A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

Oliver heard a sudden thump fall upon the roof behind him. He didn't need to turn to see what it was, for he could already hear the sword coming. His own blade was held behind his back to stop it before it could pierce his chainmail. However, it was not Oliver that was the true target.

The true target was the carriage roof, where he had already plunged his sword through once, and now he hoped to try again.

With the carriage still trundling along, Oliver threw himself onto his roof, and swatted away the downwards plunge of the swordsman before it could pierce. "You…" he said, his eyes widening, as he noticed the thick moustache.

"Me," the man agreed.

Oliver was pleased to see that the sword held not the slightest bit of blood on it, despite having made its way through the roof on the man's initial drop.

"A cunning bit of planning," Oliver said icily. "The Guild certainly knows how to operate."

"Whatever is the Guild, Ser?" The man said, giving him a toothy smile. That told Oliver all he needed to know. His foe was weaker than he, and he had no time to drag their combat out.

He led with an overhead swing, putting all his force into it. The man was made to parry, given the speed that it came at, but he wasn't able to contain its force entirely. The blade still nicked his shoulder, and it forced the man's own sword back, far out of position.

"Well, I suppose this is not my best showing, Ser Patrick," the man acknowledged grimly, realizing where the blade would next end up. A Second Boundary man, he was, as far as Oliver could tell.

"A shame," Oliver said, slashed out the man's throat, and throwing him from the roof.

He could hear the whimpering of Harmon's wife from the inside of the carriage, and the murmured assurances of Lady Blackthorn to the two of them. "Stay down," she said. "Oliver will not allow their blades to reach you."

"By all the Gods… What has this city become?" Harmon lamented, his wide body draped in a shield over his crouching wife and daughter.

The crowd, even in seeing a dead body flung amongst them, didn't seem inclined to move any faster. It was a snail's pace that they made through it. Far slower than what the situation demanded of them. Oliver could hear the frustration in the way Verdant shouted from behind for them to move, but it did little good.

Oliver tried to keep his eyes to himself, in his small pocket of the world, that kingdom that he has established. He knew them to be far from safety. There was still an archer on the rooftops, biding his time.

Perhaps he had realized that he was unlikely to get through Oliver's defences with a simple bombardment, or perhaps he was moving himself to a better vantage point, so that he could once more attempt to slip a shot through the window of the carriage.

So long was their wait made to be, that a squadron of guardsmen finally made their way towards them before they could even begin to escape the crowded street.

Their spears were lowered, and they forced the crowd apart, searching for the source of the violence.

"HALT!" Came the order, as they stopped Oliver's carriage from the front, noting the blood that spattered him, there seemed too few more likely candidates for the crime than he. It didn't help that fingers were being pointed his way.

"STATE YOUR NAME!" A gruff Sergeant called out, from beneath the confines of a bowl helmet that was far too big for him.

"Oliver Patrick," Oliver said. "Are you here to finally see your streets protected, Sergeant? It would see that there are archers on your roofs where there ought not be."

Oliver pointed to an arrow that he'd deflected, now buried in the cushion of one of the driver's seats.

The Sergeant frowned. "You've been seen striking down two men with your blade, Ser. You might be who the streets ought to be protected from. You will need to be brought to justice—"

"There is no justice to be had in detaining this man before his business is carried out," Verdant said, arriving on foot from his carriage. He carried himself so like a lordling, that the man knew to shrink back before he even received his name. "Your streets are unsafe, Sergeant. That a nobleman might be attacked, during the carriage of his business. You have not been doing your jobs properly.

I request an escort, until we reach the gates – and I also shall be levying a formal complaint with your Captain. This level of negligence is unacceptable."

"I s-suppose," the Sergeant stammered, finding it hard to look Verdant in the eye, much less stand up to him. "Begging your pardon, my Lord… But who might you be?"

"I am Verdant of House Idris," Verdant said. "You will see us safely to the gates of this city, or there shall be trouble. The man you seek to impede is a vassal of your Lord. An accomplished man of recent campaigns, with the head of a General to his name – and you dare to lower your spears towards him in suspicion, when he is attacked on the streets? Know you no shame? No loyalty?

What greater insult could there be? You believe a man of Ser Patrick's standing to attack a commoner, without having a blade raised to him first?"

"Q-quite right, my Lord," the Sergeant said. "I was a… foolish presumption. But… I wonder—"

"There is no need to wonder," Verdant said. "Whatever discord motivates these attacks, it's of no business of you and I. You have one job, and that is to see order amongst the citizenry, and their protection. If a nobleman is to fall, will you allow it to be on your watch?"

"Quite right…" the Sergeant said again. Oliver could see that he was wavering. When Blackthorn opened the door to her carriage, and gave an impatient shout, that was the final nail in the coffin.

"Why are we not already moving, Sergeant? Do you not suppose us to be in danger, given that we have had to fend off three attempts on our lives already?" Lady Blackthorn said.