A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1572 - 1572: Where the Dragon Lies - Part 2

It was so hard to tell what anyone was truly thinking. The man that they called Firyr, and even Jorah, and Kaya, and Karesh, none of them betrayed any inclination of what their General was thinking, or what direction they'd truly head in. Whether that was because they didn't know either, or because they simply had absolute trust in whatever decision he was to make, it was hard to tell.

The only man that seemed to show any true anxiety, from amongst all their numbers, was the merchant Greeves. Sometimes, Torfus would pass nearer to him, when he was busy speaking in his excited tongues to General Patrick, just to be reassured that indeed, there was someone capable of feeling human emotion, other than the sense of suspension that everyone else seemed to so enjoy.

When they did speak, and Greeves would point out everything wrong with their current position, Torfus would carefully watch General Patrick's reactions for as long as he could. He found, increasingly, that nothing that Greeves said seemed to disturb General Patrick. He would simply stand there, listening patiently, with the smallest of smiles on his face. He never gave true solutions to any of the problems that Greeves presented, other than simply 'let's wait.'

Wait for what? Torfus wasn't sure. He'd had the sense in the weeks before that General Patrick was dissatisfied with their progress. Torfus thought it to practically be a miracle that they'd come as far as they all had in two mere weeks. Now, at the very least, the men that had been brought could all stand until the end of the training sessions, and they could all race through the mountains. There was a feeling of camaraderie amongst them too, and a sense of discipline.

When they practised their drilling, and were given orders from above, the men were able to respond with an increasing amount of unity. There was a sense of fire building up in all of them, and Torfus could feel the greatness that came when one operated as a unity, rather than as a lone soldier. He had the sense that there was a great current at his back, and he could do far more than he otherwise would. It almost made him want to fight there and then.

But then that feeling would pass, and they would be reminded that, no matter how strong they currently felt, or how pleased with themselves they might currently be, they were still far from being able to match the size of the problem that was soon to come their way. It was far too little, far too late.

Was it wrong that, despite it coming up short, Torfus found that he enjoyed it nonetheless? That he found purpose in his training? That when he took the spear – his chosen weapon – and he sparred with experienced men, and found those slight glimpses of success at times, he felt the jubilation of a man that was living a true life?

He had to wonder at that. He wondered at it strongly. He was a man with a family – a wife, and a young daughter. He couldn't truly afford to die in battle, but he had volunteered anyway, on a whim, moved by the speech that had been given by General Patrick all those weeks ago. Weeks they might have been, but it felt like a lifetime had passed since then.

He'd been stirred by the idea that the hand of a peasant could affect a greatness of change on the world. That they could be the cause of a shift in power between great noble houses, and between the sitter of the throne of the High King itself. That was too great a dream to turn away, even if it was an illusion. There came a greater sense of purpose there than he could find anywhere else. He'd felt guilt when he'd explained that to his wife, but she had been present for the same speech, and she'd almost seemed relieved when he had said that he must fight.

They'd all been stirred in the same direction. They ought to have complained, he thought, for even if they had been given a sense of purpose, were they still not one amongst many? Would they still not die, as one number amongst thousands?

He'd not been blind to the looks that the other Generals had shot them. Complete disregard, as if they were no better than straw shields. Even Oliver Patrick had looked at them harshly, in those first few days, and well into the second week. He'd given them praise, and he'd reprimanded them at other times. He'd managed to stir them, but Torfus thought his approval to be a fleeting thing. His gaze was ever watchful, ever calculating, and ever dissatisfied.

Or at least, it had been.

When Torfus had been named the first of the Sergeants, it was difficult to deny the pride that he felt. It was a minor thing, he supposed, but somehow, out of thousands, his General's eyes had found him. It hadn't seemed random either. Torfus hadn't acted with particularly obvious intentions, but his General had found out what it was he was doing anyway, and he had praised him for it. He'd found the good in him, when Torfus himself didn't even know that it was a matter worthy of compliment.

That, it was difficult to deny, was a moment of the highest pride in his life. In front of a thousand peasants, and five hundred trained soldiers, he had been selected, and given a rank. They'd all turned their eyes to him with the utmost curiosity. For that instant, Torfus was not a mere number, not a mere one amongst many, he had been an individual, the very turning point on which the Patrick army had spun around. Even the officers Firyr and Jorah had seemed confused by the sudden decision – they'd been set back, just temporarily, beneath him, for his single moment, and Torfus delighted in it.