A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

Oliver saw the effect. The effect was terror and weeping, all mixed in a bowl of despair. This was the God that all had claimed Ingolsol to be in charge of, but he seemed to show a disinterest in the whole affair. The best he gave was a nod at the necessity of it, and an acknowledgment of the puppet strings that fear created, but he didn't bathe in the expected ecstasy, as all would have him believe.

"The name is the one they gave me," Ingolsol said, in that deep throbbing voice of his. "Not one that I snatched for myself, or one that I embody. Still, that womanly man with his sword behind you is right. This here is the path forward."

"A terrible path," Claudia said sadly. "One that needed not be taken. Progress can be achieved honourably. To try to forsake it, by offering up one's own morality by means of an exchange – that is a path that will only lead to self destruction in the near future."

"We shall see, wench," Ingolsol snickered. "You call it morality, but I'll wager that Karstly hasn't sacrificed up any of his. This is well within his morals. His heart beats with a steady calm, can you not hear it?"

He was likely the only one on that entire field that was able to remain calm. The soldiers did their work as they tossed down those spadefuls of filth, but no longer did they look at that which they were doing. To force the enemy into the pit that would spell their death was within their understanding.

To toss down the dirt that would see them buried alive, it seemed, began to cause questions to be asked.

General Khan could not look. His tears ran freely down his cheeks. General Blackwell spared him a look – a look that lasted far too long. And then he straightened himself out again, as if dusting off an old picture, and he resumed his statuesque expression.

Into the pits of hell they walked, all of the Stormfront army, hand in hand. The wails of the Verna prisoners were their heralds. The light of the dark sun lit their way.

In that place, Oliver held no power. He thought himself to have been a man capable of making hard choices – but this was a choice beyond him. He could attempt to move his feet, but he found no purchase against the likes of Karstly.

Who could have shouted then, or flexed their shoulders and drawn their weapons, and put an end to the whole affair? If Karstly moved, and declared it to be a wrong, what could happen? Oliver thought on it. In his own powerlessness, he sought to influence a single stone in the otherwise sturdy tower.

No matter what future he imagined, it would continue. Whoever raised their voice, their shout would never be louder than the combined wails of a hundred thousand Verna prisoners. They wouldn't quiet for a man that they could not understand. They would think that more creative punishment was to come their way, as if a crushing defeat wasn't enough for them to bear.

"ENOUGH!" Came the shout.

Oliver lowered his head sadly. The hope that he'd tried to cling to, and he reasoned that he might be able to push towards, even in his imprisoned state, arrived at last. But it arrived too late. No matter the calculation, unless the cry came from Lord Blackwell himself, no change would occur. It would just be a matter of noise. And Oliver knew well enough that this was not Blackwell's voice.

It had a rich and velvety quality to it, like a thick syrup, whereas Lord Blackwell's was as blunt and harsh as a crashing sledgehammer.

But with that shout, the cries did die.

Even the sky seemed to clear by the slightest degree. The blue of it, despite its continued cloudlessness, seemed to shine truer to its colour. The sun seemed less a harsh overseer, seeking the immolation of her subjects, and closer to a dispassionate observer.

"ENOUGH!" The shout came again.

The Verna responded, even if the Stormfront did not. They looked up, as Oliver did, and their weeping and wailing died out enough that Oliver could not hear it above the drawing of his own breath.

"Ah, is it already done?" Karstly said, a degree of disappointment in his tone. "The rewards we reap will be fewer for it. But no matter. Release them."

With Karstly's command, the sword at Oliver's throat was abruptly removed. When he looked around, he saw the same was true for Verdant, and for Blackthorn, and for the rest of the captured Patrick men. Lady Blackthorn turned swiftly to glare at her captor. Her hand tightly wound around the grip of her sword.

"Wait, Blackthorn…" Oliver said, his voice lacking any force in it.

Of all the people that he had expected to have spoken, the last face that came to mind was General Khan.

He gave Karstly a suspicious look, but the man held up his hands as if he'd spent the past hour playing innocent. "Why would I move for the command of the enemy, you ask?" He said, grinning as he read Oliver's thoughts written upon his face.

No matter what indignities Khan might have screamed, there ought to have been no response to it. When the word was spoken in the Stormfront tongue as well, it should not have quietened the Verna cries as it did.

"You have your victory, General," Khan said, glaring at Blackwell with his tear-stained eyes. "I hope that it haunts you for the rest of your days. What you have done here is a crime that even the worst of the Dark Gods would have hesitated to carry out."

"Do I have your word, on your honour as the General that you are, that you will see our commands carried out?" General Blackwell asked calmly.

"You have my word," General Khan spat. "But know that when this word of mine expires, should the day ever come when we will cross swords again, I will remember the dishonour that you have shown me here. All of the Verna shall remember. We will treat all defeated Stormfront men with the same indignity."