A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1582 - 1582: War at the Gates - Part 6

With the steady little hum, and the steady little buzzing of normal life, it all gathered, without Oliver truly expressing a will of his own. He was sat atop Walter, in his fine armour, that Harmon had seen fixed for him, after Gar had ruthlessly battered it.

He was at the head of a column of two thousand men as they left the gates. Patrick banners flapped in the wind. The men were full of energy, and gusto. Verdant had given them a speech. Then Nila had spoken to them. Then the Minister of Blades had dared to do the same.

They'd all stoked these different embers of this mighty fire, and the men were panicked in their want to do something. They were two thousand balls of aggression, not perfection, unified, but with the want to do something, anything at all.

The feeling of incompleteness was palatable to Oliver. It grated on his will. Ingolsol stirred, angry in his cage. Ingolsol saw the lines upon which he could improve. He could reach out, and see men held together, and see to it that certain cracks in their defence were shifted.

It was with the mightiest of efforts that Oliver restrained himself, but only barely. Verdant still caught his Lord's jaw harden, and his eyes sparkle with gold, as he rode alongside his General, on his own black horse Casper. He had to fight to hide his smile, and disguise his relief.

It was the slightest little thing, just a brief flicker of will, and it was still enough to anger the dragon. Oliver could feel the wind rush overhead – and a cold wind it was, with the snow still on the ground – as an imaginary dragon's claw flitted his way, seeking to crush him in a single blow, and he thought that it would have, had he not pulled himself back towards emptiness quickly enough to see himself defended.

They did not do much to disguise their coming. They lit no torches, but that was the fullest degree that they went. Ernest city was left entirely empty, entirely without soldiers to defend it. The gates were wide open. Every man that could carry a weapon was brought along with them.

And the men were ever so tense with the plan that they had put in place. Volguard rode at the back, with a guard of fifty men, with messengers amongst them, to act as the go-between with him and the other Commanders. He could not have looked more tense in his role.

All the men were tense to the same degree. They all strained, as if against an invisible force. If not for the fire that was alight in their chests, they would not have gone forward at all. And still, the fear was palpable. Ingolsol growled at the scent of it, violently enough that Oliver was sure that everyone could hear it.

They could see the mighty dragon, just as well as he, and yet somehow, they were bold enough to march towards it, with their intentions so entirely obvious. They were brave enough to dive straight into the arms of death, for the sheer principle of it.

The surprise of their attack, Oliver supposed, would not be all that surprising. Dark had fallen, and they couldn't likely be seen all the way from Solgrim, but he didn't doubt that there were spies in the long snow covered grass, keeping an eternal eye on their position.

It was only fifteen minutes after their departure that they heard a horn blown from the direction of the village.

That was a knife blow to the resolve of the men, who had determined, above all, that they would make use of the surprise that they had cultivated. From the back, Volguard too fought to hold on to his panic. He had anticipated that they would be seen quickly, but he had still dared to hope that it wouldn't be quite so quick.

He had to reassure himself, continually, that their surprise was not simply in their approach. Their surprise would too be in the strength of their men, in the first engagement. That would surely catch their enemy off-guard, he dared to hope.

From the walls of Solgrim, there stood a red-haired prince in Hendrick, looking down from the battlements, in the direction he knew the Patrick enemy to be approaching from, even though through the dark he could not see them yet.

"Bold things, aren't they?" He said to the two Generals next to them.

"Frightened," General Tussle said, pulling on the ends of his curled mustache. "They knew that their morale would be chipped away, should we lay siege to them. This was the best they could do."

"They could have run," Fritzer said coolly. "They should have run. It's a foolish showing. They're going to be cut down like dogs for this. An embarrassing display."

"Will they, Fritzer?" Hendrick asked. "You seem awfully certain. But I'd heard that this Ser Patrick was a troublesome man. We should fear their initial charge, at the very least."

"There are walls between us and them, my Prince," Fritzer pointed out. "That charge will fall upon his own defences. We'll cut him apart from the side."

"And if he attacks our encampments instead?" Hendrick asked.

"Then he'll see no reward for his efforts. He'll kill men, but take no heads that could sway him towards total victory. He'll be surrounded and dealt with even more easily," Fritzer said.

"So, you are suggesting that I do not send you Generals outside of the walls?" Hendrick asked. "To give him no opportunity, and no target to aim for?"

"Quite," Fritzer said.

"You don't suggest it out of fear?" Tussle asked, smirking with a degree of condescension.

A vein appeared in a line along the baldness of Fritzers head. "Any more foolish suggestions, and I'll snatch your crude bit of curly hair from your upper lip, Tussle."

"Hoho, I invite you to try," Tussle said. "You won't make it far. Not before I draw some red hair on that bald head of yours."

"Gentlemen," Hendrick said, his voice harsh with disdain. "The battle. Who will take command, if you are to remain here?"