A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

"Then how did…?" Oliver said, trying to put it together in his head. "A huge party went to deal with the Pandora Goblin, didn't they? Thousands? Surely the Verna would not allow them into their lands?"

"They did, my Lord," Verdant said. "But that too, I fear, was only because of Arthur. It was a period of short peace between our two countries. Arthur negotiated for passage on behalf of the Stormfront, and the Verna allowed it. It seemed to be mutually beneficial for our two nations.

We receive the gift given to he who slays the Pandora Goblin, and they have their land finally liberated from its influence."

"That seems… off," Oliver said.

"Indeed, I am in agreement. I do believe there was a second motive there. They, who have it on their lands, must have more experience in dealing with the monster than any other. I think they struck a gamble. They believed that Arthur would fail, and gambled on the fact that he would," Verdant said. "What a bet for them to have made, and to have won.

They removed a Stormfront hero without ever having lifted a finger themselves."

There was nothing one could adequately say to acknowledge such a tragic point. Oliver went quiet, just as the rest of their party did, as they overheard the discussion. It was a sombre thing. Their feet were walking the same lands that Arthur once had. He who had swung his sword in the name of peace.

He, so righteous in his integrity that even an enemy of centuries in the Verna had trusted him enough to let him into their lands.

A strange thing it was indeed, Oliver found. It made the land that they stepped into feel even more alien. As Oliver looked off into the distance, he was struck by a feeling of small divinity, as if he had stepped into a space just between the realms of Gods and of men.

He clenched his fist, vowing to himself that he would not allow his own corpse to join the soil that held so many Stormfront men already.

…

…

With ten thousand men, they were once more forced to make camp outside the Verna castle walls. In the days to follow, their armies would be reassigned, Lombard had said. Some of their forces would be put to work defending one of the three castles that Blackwell had captured, but the others – the large majority – would be kept in the field as the invasion force.

Oliver saw to his men as they made camp that evening. He'd been promised a meeting with Lord Blackwell, but it wasn't for a little while yet. He made his rounds, as the men put up their tents, and he did his best to gauge his mood.

"I don't know where the pissin' pegs are," he heard Firyr rage. "I put the bag down right there. If you've lost it, then it's your fault. I ain't going to misplace them."

"Firyr…" Karesh said timidly – he only ever seemed to be this timid around Firyr. "Would you move your foot for a second?"

"Huh!?" Firyr rounded on him with all the rage that he'd built up arguing, but as he did so, he must have felt something strange under his pivoting foot. He looked down, and sure enough, a bag full of tent pegs was right there. "F—" He began to say, only to be drowned out by the laughter of his fellow men.

"You! This doesn't change anything! I told you that I didn't lose them!" Firyr shouted.

"As noisy as ever," Oliver commented, and immediately the noise went silent. The men made a show of diligence, putting up the tent at twice the speed that they had before.

"Oh, Captain," Firyr said, saluting, his rage forgotten.

"How was the march, Firyr? Any issues with the men?" Oliver asked a little playfully – after all he'd just caught Firyr right in the midst of an argument.

"None," Firyr declared triumphantly.

"And that shouting I heard?" Oliver asked.

"Just the wind, I think," Firyr said.

"Firyr," Oliver said sternly.

"What?"

"I don't mind you – but if you lie to me, I will be angered," Oliver said.

"Grr…" Firyr stole a glare at one of the men as he snickered. "…Just some stuff over the tent pegs. It wasn't nothing, really."

After the battle with the Macalisters, Oliver had kept Firyr in a position of command. It was one of the many decisions that he'd made that made the Patrick army so different from many others. Usually, a man like Firyr with all his volatility could never have made his way up past Sergeant, but Oliver had named him Commander, and put him in charge of a hundred men.

"It's good to see that you're so full of energy," Oliver said, "but don't be getting into proper fights before the battle starts."

"The battle? You've got word of when we're going to fight?" Firyr said, brightening up considerably.

"I'm going to be speaking to General Blackwell this evening, but I do not imagine we have long to wait. The Verna have amassed their army of fifty thousand already, after all. They'll be marching this way," Oliver said.

"Fifty thousand…" Firyr said. "I knew it was coming, but hearing you say it out loud, Captain, that makes it seem a bit more real. I guess we're really doing this thing, eh?"

"We are. And if we're doing it, we're doing it well. We haven't lost a single battle, and we will not lose here either," Oliver said.

He heard hard murmurs of agreement from his men. This was the belief that Verdant had taught him of in the battle with Talon. Over the years, he'd come to understand its importance all the more. To cultivate a fighting force that truly believed it was more powerful than any foe – that was almost as good as having a fighting force that was indeed more powerful than any foe.

He was just as excited as they were to let them loose against a new foe and to see how they stacked up on the national scale, but so too was he nervous to see this confidence that they'd built up so diligently get washed away.

"Without a single doubt, Captain!" Firyr said strongly. "I doubt there's a foe out there that can stop one of our attacks. We've even got the Blackthorns here, but I doubt that even they are going to match our attacking power."