A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

"There… There had to be some other way," Oliver said. There was talk of peace, and Blackwell had seemed so close to it. What had changed? If it had been possible then… surely it was possible now. Khan seemed a man of his word. Could they not have trusted his promise not to rearm his men?

"Trust makes for poor strategy," Ingolsol said.

Another chain of civilians was led to the side of the pit. Their terror was palpable from a distance. Through Ingolsol's eyes, Oliver could feel it gathering.

The day was hot, as Verna days were likely to be. The blue sky reigned supreme up above. But with that gathering of fear, the blueness was quickly forgotten. Oliver saw the cloud of black take its place.

Just as their cries found resonance, their fears found resonance too. He put a hand to his face. Even in such a dreadful position, his intellect put ideas together, and found patterns and explanations for what he saw. This was the one thing he didn't want explained – he didn't want it to be happening at all.

The soldiers had to fight the Verna now. Spears were brandished. They were jabbed towards the pit, and blood was drawn.

Oliver saw a child, chained between two men twice the size that he was. The look on that child's face, where the tears had dried, was indescribable.

His terror had reached a capacity beyond his body. The muscles of his face couldn't express it, and his cries couldn't give voice to it. He was immobilized. The desperateness of his fear seemed to wish for death, just for an end to the uncertainty of the coming agony.

He saw that child's face, with his almond skin, and his dark black hair, and somehow, he was certain that boy was him. He didn't look a thing like him, but he was there, filthy, bloodied, and terrified. That was Beam. Beam was being sent to die, and Oliver was simply made to watch.

He wondered if it was a simple mindless coincidence that made the boy look in his direction. Or whether it was his own madness coming to bear. But he could have sworn that the look was accusing, wondering why he didn't move.

"After… all I did for you," he could hear the expression say. "Could you have slain General Zilan without me, noble Lord Patrick? Could you have found the strength? You've forgotten entirely – you remember only when it's convenient. With us… without me… you would be nothing…"

Oliver was unsure quite when his sword had ended up out of his scabbard.

He wondered when he'd stepped forward. And he wondered too when Verdant had been so quick to brandish his spear in joining him.

It must have been the span of barely a handful of moments, but the Patrick men rippled to life, without a single word being uttered. They sank into a determined formation, and they separated themselves from the rest of the waiting army.

'Who? Who? Who?' Oliver looked around for a target. A place to start. Somewhere to burn, to put an end to the agony. Only one target seemed obvious.

Those soldiers on the edge of the pit, right where that boy had been dragged to now. Those soldiers had stopped showing any signs of hesitation. They threw each fresh batch off the edge almost gleefully, and now they were set to once more do the same.

It was in that direction that Oliver took a step towards. A ripple of tension ran along his calf, and up his leg, as he prepared himself for a sudden sprint. He would have charged over in a few short bounds, had the cold edge of steel against his neck not made him halt.

"I wouldn't," came a refined voice from behind him. "Good Ser Patrick, I really wouldn't."

Oliver couldn't look behind him, but he could glance off to the side. He saw Verdant in a similar such position.

"Before you get any ideas, the girl finds a blade at her throat as well," the voice said. He steered Oliver's neck with his free hand to afford him a better look.

Blackthorn stood as angry as a captured cat. Her sword was at the ready in her hand. She'd rushed forward with even less hesitation than the rest of them. Hoping that she would have been his bastion of reason, Oliver soon enough understood, had been a fatal mistake. Whatever it was that infected Oliver Patrick had quite clearly spread to his men long ago.

"Oh, back you go. Wouldn't want you to miss the show," the voice said, turning his head again, just in time to see the next chain of civilians kicked into the pit, with the boy dragged silently along with them.

"Before you ask – they're all in the same position," the man continued. "Not a single one of you is going to be moving. You're going to be observing."

"Why..?"

"Why, or how? I expect both those questions are on the tip of your tongue. But when you think about it, it is simple enough, Ser Patrick. You have demonstrated your worth, but you have also demonstrated areas in which you are lacking. If we allowed you to move freely, it stands to reason that of all the forces gathered here, it would be you that moved in rebellion.

And if you were to raise your sword against General Blackwell, there would be naught he nor I could do to defend you. You'd be put to death."

Only now that it was mentioned could Oliver see that General Blackwell was looking his way. Despite the many bodies that were being committed to the ground, it was the in the complete opposite direction, straight at Oliver Patrick and his men, that the straightfaced General was glaring.

"Karstly…" Oliver said, guessing the name of the man behind him.

"Correct," came the reply. "Took you longer than it ought to have, but I suppose what's important is that you got there in the end, eh?"

"Why? Why choose this course of action? It's a massacre," Oliver said. "Do you not see what you are doing?"

"The benefits of this course should be most obvious," Karstly said. "Khan was unable to offer us the compensation that we would have required in order to allow them to live, and so it was deduced that we would be better off with them dead. This is the most efficient way to do it."