A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

From Blackwell, those final words were the most significant. They struck a chord with Oliver, likely more than any other man, for it was a pronouncement that went entirely the opposite way to the one Blackwell had quietly delivered to him. 'So that is a man that Blackwell approves of?' Oliver found himself thinking.

He studied the way Karstly walked, with that swagger in his step, oozing self confidence with every twist of his limbs. He studied the way his confidence seemed to swell, as he put his hand out for Blackwell to shake, and he compared it to himself. 'That's not a way that I am capable of acting,' Oliver thought. 'That is not a man that I am capable of being.'

The decisions that Karstly had made, harsh as they had been, Oliver could never see himself being able to make. 'If that is what Blackwell thinks makes the mightiest of Generals… Then I shall never come close to it.'

He'd dared to believe that merely improving his strategy, he might be more fit as a leader. But there seemed to be far more to it than that. There was an inhumanity that had to come in dealing with so many lives.

As the men gave their cheers, Oliver felt himself growing distant from the image of the war that had been started.

They were set to make their march to Qizi. The rewards ceremony had come and gone the day before, and the men were still swimming in the imagined golds that they were promised. Yet not a single one would see those golds until they made their return home back to the Stormfront. Oliver wondered if they knew what a thin rope they still walked on. It was a thread of a promise that they stood.

That didn't mean that the battling was over.

At the thought of doing more battle, where once his heart would have stirred from the glory of it all, he instead felt an emptiness. He didn't feel the need to draw his blade. He didn't feel any sense of righteousness over these Verna foes. If they were to raise up their swords against them, and break their promise, would they not be the ones in the right, after what they had done?

It was with a heart heavy with such contemplations that their order came. Apparently, Lord Blackwell was of a different mind to him.

"Captain Patrick! Captain Patrick!" Came the cry from the messenger on the edge of the encampment.

Oliver had been sitting before the fire, as he had taken to lately, despite the excessive heat of the Verna lands. He looked to the fire as if to find wisdom from it. He heard the shout, and arose to his feet with a sluggish sigh. "Messenger," Oliver greeted the man, forcing his face to remain the stern face of a Captain.

"You have been chosen to return amongst the first five thousand, Ser," the messenger informed Oliver with a crisp salute. "You will make your return this morning under General Rainheart, to carry word of our victory back to the Stormfront, and see yourself rested for the campaigns to come. That concludes General Blackwell's words to you."

"What..?" Oliver said, too stunned to give a more formal reply.

"As has been written, Captain, you are to make your return," the messenger said, not seeming to understand the confusion.

"But… we've yet to capture the cities we were promised," Oliver protested. "Surely there's a mistake if Blackwell thinks that now is the time to be reducing his fighting force."

The messenger frowned. "Ser… Is the war not already won? Why would we need to keep the fullest of our fighting strength?"

Oliver went quiet. The messenger seemed to take that for agreement, for he gave a crisp bow, and then went jogging to deliver his message to the next group of men.

"There was word, my Lord?" Verdant said, arriving next to him.

"We're to return home…" Oliver said. It was exactly what he'd been wanting for days now, ever since he had heard that the news from Solgrim, and even more strongly still since they had filled those giant pits that they'd dug with such a cruel bounty. He could not fathom why it was he felt so betrayed now in hearing that news.

"I see," Verdant said simply. He took it far better than Oliver would have expected him to.

"Don't you see, Verdant? We're being dismissed prematurely. They're all but declaring that they do not need us," Oliver said.

"Isn't that exactly what they are saying, my Lord?" Verdant said, tilting his head. "I imagine Lord Blackwell will continue reducing his number as he marches."

"No… I mean, they don't need us in particular. They could have chosen any other group to augment their five thousand men, but they chose us, after all we have done…" Oliver said. "Is that not an insult? Does Blackwell have no interest in my sword now that he sees I'm not fit to be a Colonel, or a General?"

"I do not think those were likely his thoughts," Verdant said. "I seem to think it would go the opposite way. Our men have been the most hard pressed of any since we arrived."

"Karstly remains, however," Oliver said.

"Karstly has had a hand in setting this strategy up. It would be odd to dismiss him. Besides, Rainheart played a good part, didn't he? If you were to assume that it was the weak and unaccomplished that he was to send back, would he not send Broadstone? The man was unable to show off his metal," Verdant said.

"…If he had thought me to be far along enough now, that he would have dared to make a Colonel of me, do you think he would be sending me away?" Oliver said, clenching his fist. "He declared me to need more experience, and then he sends me away from where I might glean such experience."

Oliver hardly understood his own anger. He didn't want to be on the battlefield a second longer, and yet now that he was given the opportunity to leave, all he felt was a sense of betrayal.