A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1571 - 1571: Where The Dragon Lies - Part 1

He did not think he knew. There was present the contradiction that Oliver Patrick seemed to embody. That contradiction, perhaps, allowed him to hold more constantly in that world of the immaterial than anyone else.

Volguard clutched at the wall, involuntarily gritting his teeth. He didn't like it. Even to think about it, he only had one word. "Hogwash," he said aloud, involuntarily. Verdant merely smiled at the statement, as if to say that he very well agreed.

"SWING!"

"SWING!"

"SWING!"

There was called into the air the melodious rhythm of command, one after the other, and together, a thousand men beat their swords. They'd been at it for the best part of an hour, and for once, not a single one of them seemed to be flagging.

The snow beneath their feet made their toes eternally frozen, even with the heat that dripped down from their face. They beat out little pathways through it, like insects, as they practised the basic forward and backward steps that went together with the most rudimentary scraps of the sword.

Two weeks the peasantry had passed in such a state, with their training being beat into them, bit by bit, both with harshness, and fear, and at other times, with strong words of praise and encouragement.

To Torfus, he had to say, the whole thing was beginning to feel maddening. He couldn't really tell what was wanted from them, at any one moment. He most certainly couldn't tell what their General, Oliver Patrick was thinking. He seemed a different man than he was a week ago, and then he was an even more different man before that.

Some days, he would watch them all from atop the wall, with the snow collecting on his head, piling up until his retainers dusted it off. And on other days, he was nowhere to be seen, with there only being rumour of him, supposing that he had spent the entire day once more with the graves of the Blackwells.

Other times, he would fight for them all, with that menacing youth that they called Gar. At first, those duels had been riddled with an intensity that made them all cringe to be near. Frightening affairs they were. Now, they were something else entirely. Oliver Patrick saw them fight with the utmost in calm. It was almost lazy the way he dragged his sword, and saw his enemy so thoroughly defeated, despite all Gar's painstaking efforts.

It was a lesson to Torfus, to see how Oliver operated with such a lack of effort. He didn't think it was because of the skill disparity between the two of them. After all, Gar had managed to push Oliver so hard in the tournament – all the peasants had been there to see that, Torfus himself included. It felt more like his lack of effort was the very reason that Oliver didn't struggle.

It was a strange thing to put Torfus' finger on, but over the last days, he'd tried to implement that himself. It had come about, somewhat naturally, initially. He'd put less effort into his swordplay and concentrated on the men around him in his squadron. Oliver Patrick had named him the first of his Sergeants amongst his new peasant army, and Torfus knew not why, but he was pleased to have an excuse to pay more attention to the others.

Their suffering, he'd practically been able to feel it. For them to be struggling so heartily near him meant he could hardly spare a full mind to his own efforts. He was compelled to reach out, and offer some form of advice, or comfort, or encouragement. He didn't see the point in having their new soldiers broken.

In truth, he didn't know quite what he saw the point in. He didn't know if anyone in their army did. He had thought it would have been nice, if they all had a solid objective that they knew they were working towards.

They'd heard it announced, two days prior, that the Emerson army had finally begun marching in its entirety. Another week and a half, at most, and they would be at Ernest's walls. The scouting report supposing initially that the army would be twenty thousand strong had held true, confirmed by further scouting reports.

That ought to be terrifying, Torfus thought. They were fifteen hundred strong, if they could truly be called that, and the peasants – if they were to fight – would be thrown onto a battlefield where slaughter would be imminent. He didn't need to look around to be able to tell that they weren't ready. He only needed to stare straight forward, at the well-trained men of the Patrick army that they sought to emulate, and he knew that they were far from being their equal.

So why was it, he wondered, that none of them despaired? He wondered why it was that he didn't despair either. They'd been given no plans of attack, no reason for hope, or anything of the like… But the fear had yet to ripple through the ranks. Instead, they were fed the news of Lord Blackwell's exploits. He'd captured two more cities in Pendragon territory, and was steadily expanding Queen Asabel's lands, as he neared in on the Pendragon capital, and sought to secure the overall victory that they were after.

There was a feeling of detachment there too, however. That war was being fought too far away, and it was hard for the peasantry to tell – Torfus included – what exactly such a victory there would mean for them. They certainly had no hope of any reinforcements coming anytime soon. Not even their most deluded men spoke of that.

The best hope they had was in retreat. Torfus supposed that was keeping quite a few of them away from fear. But he wondered why it was that none of them truly believed that they would retreat?

There was a sentiment in the air that was left unspoken. None of the high Patrick command had sent any word down to them, but one could feel the rigidness in their General, in the way he clung to the structures that they were to defend, that he wouldn't be allowing them to retreat so easily.