show of activity back near the wagons, to try and keep the people in the fort on their toes.
These were the moments of battle that Northman lived for. Even over twenty years in the soldiery game as he was, when he had the opportunity to play the predator as he did now, his heart didn't fail to beat an erratic and excited rhythm. He was lying flat in the snow with his men, as down in the dirt as any common soldier.
There were few opportunities he got to play at the best parts of soldiery, now that he was in charge of so many men.
Today, though, the going was straightforward enough. They weren't exactly right on the edge of the encampment, for that would have given them away, but they were close enough to see all the activity that was going on within it.
The men inside couldn't have looked more off guard. Most of them were near a fire, in one form or another, and those that weren't were still occupied in some form. Many men had cheap drink in their hands. Village cider was Northman's guess. Then there were a few others of a more sadistic sort, playing with the slaves that they'd captured, getting idle amusement from their sufferings.
It had all the makings of a perfect soldier's mission. That righteousness in their chest that built up when they saw the torture of the innocents – that was a rare commodity. Many times in Northman's long career had he been made to carry out orders that weren't just morally ambiguous, they were downright evil, despite being the right choice strategically.
That was in a different time, though, under a different General.
Now he waited, hardly feeling the cold, despite the fogging of his breath out in the air in front of him and the moisture that froze to his thick black beard. He was waiting for Sergeant Tommen to lead that righthand force into place. He could already see Oliver's men flat in the snow a distance away, hardly moving. It was a difficult thing to focus on, for the chills that it brought.
Had he not known what was waiting there, merely from instinct alone, Northman might have assumed it was a pack of wolves. That was the sort of feeling he got from Oliver, the strange way that he led, that innocent viciousness combined with his dormant intelligence.
He saw a hand go up from across the way, as Sergeant Tommen flattened himself down across the way.
Everyone was in position now.
Northman's heartbeat quickened. Damn, it had been so long since he'd been so nervous. Rarely did battle come down to a single moment of timed perfection. It was usually more a game of attrition, from what he was used to. His old heart was having trouble tolerating it.
He raised himself up into a half crouch, drawing his sword. He saw a ripple of steel across the snow, as men echoed his movement to the side of him and behind him, all of them raising into a half crouch and drawing their weapons.
Then, he raised his fingers to his lips and let loose the predesignated signal – a long and high-pitched whistle, disguised as a birdsong.