A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1505 - 1505: The Banners - Part 1

"Aye, that's what we're telling you. You're going to fight him, one way or another. And you're going to put on a show, even if you're going to lose," the guardsman said. "There's coin in it for you, if that's what it takes to sway you."

The man pried a coin pouch out of his belt, and dangled it in front of Gar. When Gar didn't put out his hand to take it, the man grabbed him by the wrist, and forced it into his palm. "Courtesy of Lord Blackwell," he said. "You taking that means you accept the bout, are we in agreement?"

"I fight Oliver Patrick," Gar said firmly.

"You will," the guardsman said. "If you win. You'll be made to fight him. No running."

"No running!" Gar shouted angrily. "Want to fight him now! Stupid soldier, bad fighter, waste of time! Gar wants fight Oliver Patrick!" He stomped his foot angrily to accent his point, sending mud flying.

The two guardsmen looked at each other, stunned. It took one a few moments to break the silence. "…Turns out, this one didn't need much convincing," one of them acknowledged with a smile, and his aggressive aura began to recede. "Alright, you little bastard. If you're that excited, I think I'll wish you luck. All we wanted was for you to agree to it, so if you're that keen, we're happy. Keep the coin, we'll tell Lord Blackwell that you'll obey. I hope for your sake that you make it that far, aye."

"Aye, and try and stay alive once you're there," the other guardsman seconded. "You're fighting a General slayer there. Naturally, you don't have a chance, but just try and not get yourself killed. I think that's good enough."

"Gar not get killed," Gar said, still angry, still stomping. "Gar win!"

"Alright, alright, you mad little bastard. Take it easy. Save it for the tournament. We'll be watching out for you. Good luck," came the encouragement, with a pair of raised hands to warn him off. They turned their backs to him then, and began to march away, murmuring conversation to each other.

"So, onto the next one, aye? Hopefully he'll be just as easy as that little shit there. Doubt it though."

"Shit job that we got saddled with. But I reckon we lucked out there. If we only have to rough up one of them, that's good enough. But this is pretty heavy-handed for our Lord, ain't it? I wonder what he's thinking."

"I wouldn't. You know it'll do us no good to be in the know about it. Some bits of information, you'd rather not know."

"True enough. Keep your head down, keep moving. Aye, we'll do that. Something's afoot, and the Lord is up to something, but it's no business of ours. We'll just do what we're told, keep our noses clean, and accept whatever coin that comes our way."

"I do like the sound of the second half of that."

Gar listened to them go, stood in place. He tilted his head up towards the sky. The rain was coming down even more harshly now. Little icy spears thundered against his skin. The cold was strong enough now that it almost felt as if it was burning him. But the young man was smiling. He didn't know how he'd get to fight Oliver Patrick – but here opportunity had come again, and he'd gotten his want.

"Three duels is what you're looking to fight today, Boss," Judas told Oliver. "That's the word about it, through Greeves."

"We've already heard, thank you, Judas," Oliver said.

Verdant was busy helping him with his armour, strapping the plate metal to arms and chest. It would be his first time fighting so heavily armoured since Harmon had seen the work completed. He couldn't deny that it came with a strange bit of excitement.

The work was immaculate. The smith had gone all out on it. The image of flames had been chiselled into the arms of the armour, as far as the elbows, and tigers were set to dancing across his shoulders, as if they had been the cause of the flame. On his chest, there was the beast of House Patrick, more menacing than it had ever been put on Oliver's sigil. It almost seemed as if it might come alive. And in the trees behind that beast, there was an owl sat, for the House of Blackwell, and beyond that owl, through the skies, there was the wing and eye of a dragon, so massive and mighty, that apparently only the suggestion of it could be fitted on the armour. Naturally, that was meant to represent his connection to the Pendragon House.

"I have to say, it feels like a shame to put on a surcoat over the top of this," Oliver said. He was giddy wearing it. It had been half a whim to see it commissioned from Harmon. He still wasn't sure if full plate armour was what he wished for. He worried that it might limit his mobility, given its weight. But now that he stood up with it in his tent, and he tried to move, he realized he didn't feel the restriction at all. The strength of the Fourth Boundary was far too overwhelming for that.

"It is indeed," Verdant said. "Daniel Harmon was a mighty acquisition. I can see why the Blackwells were so loath to let him go."

"…Your duel," Lady Blackthorn said. "You're not worried? It's a General."

Indeed, the order had come so suddenly, for such a mighty opponent, that it wouldn't make sense not to worry. To be pitted against not one General, but two, over the course of a matter of hours, and then to go down to fight the winner of the below-Captain melee, it was quite a day that General Blackwell had seen set up for Oliver.

The men he'd picked as Oliver's opponents were men to whom Blackwell commanded just the smallest amount of loyalty. They had once fought under him, but no longer. He ought to have had no sway with them. They ought to have been able to refuse, given that their loyalties lay elsewhere. But neither had. Whether that was out of respect to Lord Blackwell, or intrigue in fighting Oliver, it was hard to say. It could simply have been that they were both genuinely keen to win the tournament that they had applied to fight in, and so did not mind who it was they crossed blades with.