A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1580 - 1580: War at the Gates - Part 4

There was a sense that the dragon delighted in seeing him do that. Though it threatened to kill him, for the slightest display of will, and the slightest daring to overcome it, it still seemed to want him to try. There was an incredible warmth from the creature, inviting Oliver in, but dangerous.

'Tread carefully,' he could hear that army say, on the horizon, that magnificent red beast. With the dark falling, that army was set to slumbering. Its many torches made the red glitter like dragon scales in the night's sky. 'Tread carefully.'

It did not say the words 'but do not stand still,' yet Oliver thought them to be implied. It threatened to kill him for the slightest movement, yet it would kill him again regardless if he did not move. It was the trickiest of situations. Oliver Patrick was chained, and all eyes were on him. He could not even move his hand for fear of incurring the dragon's wrath.

Yet, there were options available to him. There were ways of moving that were not wilful. There were other little dragons that were equally as terrifying. They were his own men.

They were monsters of a different sort. They proposed the same battle as the red dragon did. They said, 'come closer, I dare thee, match me,' and they threatened to bite at him if he came too forcefully. If he had gone to those men, and said 'submit,' in the most direct way that he could, they would have turned on him, and army of such monsters, and they would have given to revolt.

It was he himself, he realized, that limited them, when he looked down on them, and he felt not the slightest licking of fear, and he saw only products to be raised up, and subordinated. Men were beyond such things, however. In each of them, it was easy to find something to be afraid of, even for a man like Oliver Patrick.

He had feared them terribly enough, at first, that he could not even look at them. Now it was a fear that a soldier ought to have of a horse. They trusted the beast, but were eternally wary of its massive size, and of the fact that it would kick them in the head, and easily rob him of life, if they so willed it.

They were powerful creatures for that. They were a source of movement. They went far beyond just normal men. Each of them were monsters, and each of them were desperate to serve Oliver Patrick.

If the dragon would not allow Oliver to move within its eyeline, or demonstrate the slightest shred of will, then those soldiers did declare that they would carry him.

'Gently, gently,' Oliver told himself, as a want swirled within him, finding order that ought to be given, and routes that ought to be taken. It was a magnificent effort required, to overcome the fear of inaction. To stand there, and not move, as he glared at the dragon head on. To force all stratagems from his head, and to crush anything that betrayed any sort of intention.

Even with his own lack of intention, the same was not true of his men. Their anxiety quickly blossomed into fear, and conversations broke out amongst them, their wants were palpable things.

Even without Oliver speaking, those wants blossomed towards something. The whole of the walls were astir, with different opinions, dragging them in different directions. Some opinions weighed more than others, and attempted to subordinate the rest of them.

The Minister of Blades – his opinion carried a magnificent weight.

He'd come, only days prior, with Professor Yoreholder alongside him, and five hundred men beneath them, bolstering Oliver's numbers to two thousand. It was enough to inspire the men, to have such a man amongst them, but the Minister of Blades himself had declared that he was no leader, no General, he was a Sword through and through.

He'd sworn to fight alongside Oliver, and obey his commands as a General – a statement that Oliver had accepted, with just the smallest half-smile, and shake of his head. "I could never presume to command a man of your position," he had said. And so it was, the Minister was left in limbo, without knowing his true position amongst the forces, or Oliver's intentions as far as his use.

It was something that wasn't unique to him. Gar was in much the same place. He'd been bound to Oliver's will, and had sworn to fight alongside him, but he wasn't told what he ought to be doing. He'd sparred until his heart was content, and now the battle was here, even he seemed intent on fulfilling his end of the bargain. But nothing was asked of him, nothing was asked of any of them.

"Will the General be giving his orders?" Professor Yoreholder asked of Nila, coming along the wall to act as the messenger for her husband and their men.

Nila paused, almost embarrassed, and was forced to shake her head. "…I do not think so."

"Then, what would he have us do? Remain stationary, and wait for opportunity?" Yoreholder asked.

Oliver overheard her, and turned to give her an answer, even knowing it wouldn't satisfy her. "Do as you think would be best, Professor."

"…Is that you ordering us to take action, General?" Professor Yoreholder said.

"It makes me uncomfortable for you to call me that title, Professor," Oliver said. "Your troops are not mine. You do not serve me."

"We have sworn to, whether you wish for it or not, General," Professor Yoreholder said. "This is the will of my husband. When you are in such dire straits, he would not have you left alone floundering again."

"It does not seem as if I can stop you," Oliver said.

"But you have no intentions of giving us orders either…" Yoreholder said, pulling her face into a look of frustration.

"Forgive the General," Volguard said apologetically. He seemed as if he would continue, and say something in Oliver's defence, but he could not, for he did not understand Oliver's intentions either. None of the men around him did.