A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

Before Oliver's very eyes, he saw a human do what a spider ought to have been in charge of. In a display that was exclusively for the showmanship of it all, she spun a giant web, in the storefront, covering the windows with it. A web that seemed no less sturdy than that of a Giant Spider. The girls on the loom worked and worked, giving her all the thread that she needed for the show.

And only when the act was done did her hands finally pause. She gave a bow at the hip, rather than a courtesy, and then a broad smile, menacing smile. But the applause never came, for no one seemed to have been watching.

Before Oliver could see what happened next, they rounded another curve in the road. Here, instead of the girls on looms, it was true spiders that cast their webs. Their favoured homes seemed to be right at the top of the lampposts, just beneath where the flame would be lit, right on the edge of where the safety was.

And in the cracks of buildings too, where brick and cement had begun to be worn down, the spiders made their homes wherever they could.

It was more unnerving than intriguing to Oliver. He had said, in jest, that he would have preferred to entreat with the ancestors of the place than the crowd, but as soon as he passed through Old Ernest, that opinion soon changed. It was darker here, with the buildings built so densely together they blocked out the sun.

A man could quite easily skulk in the shadows of the many one-person-broad alleyways. Oliver tried to keep an eye on it all, but there were so many people and places to keep track of. He wondered if he was not better placed simply focusing his intention on his immediate surroundings, within a metre of himself. It was certainly more relaxing to do so.

He heaved in a deep breath, and closed his eyes to the point that they were narrowed. He had Ingolsol spread his awareness thickly, in that single one to two metre radius.

And that was when the enemy struck – when the dam burst, and the first of the spiders came scuttling out of the spider's web, with cleaver in hand, and bloody apron on chest.

The carriage door was flung open in a single swift motion. They'd passed within stepping distance of the nearest alleyway. Two movements were all that was required to execute the kill. The opening of the door, and the swinging of the cleaver. If Oliver had been looking anywhere else, he would have failed to react in time.

The scream came, low and loud. The blood came quickly, falling with the thick patter of heavy rain. The bald man clasped for his wrist, as the cleaver went bouncing to the ground, stuttering along the paving stones.

Oliver pointed his blood sword at the man's neck, having leapt from the carriage. "Who sent you, good sir?"

"Fuck off," the butcher spat.

"Indeed," Oliver said, slicing his throat open, and leaving him to fall in the street.

It was a mercilessness that ought to have been best reserved for the battlefield. But Oliver had judged that to be exactly what this place was. A battlefield indeed. He could spare no more time for the butcher, not when the carriage was already eeking its way forward.

"My Lord!" Verdant shouted.

"Concentrate!" Oliver shouted back.

An arrow came screeching from a rooftop, with all the accuracy of a bellbird. Oliver noted it just before it ran through the glass of the carriage window, and with a slap of his sword, he sent it skittering out of the sky.

'Focus,' he told himself, blocking all else out. The two metre radius that he had decided upon had saved him not once, but twice. Ingolsol, in his pride, would allow no one to step into his domain. It was his kingdom, from land to sky, not even an arrow could slip through without paying the toll.

"S-ser!" The driver stammered, as Oliver took up his seat next to him once more.

"Drive," Oliver said, "or I will assume you to be an enemy, and I will drive in your place. Put some speed into it too, damn you – get us out of this dank old place."

With a flick of his reins, the driver acquiesced. It was him that the arrow came for next. Oliver stood and swatted it away, just as he had with the other. He noted the accuracy and intent behind the projectile. Whoever wielded that bow was a person of a considerable skill. It wasn't the sort of random volley attacks from the archers of the battlefield.

Oliver didn't care for trying to pinpoint the man. There was little point. A fuss was already been made about the butcher, dead in the street. Oliver was pleased to see at least the city-folk weren't so dead to the world that such a thing would have been normal. Still, he supposed the guardsmen would arrive too late. And even if they did arrive, whose side would they be on.

They rounded another corner in the tightly held together streets. The crowd covered the road. The driver shouted to them, hurrying them out of the way, as they continued to charge ahead. Another arrow came. This one did not even manage to bridge Oliver's two metre perimeter before he was swatting it down.

Yet, the crowd would not move. They seemed accustomed to reckless carriage drivers, and they seemed to believe that he would slow down before he hit them. He didn't. Not for the first couple. They dove out of the way. Seeing that, those beyond in the crowd still did not seem willing to move.

Languidly, they stared at the great wooden beast, and the frothing horses that came their way, and adjusted not a single thing about their step.

The carriage driver was forced to slow down. He pulled the reins tight, before he killed a dozen people. Perhaps they might have needed to slow down, but Oliver hoped that they wouldn't come to the near dead stop that they were currently at.