A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1457 - 1457: The Grand Strategist - Part 3

It was a pseudo city, to Lord Blackwell, in more ways than one. And he wondered, if indeed it was a city, who was the governor? Was it him, the Lord of Ernest, or was it the young Oliver Patrick, who had called them all here?

He hesitated to answer that question to himself. For he was the one who had allowed the sceptre of power to be placed to gently into the young man's hand. He had to wonder, though, if that had been the right decision. Not because he doubted that Oliver would wield it improperly. For all his flaws, the young man had the strongest sense of responsibility, and that was a trait that Lord Blackwell valued most in his officers. He wondered if, in doing so, he himself had delivered another fatal dagger blow to the old ways.

His dreams had been haunted lately by the image of an old giant, lying in the sandy plains, with his legs crossed. It was where Lord Blackwell in his head had always imagined the Pandora Goblin to lie, when he was told of the fighting that Arthur Pendragon and Dominus Patrick had done there. Naturally, though, the giant wasn't at all what he imagined the Pandora Goblin to be. It was a wizened and scarred creature, with a great white beard, and long flowing hair, and Blackwell recognized it to the living manifestation of the Stormfront, as best as he could see it.

The giant never said a word to him. It would only stare, with a single pale blue eye, watching carefully. It was old, it was tired, and it was weak. Blood pooled by its feet, and Blackwell was vaguely aware that he had caused at least some of those injuries, that he had contributed to its cruelty.

"My Lord, it will be your turn for the Battle competition soon enough," one of his officers reminded him, bringing him out of his drifting thoughts again. Blackwell nodded deeply, and seriously, as was his way, giving no indication of just how deeply he had been ignoring the world around him.

It was a peculiar thing, his wife liked to remark, how a man such as him could ponder for so many hours, without saying a word. How he could lie next to her, so conflicted, philosophizing over every detail. Then, in complete contrast, as soon as it was time to carry out his duty, there was never a man more decisive than him. One would never have thought that he'd ever had a doubt in his life. As was the case now, when he drew himself upwards, jutting out his chin proudly.

The crowd stirred ever so slightly, watching him go. No doubt they knew what the first round of competition for Lord Blackwell had been set to be. It was a rather cruel matchup, Lord Blackwell thought. It almost seemed like a revenge blow from the Patrick youth, for Lord Blackwell's and Karstly denigrations of him at the end of their campaign. To make one fight one of the very Generals that he had commanded just a short while earlier. It seemed almost a thing of unnaturalness, like fighting one's own family member.

Even in thinking that, though, Lord Blackwell could not deny that swirling excitement that came with it. In his forties by now, he still had not lost the rage that famed the Blackwells and the Blackthorns. His House hadn't been darkened by its colour quite as severely as his rival's House in General Blackthorn, but that did not mean that it didn't exist – it was only that he kept a better handle on it.

To keep control of one's superiors on campaign was a constant wrestling match. Eternally, when one could feel the disapproval growing, there was an urge to challenge the men under him, and show them why it was that he was in charge, and not they. For Lord Blackwell, that was an urge that came too frequently, and one that he had to fight to get control over. General Broadstone had been staunchly against the plan of action that General Karstly had recommended in the finishing of their campaign, and had made his protests to the point of disrespect.

Now Oliver Patrick had ensured that they would meet on the Battle Board, to settle their differences.

When he arrived, he saw that the other man was already there, armoured with his helm on his head, as if he were about to charge into battle. He gave General Blackwell the smallest of nods, his salted grey beard swaying for the motion.

Naturally, Karstly was there in position as well, watching with amusement on his face. The upper-command of his army was privy to the extra backstory behind their encounter, but even those that were not found it to be a subject of the most immense curiosity. To see a General do battle against a General, in any realm. Few wished to miss that.

Oliver Patrick too was there, having secured a position for himself, surrounded by his retainers, in Verdant Idris and the young Lady Blackthorn. Queen Asabel was not too far off, looking pensively Oliver's way, as if trying to decide whether it would be more polite to go over and greet him, or more polite to remain as she was. Next to her, there was the great General Blackthorn, watching with more intensity than the other hundreds of spectators that were already there, despite them having not yet made a single move.

It was as if he was imploring him not to make a fool of himself. Something about that stirred Lord Blackwell into irritation. He turned his back on the man, not even giving him the honour of meeting his eyes, and acknowledging his presence.

The great General acknowledged the troops that he had been given for the purpose of making up his battle board. They were Blackwell men, which might have inspired him with confidence in any other situation, but he knew that his Command would have no effect on them in a pure contest such as his. It was strategy, plain and simple, no amount of overwhelm could augment it.