A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

The two of them stared at him, frowns written on their faces. It wasn't something that the Oliver Patrick that they knew would ever admit to. He certainly did not look tired. He was not heaving in heaviness of breath, or the like. The only evidence of his tiredness was likely the injured state of his left hand, and of all the mud and blood that he had accumulated over the course of the battle.

They allowed him his rest, as Oliver continued to look around him, immensely curious. He saw Prince Hendrick leading a charge with Fitzer, following on from the charge that Oliver had started, adding to that tide of men. It was a river now, built up in the heart of the battlefield. It continued to flow and batter away at the rock in front of it even without any sort of command being issued from Oliver. Now, nearly ten thousand men were involved in its efforts.

"KING PATRICK!" Prince Hendrick saluted as he galloped past him. Oliver nodded in reply.

When he saw Prince Hendrick reach the front of that stream of men, Oliver nodded to himself. "I feel better," he said, feeling, for some reason, compelled to tell Verdant and Blackthorn what he was thinking. He had not felt that compulsion for the other men that had served under him. These two, however, he found himself valuing, more than any other. And he realized too, that with the two of them beside him, there was a strength that he did not otherwise have.

A lightness of feeling in his chest. Strength again, as if he could fly to wherever it was he wished. As if he could plunge into the most dangerous of wells, and arise successful. Absolute certainty in that fact.

More soldiers that joined him, men that he valued. A memory of the Patrick army, as he rested his eyes upon Firyr, Jorah, Karesh and Kaya and the rest of his men, as they came thundering towards where Oliver now stood.

His heart blossomed with a strength of emotion. He bit his lip. There were tears stinging his eyes, and he hardly knew why. He clenched his fist, holding back something, not wanting to think about it yet. He only knew that these men here, and those retainers of his that came with them, he loved them with an immensity that he had not realized before himself. He loved them to the point that he almost wished to send them home, to free them from the conditions of his forest, that natural cycle of life and death.

A wiser side of him told him not to. A relenting came, and an acknowledgement. To do that to them would be to corrupt them. The dangerousness of that meaning. That immense risk. A want to plunge in again, now, with everything that he valued. To put it all on the line. To plunge into the heart of danger with them was a far weightier thing than to plunge in anywhere else.

"Verdant," Oliver said. "Blackthorn. Thank you both."

"For what, your Majesty?" Verdant said. "It is you that has shown us magic. It is you that carries us towards victory, that gave us hope when all was hopeless. We forced that responsibility upon you. And for it, we would follow you to the ends of the earth."

"Then, I have something for you," Oliver said. "As my closest comrades."

"Give the order, and we will see it done," Blackthorn seconded, quicker than Verdant could get a word out.

"King Patrick – do not forget you have the use of the rest of us," Jorah said. "Your Patrick army awaits you, longing to do your bidding."

It was true enough. While the rest had gone charging forward, unable to resist the momentum of battle, a thousand Patrick men came to a halt around Oliver and his position. When their Lord, and now their King, had chosen to rest. So too did they, without even being told why. So close were their hearts to Oliver's own, that they matched him instinctively.

In waiting, Oliver could feel it strongly now, the wind upon his back. The building of a storm, and where it was most dangerous. Where it was most likely that he could cause a fuss. And in seeing it, and feeling the suggestion of an idea in his heart, his mind gave its furious judgement of the stupidity of it.

A thousand men, Oliver took, without a command, with a simple charge on foot of his own, and he went straight into the arrow fire that was raining down from Minister Hod.

Whilst the large bulk of his army went forwards, Oliver went sideways, cleaving apart Tiberius' army from another angle, inviting the man himself out of hiding.

Just as Hod sent another volley of arrows into the air, their new King was diving straight beneath the cloud of them, as if he was looking for an early death. Oliver's sword flashed, and he could down a preoccupied spearman nearest to him, and then another man beyond him, just before those arrows hit the ground.

The immensity of the danger, with three nearing his own body, put Oliver in a bind. He couldn't very well dodge, for to dodge out of the way of one set of arrows was to walk into the path of another. Nor could he deal with them individually. Cutting down a single arrow was not a feat that he thought to be beyond him, but three? With time enough only for a single strike?

There was no time to ponder it. His sword was moving before he even knew what it was that he was doing. The first arrow bounced off the flat of his blade. The next was knocked away by its edge, and then the third was cut straight through at the shaft, its course altered just enough to send it flying on beyond Oliver.

Then, once more, the Gods rewarded him, with that perfection of timing that one could only get after enduring the harshness of danger. Busy and wounded spearmen, from Hod's arrow assault, and Oliver's sword had time enough to cut through three of them.