A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1534 - 1534: The Resentful - Part 6

"You ask us towards war, General Patrick, knowing the risks, knowing we could love everything that we have," the old man said. "And still, I find myself thinking that a strong fight would be better than whatever outcome remains. I will be lucky to see another year. The only hope I have for the future of my House is in the cause that you deliver to us. You need not ask for the swords of my House, for I give them freely to you. House Reed will fight alongside you. Every man in our hundred man garrison will be on the field beside you. As will mine own sons. And to the rest of you, that remain hesitant, I do declare that I will be on the battlefield myself, wielding a sword in place of a cane. I can at least kill one man, and see the war effort contributed to."

"Bravery," Oliver said, knowing full well it was the fear that Ingolsol twisted, and turned into bravery. It was the lowest of the low, to use that power to his advantage. But he had sworn to, and the situation was desperate enough that he could not help otherwise.

Another man he turned to, with those golden eyes, and he set a well-dressed knight in a suit of armour to quivering. The man dipped his head, and he swore his loyalty to the cause. One after the other, Oliver built his fire where fear allowed for it, and with it, Ingolsol's strength began to grow. More men gathered around the Dark God's throne, until it wasn't fear that he needed to make them kneel with, it was the overwhelming power that he already inhabited.

"Peasantry," Oliver said. "You will fight with me. I have bled with your kin before, I shall do so again. The country has need of you, and I have trust in your strength. We will raise up an army of your number, and we will remind the realm how the first Stormfront was built, and how it was the ranks of the nobility were attained."

He did not need to ask it any longer with the purpose of persuasion, so absolute had Ingolsol become. The peasantry had always been soft to the name Oliver Patrick, when tales of his valour spread, and that of the sacrifice of Dominus Patrick, for the sake of a village that was not even under his official protection. When he called upon them, their reply was fire.

Oliver could feel their hearts shifting, like a great sea. With his finger, and Ingolsol's hand, he could feel their spirits resonating with the cause. The harsh lives that they lived, the fields that they ploughed, the animals that they tended, and the game that they saw caught in the woods. It was a life that was a war of its own, and often a quiet one, so disconnected from what others would deem the important events of the country. And yet here they were given their place. Before even the soldiers were all convinced, and when there was still a large portion of the nobility left quiet, Oliver turned to them.

"You see the soldiers that I build my army with, long before my intent of war. I acknowledge, and shall have the whole realm acknowledge, the might of the peasantry, and the harshness of the lives that you endure," Oliver said.

There was a thunder of cheers with those words. Thousands of peasants belting out their approval, shaking the air with their jubilation. Enough to send the soldiers into a panic, and they looked around them, expecting to find themselves on a battlefield. The nobility were even more shaken. They cowered behind their guard.

Just with that thundering cry, they made themselves known. In their ragged attire, for the entire tournament, they had seen themselves separated from the higher ranks. When they had to share the same space with them, they did so stooped, and broken, afraid of looking them in the eye. But how they stood now, with their heads raised, and their fists high, clamouring for violence, they were a threat.

Those that had not considered their existence militarily were forced to do so then. When such an aggression was raised up at once, all in its thousands, all united – though disorderly – towards a single cause, even a General had to dip his head in acknowledgement, supposing them to be the threat that they were.

"We saw it in Gar, when he pushed me to my limits, and defeated all men before me, and we will see it in you as well, comrades. You are soldiers of the Stormfront now," Oliver said. "Your battlefield is the land beneath your feet. Your reward is your future station, and all the promises of victory. We will shake the realm up on its head, and in the chaos, you will find the opportunity that you need to break free of your current yolk."

There was a fierce loyalty to them, of the likes that even Ingolsol's influence could not begin to explain. It was the peasants that Oliver's Command had been built around, from the very beginning, when he had first dared to lead, during the Battle of Solgrim. And when it was expressed again, and he demanded it of them – though there had been mostly foreign peasants, visiting from neighbouring villages – they had risen to take up his cry. The presence of those that were of Solgrim amongst the cheering mass made it even more solid.

"AND US, MY LORD!" Came a shout from Firyr. "I BE NO SERVING CLASS MAN, OR NOBLE! BUT I GIVE MY LIFE FOR YOU, GENERAL! AND I'LL PISSING BURN EVERYTHING THAT STANDS IN YOUR WAY!"

Firyr spoke for the peasant men in the Patrick army, and at his outburst, there was a conflagration of cheers. The fire grew all the story. The sheer might of the Patrick army was made known, though they only numbered a few hundred. They stomped their feet, and they battered their weapons of war. They were the sound of the infantry that so added to the peasantry, who for the most part, were yet unequipped. They painted an image of the army that was to come, mighty in its scale, and mighty in its spirit.