A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 2075: Hurried Footsteps - Part 1

Almost, was he near to the other side.

He looked to his left once more, and then to his right, and not a single man remained.

A brave smile – the smile of a man that knew he was about to die. He continued forth, by himself, punching through the other side of that infantry, bearing a handful of new wounds on his legs and on his stomach for his efforts.

An arrow was his reward, straight to the shoulder, as the waiting archers let another volley loose towards him. Fitzer did not stop. He charged them as well. Slashing straight through, killing two men for every line he passed. He could feel the burning in his lungs, as he ran out of breath, and as the arrow wound to his chest prevented one of his lungs from working properly, but he delighted in it. To push himself one last time, to put everything on the line for the Goddess Claudia. He felt like a younger man, filled with the belief that no matter what happened, his suffering would be rewarded. That, no matter what happened, to simply try as hard as one could, with the utmost bravery – there was no greater reward to be had than that.

The archers surrounded him, peppering him with arrows. He slashed at whoever was foolish enough to come close, but in response, his back and chest were filled with an increasing number of the projectiles. Blood came from the corners of his mouth. There must have been ten arrows sticking out of him, and still the man did not collapse from his saddle – and still, no archer that reached for his sword could come close enough to kill him.

"Kaya," a name mentioned, and a young man barely seen through General Fitzer’s weakening vision. It was difficult to track the motion. Fitzer’s instincts told him to guard against something, and his sword rang out, parrying a blow, only for him to hear the horse beneath him whinny, as the mount was cut down from beneath him.

Fitzer collapsed to the floor, winded. The arrows pushed themselves deeper inside him as he rolled over. He groaned, and dragged himself slowly but surely back to his feet. He wondered why they allowed it of him. There were hundreds of Blackthorn archers, all of them so ready to fill him full of arrows before.

He pulled himself completely unright, and waved his sword at the air in front of him. He was practically blind now. He could only see the smallest fragment of light, and a few occasional shapes. He staggered, almost falling, but a hand caught him.

"Tussle..." He groaned.

"I’m afraid not, General," Jorah said, gently.

"Ah..." Fitzer said, recognising the voice. He’d heard it so often during the battle against Tiberius. A quiet leader, Jorah was, when compared to the impressive displays that Oliver Patrick himself put out, but he was instrumental. He was the gentle hand that soothed out the rough edges that those Commanders who took bold actions tended to leave. "...Colonel Jorah," he said.

"You have fought bravely, General Fitzer," Jorah said, unable to keep the sadness out of his voice.

"Jorah, leave him," Karesh said. "He’s done – there’s still fighting going on at the bottom of the hill. Let’s end this."

"King Patrick would not have it so," Jorah said back.

"...Apologies, comrade," Fitzer said. "For the way it turned out. Give my apologies to your King."

"He has already forgiven you," Jorah said.

"He said so?"

"Nay," Jorah said. "But he will. Any man that has fought as hard as you is a man that His Majesty respects – he has always been that way. You put it right – we are comrades, in the end."

"And this fighting?"

"Brothers fight," Jorah said. "It does not make them less of a family."

"...Brothers ought not kill each other."

"That’s true," Jorah said. "But the Stormfront is a strange family."

Fitzer coughed a great mouthful of blood. He buckled, almost collapsing again. This time it was Karesh who reached out with another hand to help steady him.

"Water," Kaya offered, holding a flask up to the mouth of the dying man.

Fitzer accepted it gratefully, though he spluttered another mouthful of blood afterwards. To be so honoured, despite the choices that he made. He could see nothing. He could hardly hear anything any longer. He looked at the sky, and smiled. Was this his reward? Was this what Claudia gave him?

Gratitude in his heart. A good death. No fear. For Claudia had not disregarded him. He could feel her presence, overflowing with love, despite everything.

"Comrade..." Fitzer said. "See me on my way."

From the front, Kaya’s dagger found Fitzer’s heart, putting a stop to his suffering. And gently, did the three of them see the General lowered to the ground.

’Thank you...’ Fitzer murmured to himself, hoping that they would hear him, and understand him.

Chapter 18 – Hurried Footsteps

Edward rode, pushing himself to a speed that no army ought to have been able to match. Yet every step of the way, he had found himself too late. When he had arrived at Ernest, he had seen the last remnants of smoke drifting up towards the sky. He’d seen barred gates, prepared for war, and it was only after enquiring as to what had happened there at the nearby village of Solgrim that he’d learned of what had occurred. Everyone was on high alert, and even the villagers there were mistrustful.

The knight had tried to put together the pieces in his head. Trusting in the guidance of Claudia, in the cryptic words of Magnus, and in the words of his deceased friend. There was purpose in him being here, he had a mission to enact on. He could only pray that he was not too late.

He followed the army of Fitzer and the pursuing force of Oliver Patrick for a good handful of days, but they still remained ahead of him. He was not able to make contact with anyone worthwhile. His heart throbbed with anxiety.

He knew what their intentions were by now – they were out to kill the Emerson King. Yet Edward could feel it, something about that, it was certain to be a dreadful mistake. He could not put it into words, but he was almost grateful that so many days had passed, in order for him to understand the current situation, and his own worth relative to it. He was there to stop it. Whatever dreadful calamity that was certain to occur if King Patrick cut off the Emerson King’s head – Edward was there to prevent it.