A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 2066: Justice - Part 1

Frankly, General Blackthorn had thought the opposite. They were driving away Tavar’s old soldiers – soldiers that found themselves increasingly to associate with the Blackthorn men instead. They were nobility in large part, fighting men, knights and men at arms. They were used to the regularity of traditional Stormfront command. Once, General Blackthorn had been thought of as a maverick, for the brutality of the training he inflicted upon his men, but compared to the likes of King Patrick, he was positively normal.

It was a fissure in their army that surely King Patrick could not fail to see. His own allies, gifted to him by Minister Hod, wound their way more towards the Blackthorn cause. They did not do it subtly either. They made their camp with the Blackthorn soldiers, leaving the Patrick men and the Treeants to their own devices. It ought to be something King Patrick was striving to try and fix – but Blackthorn said naught to him. If he was blind enough to let such a thing happen, then why should he go out of his way to assist him?

Their relationship was a fragile one. General Blackthorn preferred to maintain every advantage that he could get, and if King Patrick were to lose his allies because of a lack of attention, then that was on him. Blackthorn himself, however, made efforts to bring them closer. He had his Colonels convene with them, and he spoke with men of rank himself, looking for talent.

"Captain," he greeted one such man with a nod as he passed back towards King Patrick. The man nodded in return. A strict nod, but one that General Blackthorn could decipher. Not his ally, not in name, but that nod told Blackthorn that he would fight for him, if the time ever came. 𝘧𝑟𝑒𝑒𝘸𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝘷𝑒𝓁.𝘤𝘰𝓂

"Have you finished with your work?" He asked of King Patrick, as he rejoined him atop the hill. "I’ve spoken to my chariot rider, he—" He paused. Straight ahead, where there had once been a wooden house of considerable size, there was now nothing but debris, and the beginnings of a wood-plank reinforced road.

"Almost," King Patrick replied. "We’ve gone to work with our spades, and filled in a few of the ditches. I think you’ll find the run to at least be better than it was. Another ten minutes, or so, and it should be ready."

Blackthorn grunted once more, keeping a firm handle on his surprise. The conversation that he’d had difficulty following between Verdant and his King suddenly made a good deal more sense. He had to admit, as far as this plan went, he had no complaints.

Chapter 16 – Justice

General Fitzer marched his exhausted troops as swiftly as he was able to. They’d stopped for the night in Cambry, but it had not been the most excellent night of sleep. Not when they knew that King Patrick and General Blackthorn had already stolen the march on them. Their mood was sombre. In his head, even as he drew nearer the Emerson Capital, he wrestled with the fact that he might have been better placed to return to Ernest, and attack there.

He had to continually bite back the notion, telling himself it was his own exhaustion kicking in. Indeed, it was tiring. One would not know it without having experienced it himself, but to betray an ally, to go against one’s honour, and to throw away his morals – that was an exhausting thing indeed.

He snorted as he thought such a thing. He wondered whether he would live long enough to write it in his memoirs one day – how gruelling the whole thing had been. How uncertain the thin line that they walked was.

To have walked into the city of a man that he respected, and to have drawn a sword against him, in what he knew to be a cowardly attempt at claiming his life. What of it? He dared say that to any that accused him. What of it? If it be his King’s will, then why ought he not to do as he was commanded to?

The excitement in his heart that he felt in pursuing it? They were the emotions of a mortal man. Indeed, he knew the Gods could see through him. He could feel their watchful eyes in the sky, judging him. He knew he could not defend himself properly before them, so admitted it. He’d looked for that opportunity from the start. His defeat at the hands of Oliver Patrick was not an easy thing to accept. It carried the flavour of madness in his head.

A boy that age! That age! It was impossible! He couldn’t explain it in his head still. He couldn’t understand it. To be outnumbered to that degree. What was it that had allowed it to happen? What was that sensation that he had felt in fighting him, as if he was trying to grasp air? No, it was more unfair than that. It was as if something more powerful than a man had intervened, and forced all in his favour. No, that wasn’t true either. For he could recognise in what Oliver Patrick had achieved that day to be good strategy. But it wasn’t just good strategy. It was a level of lightness in strategy that couldn’t be emulated – indeed, Oliver Patrick himself seemed to struggle to carry it out again.

He didn’t know what it meant, and it drove him insane. He would stand in the same room as the man – and was he even a man? A boy, truly – and he would find himself reaching for his sword, wondering what colour his blood was. Wondering what really went on inside Oliver Patrick’s head.

His period as a prisoner in that Patrick commanded Ernest, those old Blackwell rooms. That had only added to it. He didn’t understand him, not one bit. At times he was a boy, riddled with weakness, and at other times, he was something beyond comprehension.

The farce that had occurred with Queen Asabel – that had been a trick that had almost got them killed. They had supposed that to be to their advantage. Supposed their Prince Hendrick to have been savvy in his politics – and they had all almost died for it. They’d needed to fight the likes of Tiberius, a monstrosity beyond comprehension.