A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

"Not level enough, it would seem," Oliver said. "I still managed to go for your throat."

"….I do not mind it so much," Blackthorn said. "I wonder if I ought to say more in the future."

Oliver snorted, and shrugged off her touch. "Come. Our shift is done, we are in the way here."

It was another handful of days that they were made to wait for the announcement of their campaign's future. That time was spent finishing the digging of their holes. And then it was spent staring at their holes, like some unintentional act of contemplation.

The murmurs had travelled throughout the ranks of Stormfront men as quickly as a foreign disease. They were all infected by the same conclusion. They knew what those holes were to be used for – to bury those Verna bodies in.

Some of them seemed to see those Verna prisoners as dead already. When they looked at them, they looked past them. Their eyes to the future. Their plans no longer had a place for the already damned.

On the fifth day of their waiting, there came a message, delivered to all the different scattered camps.

"Expect Commanding General Blackwell's arrival with the coming of noon," it read.

"I suppose we had better prepare to greet him, then," Oliver said, seeing the instruction past the intended message, just as Verdant did.

The man gave a grim nod, thrust weakly, from the bottom of a phantom face. The man grew paler, and more translucent by the day.

They organized the Patrick men. They were attired and armoured to their fullest, dressed as if they were ready for battle. They were not the only unit that had gone to such lengths either. The entirety of the army had done the same, and those that hadn't soon enough hurried back to their camps in order to correct that mistake.

When Lord Blackwell left his castle, on the back of his thickly built black stallion, his army of twenty thousand stood waiting for him, the banners of their different houses flapping in the wind. Oliver saw the dragon of Queen Asabel amongst them, and his own sigil of the beast made a humble showing on a single flag held high by Karesh.

Behind Lord Blackwell, there came the other Generals that had seen them to victory. There was the white wiseness that encapsulated General Rainheart, with his long flowing whitebeard, and his long white hair. There was the youthful General Karstly, with a vague smile on his face, and a comfortable slouch in his shoulders. And then there was the ever expressionless General Broadstone.

He lacked even the frown lines or laughter lines of normal men, despite his age. The only wrinkles he had were about his mouth.

Then, there was General Khan. Oliver was surprised to see him mounted. He looked surprisingly well. He rode tall. But on closer inspection, Oliver could see that his hands were bound. It was sheer skill that allowed him to balance so well in the saddle, despite the restraints that had been put upon him as a prisoner.

Behind General Khan, surrounded by a further few hundred Stormfront soldiers, there came his closest retainers, with their red plumed helms clutched under their arms. Just barely, by an effort of will, they seemed to be able to keep hold of them. It was no easy task, given that their hands were bound with a length of rope, linking them to the man in front of them, just the same as their feet were.

"We have reached a conclusion in our discussions," General Blackwell said, his voice loud enough that all could hear it. "Or a lack of one. No offer put forth has been equal to the value of sparing the lives of General Khan and his men."

A murmur went through the crowd of gathered Stormfront soldiers. General Blackwell himself had confirmed it. They were to be executed.

Already, likely on predetermined orders, a whole battalion of a thousand men began to march from the left side of their formation. Their destination was obvious – it was the nearest of the Verna camps.

"We will begin what work needs to be done today," General Blackwell said. "For the future of the Stormfront."

He saw just the slightest twitch in the neck of a stoic General Khan. For a man whose people were sentenced to die, he'd managed to keep himself well collected. Only the slightest tells of his stress were evident. It seemed to Oliver, even from a distance, that the flat line of his mouth was constantly threatening to waiver into the deepest of frowns.

"The Gods have mercy on us," Verdant murmured beside Oliver. "They feared us for invaders, and all that invaders are likely to bring, and we do not disappoint them. Today, no one will celebrate, save for Ingolsol himself."

Never did Verdant invoke the name of the Dark God. He held to the same superstitions as the rest. That he dared do so now…

"Ha. Is this blame laid at my feet?" Ingolsol said. "Is it I who makes the laws of strategy, and make this a profitable outcome? Any fool with an eye to the future could see that this is the best path."

"The best path for conquering, perhaps," Claudia said. "But you reach for too much too quickly. The cracks will start to show in other areas, and your greed will be revealed for what it is. Its weighty chains will drown you."

"We are at odds, then," Ingolsol said. He sounded happy about that fact.

"We are," Claudia said grimly.

"Then I suppose we shall, shall we not, wench? Let us see where the Stormfront stands ten years from now," Ingolsol said.

They were made to stand, and they were made to watch, and the first lot of Verna prisoners were dragged from the camps that had become their prisons.

They did not do so readily. They kicked, and they screamed, and those that had been soldiers dared to fight again. They howled out their protest, and they struggled against the cordage that bound them.