A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

"…It's hard to tell whether you are the most progressive of men, or the most conservative," Verdant noted. "Either way, I think settling on the fact of calling you strange is enough. Think on what I have said, and do not burden Blackthorn with your apologies before you come to a surer conclusion."

It was on that very same night when Oliver finally received the summons that he had expected days before – or at least hoped for days before.

A messenger had threaded his way through the Patrick temps whilst Oliver and Verdant were still speaking quietly by the fire, and he'd handed Oliver the sealed roll of paper, with Blackwell's owl stamped upon it.

He'd given it a brief read, able to guess at most of its contents. The only part that he hadn't supposed was the part that deigned he ought not bring any retainers. Verdant had seemed particularly troubled by that, but he took care not to mount his troubles on his Lord.

So it was, at just past midday of the previous day, haven eaten, and washed himself as far as his wounds would allow for, that Oliver presented himself outside the gates of Lord Blackwell's castle – a castle that he knew also housed General Khan, whilst the talks of peace were still ongoing.

His sword was confiscated briefly, before a Sergeant stepped in to hand him the weapon back, reminding the soldiers on duty that until the peace talks were over, they were still at war. It would not do to have their soldiers forced into disarmament, not unless they needed to be especially suspicious of them.

Oliver wore just the lightest of armour, neglecting to bring his helm. The rest of it felt far too heavy for his raw skin to bear. It rubbed against his fresh wounds. He could only pray that there wasn't a sudden attack, but his instincts told him that would be far from likely.

He wound his way up the stairs, just as he had with Lombard when their campaign was first at their beginning. It felt as if he was retracing old steps. When he arrived at the same door, several floors up, that feeling only intensified.

This time, however, when he knocked, and he was bid to enter, he was not greeted by a room full of officers, only a single General Blackthorn sat at his desk, with his hands clasped in front of him, and a thoughtful expression on his face.

"Oliver Patrick," the man said as he entered, his voice deep and intimidating.

"General Blackwell," Oliver said, giving him a salute.

"Sit," Blackwell said, gesturing to one of the many chairs that were littered about the room. Most were sitting in front of the fire, though that fire was not yet lit. Likely on account of the heat that was already flooding the building.

Oliver took the one nearest the desk, and he removed his sword from his belt to set on the chair beside him.

"Dominus Patrick's blade," Lord Blackwell noted. "Have you found that it has served you well, these past years?"

"Any blade that was good enough for Dominus Patrick would serve any man well," Oliver said. "I could not imagine fighting with any other sword."

The General nodded. "If that sword were ever to break…" he began.

"I would find a smith that could forge it back together," Oliver said. "If such a thing is possible."

"They'd sooner make the steel afresh," Blackwell said. "You'd have a weaker blade just fusing two pieces together. Assume such a thing was impossible. What would you do?"

"…I suppose I would have to find another sword," Oliver said with a frown, not quite understanding the point of the question.

The General nodded. "Indeed… Another sword. Though none would quite ever replace what you have lost. It might come close in some areas, but it would never be the same blade."

He drifted into a silence. Only then did Oliver think that he knew what the General was hinting at.

"About Captain Lo—"

"I told General Karstly that it was too soon for you to command a thousand men," Blackwell interrupted.

Oliver hung his head. He knew that he could only agree. His qualities as a leader were too lacking. He knew only his men. He'd bickered with Yoran, and he'd been unable to get the most use out of the rest of them, even with Lombard's constant intervention.

"I was wrong," Blackwell said.

Thinking that he had misheard, Oliver looked up. The expression that met his gaze was a gentle one. Tired, but gentle. One could see the fierceness that slept in General Blackwell's dark eyes, beneath his heavy eyebrows, but that fierceness remained dormant.

"Victory came swiftly off your back," Blackwell continued. "General Rainheart is in agreement with me. He told me of the state of the Battle board. General Zilan saw a tactic in you, and twice, you forced his hand. Against chariots, no less. I would have commended you on that already, with the survivors that you currently hold.

You ought to have been wiped out."

"General… I lost Lombard," Oliver put in. The praise didn't seem right at all. It was far too forced.

The General crunched his teeth together, showing the slightest hint of a yellowed white for a second, when those thick lips peeled back. "You damn well did lose him, boy," he said, his fist rising to slam against the table, but he managed to contain his rage before it did, opting instead to grind it in.

"The way you played the battle board put him in a vulnerable position… but it was no more vulnerable than your own."

He sighed in saying that, though it sounded as far from a sigh of relief as one was likely to get. "Rightly, you should have all been wiped out the second General Zilan chose to set his sights on you. You ventured in too close, against a predator that was far your superior… But those were the orders that General Karstly gave you."

"To apply pressure, he said," Oliver told him. "Not to risk my men. I could have gone about it in a different way."