Being back on the march felt good. Oliver would have liked to have reached the Third Blessing by now, but he could feel it was close. If the siege of Treon had devolved into a bloody battle, he would have almost certainly achieved it. But since that would have meant a massacre of civilian lives, he was okay with waiting.
A quick look at the sky showed his acceptance wasn't enough to trigger the Blessing. Sometimes, that happened in stories.
"It will come when it's time."
Turning around in surprise, Oliver hastily avoided the hand aimed to muss up his hair with a half-step and a duck. Unfortunately, it wasn't enough, and Gareth's heavy hand managed to complete its task.
"Gah! Why do you always have to do that?! Do you know how long I have to spend getting it just right?" He complained, deflecting any further grab and jumping back two paces.
"If you stop giving me that reaction, I'll stop enjoying it so much." The older man replied with a devious grin.
Hector's heckling and name-calling had been a good training aid, but Oliver still had a bit of a temper and struggled to keep his emotions down when he felt he was being made fun of. With Gareth, he was more free with his reactions, simply because it felt good to see the previously depressed man so active.
He wouldn't say that was the reason out loud, of course. A man had his pride.
"Just you wait. I'll get to Expert soon enough, and then it's only a matter of time before I become a Master and kick your ass." Oliver grumbled, patting down his unruly curls with a hand.
Gareth laughed loudly, startling a few nearby soldiers who hadn't noticed him arrive. He could be a stealthy bastard when he wanted to, especially since his rank-up.
"The Grand Marshal sends for you, kiddo. It's time."
"I'll be there soon," Oliver replied, digesting the information. He knew things would start moving once again after they left Treon, but the tasks ahead still felt like they'd require every ounce of his strength.
At least, I feel like I can do it. When we first started, even talking about taking Thelma seemed crazy…
"Alright. Be sure not to make him wait too long. This is a good moment to bypass the scouts that no doubt monitor the Darkwood." With the sun going down and the marching soldiers halting for the night, most people would expect a general to hold meetings and strategize. Certainly not to leave their post.
Gareth gave him a reassuring pat on the back before striding off to join Amelia at the command tent, leaving Oliver standing alone for a moment. The air was hazy with the smoke of campfires and the murmur of soldiers preparing for the night. After so long in the barracks, being back on the road required some adjustment.
He shook off the nerves and set off toward the pavilion-like tent set up for administrative matters. Around him, the camp was a hive of activity, with soldiers bustling about, erecting tents, and cleaning artillery equipment, which they then stowed away for the night. Oliver had grown accustomed to the orderly chaos, but how quickly they could establish a functioning camp with fifteen thousand soldiers still amazed him.
As he approached the tent, he could already see Neer inside through the open flaps, towering over a group of clerks. The half-orc was hunched over a table cluttered with paperwork, her large hands surprisingly deft as she handled the delicate parchment. Her massive cleaver-like sword was propped against the table, close at hand despite the relative calm. Its sheer presence alone was enough to deter most foolishness.
Oliver entered the tent quietly, not wanting to disrupt the workflow, but Neer's sharp senses caught his presence immediately. She looked up, dark eyes locking onto him, and without a moment's hesitation, she sprang to her feet, careful not to knock over the stacks of paper that surrounded her. The clerks patiently waiting for her attention groaned in unison as they realized their boss would be leaving.
"Wait! We need you to sign off on these requisitions!" A young man yelled with desperation.
Neer waved a dismissive hand at them, already reaching for her sword. "More important things are happening," she said in a tone that brooked no argument. "If your matter is important enough, take it to Lady Amelia. She'll deal with it."
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The clerks exchanged wary glances, some clearly displeased but none daring to argue further. They scurried away, papers in hand, leaving Oliver and Neer alone in the tent.
Neer strapped her sword to her back with practiced ease, the massive blade settling into place as if it were an extension of her body. "Ready?" she asked gruffly but not unkindly. Oliver nodded, and they stepped out into the cool evening air together.
The main camp was a sprawling, temporary city of tents and settled buildings that had taken over one of the abandoned towns they had taken north of Treon. The original inhabitants had long since fled, probably as soon as news of Treon's fall arrived. Their homes now served as the revolutionaries' barracks, storage, and command centers. A more worthy use than any the local noble could have made of them, especially since he was cowardly enough to run with all he had.
We'll catch up to him. If he's smart enough to realize he couldn't win, he will stay in Hetnia. Likely headed to Hassel. Leaving the Duchy is tantamount to renouncing all his people to the first noble with a decent knight corp he comes across.
As they walked through the camp, the soldiers parted for them, some offering salutes while others simply nodded in acknowledgment. Oliver noticed the relaxed and determined expressions on the faces around him—these men and women had seen battle, and they knew more was coming, but the string of victories they achieved made them trust in their commanders to lead them.
I doubt there's anyone here at this point who doesn't think we're going to make it. The details might be hazy, and most people know enough about Pollus' reputation to realize it won't be an easy fight, but they all have seen enough to know what we are doing is beyond anyone to stop.
"We'll have to fight again soon," Neer said, scanning the horizon where the sun was dipping below the treeline, casting long shadows over the camp.
"Yeah," Oliver agreed, his hand unconsciously brushing against the hilt of his sword. "But we've gained a lot of ground in a short time. The evacuation of the nearby towns actually sped things up for us. I was worried we'd face Pollus before getting beyond the Stepchild."
The Stepchild was the smallest and most violent of the Great Slitherer's children. It cut through Hetnia's western lands, ending up in the Darkwood and splitting into innumerable streams somewhere inside the magical forest. Crossing it before Pollus could finish his march through the woods meant forcing the old man to meet them in open battle lest he leave the way to Hassel open.
Neer grunted in agreement. "We grabbed as much territory in the last few days as we did two weeks before Treon. But it's not just that. The time we recouped was crucial. The enemy expected us to be bogged down in Treon, but with the city back in shape and the new institutions up and running, we're moving faster than they anticipated."
That brought a fleeting smile to Oliver's face. "Sir Leonard and Lady Jean really pulled off something incredible there. We'll have a fresh batch of mages and officers ready to join the fight in just a few months. They won't be ready for Hassel, but they'll be invaluable in consolidating our hold on Hetnia and reaching beyond its borders."
Neer glanced at him sideways, her tusks glinting in the fading light. "Don't get too comfortable. The enemy won't sit idly by while we build up our forces. They'll strike as soon as they see an opportunity."
"I know," Oliver replied, his voice resolute. "But we'll be ready."
It wasn't long before they reached the Grand Marshal's tent. Unlike the other major structures in the camp, this one was simple and unadorned, reflecting its occupant's practicality—at least this far from the frontlines, Sir Leonard had insisted there was no need to break out the upholstery and fine china. The tent's flaps were closed, and the faint glow of a light spell could be seen from within.
Inside, Sir Leonard was waiting for them. He stood by a table, dressed in a simple leather tunic with only his sword strapped to his side. Despite his plain attire, the man cut an imposing figure, his sharp eyes studying a map he had received as a gift from a clan of hobgoblins that had joined them the previous day.
Oliver glanced around the tent, expecting to see a pack of supplies, maps, or any of the usual tools of command, but there was nothing. The tent was almost bare.
"Where's all your gear?" Oliver asked, unable to hide his surprise. The mission would be quite dangerous, after all.
Sir Leonard looked at him with a calm, almost amused expression. "We won't be sleeping in inns or castles, Oliver. What we need is speed and stealth. Carrying extra gear would only slow us down." He paused, letting the words sink in before continuing. "This mission requires us to move quickly and quietly. We'll cover much ground tonight, and there's no time to set up camp or carry unnecessary supplies."
Neer grunted in agreement. "Less to carry, less to worry about being stolen. The Darkwood's nastier residents have a habit of picking on travelers."
Yeah, that's not ominous at all. I only ever explored the outer edges of the forest, and I almost died every time. Sir Leonard forbade me from going further by myself, and while I can admit to being more curious than it's safe, I stuck to his orders. There is something unsettling about the deeper forest.
Leonard didn't wait for more questions. He stepped out of the tent, and Oliver and Neer hurried after him. The night had deepened, and the sun's last light faded as the stars began to emerge. The camp was quiet now, with only the occasional murmur of conversation or the distant clatter of equipment breaking the silence.
A shadow waved at them as they left.
They left the town quickly, moving with purpose. The fields outside the town were empty, the crops had been long since been harvested, and the earth lay fallow.
Oliver focused on matching his mentor's pace, scanning the horizon for possible scouts as they crossed the open fields—not that he expected to find any, with how meticulous the search parties and the diviners were, but you never knew.
The Darkwood loomed ahead, an ominous mass on the edge of their vision. The southern part of the forest he knew had dense, almost impenetrable vegetation, but here on the western edge, the trees were more sparse, their trunks spaced apart by centuries of careful management by nearby settlements.
The closer they got to the forest, the more Oliver's senses sharpened. His little mistake with the eyesight enhancement spell had cost him several days of forced rest, but it had also given him a new understanding of such magics. Few in the army could match his visual sensory enhancement these days.
Soon after they walked beyond the tree line, faster than Oliver thought possible with how sparse the trees had seemed, the forest swallowed them whole. The canopy overhead became thick, blocking even the moonlight. The underbrush was less tangled than the southern edges, allowing them to move quickly even as the sounds of the night forest—rustling leaves, the distant hoot of an owl—faded into silence.
Only after a good hour of walking, when Leonard slowed and lifted a hand to halt them, did Oliver realize how quiet it had become. Anything that could indicate animal life or even the rustling of leaves was gone, replaced by an eerie stillness that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.