"Cormrant," Oliver shouted over, ignoring the looks of the horrified Skullic soldiers. "Get those men ready."
The Vice-Commadner could only obey, though his distaste was clear on his face. The Serving Class men were abed with the nobility. They dealt in that same world of careful etiquette. To show such barbarity and straightforwardness as the slaves were was no doubt repulsive to them. They looked on, with the eyes of men looking at their lessers, but fifty men were formed up nevertheless. The spears were locked, in the same battle positions as they'd taken up dozens and dozens of times by now. They were ready.
"Firyr, Judas, they're all yours," Oliver said. "Bring me victory."
"Firyr," Judas said.
"I know," Firyr replied. "I'll take the left, you take the right. We'll smash this bastard to pieces."
