"Yeah, that's basically all I've got," Oliver said. "It's pretty reckless. I'm surprised you agreed to it, to tell you the truth, Commander."
"Reckless or not, it seems like the best chance I have of getting the men through this without heavy casualties. I saw your work back in the woods. I don't doubt that you've enough to you to butcher those archers atop the wall."
It certainly made a good change from earlier that day, where they'd been reluctant to involve him at all, though the suddenness with which the trust had been placed in him still made Oliver a good deal nervous. It was happening more and more frequently as of late.
The stronger he became, the more obvious his strength was, and the more quickly people seemed to accept it once they'd seen it for themselves.
It made sense, when he properly considered it objectively. But to be the one in that position, having men of respect and worth expressing such admiration for skills that he'd only built up a few months ago… it was a nauseating thing if he dwelled on it too much.
Ingolsol stopped him from doing that, though. Even with the work that they'd taken part in at the bandit camp, the fragment of the Dark God still hardly seemed sated. He wanted more, more action. He demanded that they test the limits of their skill further.
Whether or not the Dark God truly cared about that, or whether he simply understood Oliver well enough to speak his language, it was hard to tell. For that was a burning desire in him too. He'd been forced to settle down a little bit, as his environment grew more civilized, but he had not lost that hunger in him.
To see his sword grow and develop so quickly, and to be in a zone of such potential, it brought out an eagerness in him that he knew set people on edge, if he let it out too often.
"I'm looking forward to it," Oliver said. He'd drifted off into thought as they were speaking. He wasn't sure if that was an appropriate thing to say or not, but he'd said it anyway. From the odd look that the Commander was giving him, it probably wasn't.
"…Well," Northman said slowly, "I suppose that's a good thing, given the danger you're going to be in."
Despite seeming to agree on the surface, it was undeniable that it must have put the man off. The black-bearded soldier made his excuses, and went to tend to the rest of his men. Cormrant would be giving the command to attack soon, and it seemed, even though he'd relinquished his authority just for this assault, the Commander couldn't let his old habits rest.
He drifted between the men, sharing light conversation with them. A slap on the shoulder here, a laugh there. He seemed to know how to reach them all.
Oliver was left with his own lot.
"I know what I said earlier," Rofus said loudly. "But I'm having doubts about this one, Ser. I mean, sure. I'm fine fighting behind you, cutting the enemies to pieces and the like… But I didn't think I'd be pushing a damn fricken' wagon straight into arrow fire the moment I said that."
"You were the one who said it, though," Amberlan said. "Better to stick to your words, little man. Else everyone is going to start calling you fickle."
"Well, call me fuckin' fickle then, you thick-skulled freak, I'd rather be fickle than have my blood coming out in a drizzle."
Gamrod laughed at that. "Well, why not, I say. We're men of the field. Danger is the name. I can't say I'd want to rush the gates the normal way. Besides, we're going to be getting loads more coin for this, surely, ain't we?"
"Coin? The fuckin' worth is coin when you're dead?" Rofus said. "You young runts. Do you think I lasted this long chasing coin? You need to get your head screwed on, Gamrod. I know a good smith that could sort you out.
You're too focused on the coin – it's going to get you killed."
"Well, I like it," Gamrod said, "I don't see the harm in that. You need coin to do anything in this world. Another silver, and even if I get hit with an arrow in the arm, it'll be worth it."
"You're not going to get hit," Oliver said. He didn't speak just to Gamrod, but to all of them. He said it again, more firmly. "You're not going to get hit. You saw them in the woods. These aren't fighters.
They're normal men. You can't get touched by normal men."
He didn't say it in order to whip up a passion, but that was what ended up happening. He was aware of it without even looking around. The delighted warmth of Claudia as she basked in their glow, and the begrudging acknowledgement of Ingolsol.
"Well… That's true," Rofus agreed. "That is true. We're just hit to gut fish."
It might have seemed a tiny change to an outside observer. Just that slightest change in perspective. But it was all bound towards a single ball of strings. It was the budding belief in the son of a Patrick. His words, as prefaced by his actions in the wood, now carried a particular weight. It didn't feel as though he was lying to them.
He said it as though he believed it himself for a sureness, and so they half-way believed it too.
Their focus narrowed, until they were eyeing the gates. The distractions began to fade. They waited behind the wagon, ready to push it when the order was given. It was just them and the field now. It was quite a distance to the wall. Twice the range that a bow could shoot.
It would be a struggle, but they didn't need to run the whole way, just the last portion.
That would be their task, running the wagon through the snow. The other men, who were checking their bowstrings, pulling the weapon taught to ensure it was in good order, and making sure they had sufficient arrows – those men were of no concern. They had their own tasks, and they had theirs.