A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 1920: Poison Fangs - Part 2

Tiberius could not help himself. His knife slashed out in rage. The final blow, across her neck, robbing her of life. Immediately, he realized his mistake, and he grew all the angrier for it. He stamped her fallen body with his boot, and hacked at her flesh with his blade.

"You," he turned to Blackwell now, and pointed that sword at him. "You will pay for her early departure."

"Do what you will," Blackwell said mildly. "You have already done all the damage that you can."

"We will see about that," Tiberius said, giving the nod to his men, and bringing Lord Blackwell to his knees. He walked around him a few times, menacing, enjoying his sadism, twisting his knife in his hand, before he picked his first spot, just at the top of Blackwell’s neck. He had the man removed from his armour then, to give him more flesh to work with, and more often than not, did that blade find its way around Blackwell’s guts. Lightly touching vital areas, but never piercing them enough to kill him too quickly.

Still, Blackwell remained himself. He did not show any more weakness than he had already. He grunted, but otherwise held his jaw fast. His gaze seemed focused more upon the sky than anything else.

Tiberius dared to ask a question of him, beginning to grow bored of the blood that pooled by his feet.

"Did you truly think you could best me?" He said.

"...You ought not exist," Blackwell replied.

Tiberius tittered at that. "Indeed. Indeed. I have been told that more than once. Yes, yes. It must come as a shock to you, I suppose?"

"But you are not the only one that ought not to," Blackwell said.

Tiberius narrowed his eyes. Blackwell’s voice was far too strong. The same symptom as Queen Asabel. Where was that despair? Where was the pit that they ought to have sunk into? The pain was evident in them – but that sweet, total breaking, that he’d managed to inflict in Karstly, where was it in them?

"Oh?" Tiberius said, half-amused. "Is that a threat? You suppose that there exists something else capable of matching me?"

Blackwell did not reply. He heaved in his breaths. Dying – right there on the edge of that gate to the other world. Tiberius knew exactly where he was. Another minute or two, and he would be dead. He’d seen it far too many times before. Blackwell had no reason to hold on to life.

Tiberius descended upon him. "You make a bold claim, General, then you go and die behind it? You suppose a man can match me? Then who?"

"Tavar," Blackwell replied.

"Pah," Tiberius waved his hand, and turned his back, smiling all the while. "Very good, that’s enough out of you."

"...Oliver Patrick," he said, just as Tiberius began to walk away. The Emperor stopped, and he looked over his shoulder.

"...Oliver Patrick?" Tiberius said, scorn dripping from every syllable. "A boy you named General barely a few months ago?"

Blackwell grinned in reply, teeth stained with blood, and eyes all but entirely faded. "You. King Wyndon. Oliver Patrick – Blackwell."

He was losing the strength that he had to speak, but Tiberius knew his point, and he hated both parts about it. He hissed in a fury. The implication that King Wyndon had created him – he hated that more than anything else. Only an uneducated observer could ever claim that. Tiberius had simply exploited an offer that was convenient to him. What sort of fool reveals his strength early on? He knew his destiny. He was to rule the realm. Why force it before its time?

And the other part – a claim. Something in there, the man supposed himself to have not yet lost. A stratagem, and a decision made long ago. His symbolic adopting of the Patrick youth, and then his mentoring of him all this time. There was a claim in that. Even with Lord Blackwell dead, he was not defeated. Pieces of him still lived on.

The worst, however, was the fact that he seemed confident enough to smile about it. A youth, with only one noteworthy victory under his belt. Indeed, the victory over the Emersons was enough to impress the realm. But it compared not to the victory that Tiberius had just won. He had ended a generation of mighty Generals, and he’d even killed a Queen, all in the same battle.

That look in Queen Asabel’s eyes – that strength that she died with. That light, was that the same colour as Blackwell’s? Did it come from the same emotion, the same degree of faith?

They hardly seemed to die defeated. They refused to let Tiberius extract all the pleasure that ought to have been his. Was there something there?

Tiberius slit Blackwell’s throat, to claim his life before blood loss could. He would be getting no more responses out of him.

"Oliver Patrick..." He murmured, feeling the hatred brewing.

...

...

"Tiberius..." Came the Chief Strategist’s voice, tinged by surprise. "You are a great distance away from where we supposed you to be."

"Strategist," Tiberius said. "Give me these men under your command."

"...They are reinforcements for General Tavar," the Chief Strategist said. "By his request."

"A wasted request for a dead man," Tiberius said. "You will give them to me now, if you wish to win your war."

"You make a bold claim," the Chief Strategist said, not allowing himself to appear shaken, despite what was evidently news to him. "If it is as you say, and Tavar has fallen, then these men would be better placed in the Capital, not in your hands. Blackwell will—"

"Blackwell is dead. Queen Pendragon is dead. General Skullic is dead. General Karstly is dead. General Broadstone is dead," Tiberius said, listing the names of the slain impatiently. "You too will be dead if I so choose it. Do not make an enemy out of me so quickly."

Blake measured himself again. He saw the fresh scar on Tiberius’ face, and wondered just how much he doubted the grandness of his claims. "...What do you wish for these men for? What would you do with twenty-five thousand soldiers, on top of what you already command? You would be a threat to the realm, given your... temperament."