A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1616 - 1616: The Fingers of Man - Part 3

"Interesting," Oliver said, no longer seeming to shout, but his voice still came loudly enough that it reached all the way towards them, as if it was whispered right into their ear, but a poisonous sort of Command, something that bound the strength of Fitzer's own, and turned it again himself. "I did not think that you would be so quick to forsake your Prince. But I suppose, in blaming your defeat on your General Tussle, cowardice is not something that you are a stranger to."

Those words brought Fitzers eyebrows together in a frown of confusion. The confusion – and the short few seconds of it – seemed a relative blessing, when compared to the overwhelming dread that followed it, and the dark cold chill of fear that ran down his spine, as his head clicked like an owl's and he stared with round eyes towards the top of Solgrim's walls, where banners carrying the sigils of the beast once more flew, and where there was a sword placed at Prince Hendrick's neck, accompanied by the raised hands on the terrified Prince himself, indicating his surrender.

"You should have burned this place to the ground, you greedy bastard," whispered a slimy merchant into the Prince's ear, his face glistening with shiny sweat in the torchlight. "What, did you think checking the houses was enough, did you? Of course you did – you arrogant fuck. But see, by this point, we know the arrogance of you royals, don't we?"

"Aye, we does Boss," Judas said, with his massive hand grasping the back of Prince Hendrick's neck, adding to the Prince's restraint. "Though it didn't do much to stop us from pissing ourselves all night, reckoning they really might burn us down."

"Shut up, you cock," Greeves said hotly. "You don't need to mention that."

"The both of you were shitting yourselves," Firyr said with a sniff, his armour covered in blood from the men that they had seen slain on the way there. "Kept saying it was a suicide mission, didn't you? Noisy bastards. Hate having to work with civilians. But I suppose, us getting to deal the finishing blow ain't so bad after all, is it? You going to tell them that you surrender, Princey, so we can get this over with?"

If a there was an expression that could have frozen over a lake, it would have been written on Fitzer's face then. It was impossible to see a man turn so icy otherwise. The cold had not managed to rid him from the redness of his cheeks, but the trap, and the sudden capturing of his Prince very much had.

It had seemed a checkmate when Tussle's head was set to tumbling, but this was a checkmate in the truest sense of the word.

Oliver's men bellowed their victory even more loudly. It was a plan that even they had not known of, save for the highest ranking of the officers. Even Oliver had taken the greatest of care to set it from his mind, until the very moment in which it could be properly executed.

And now, in the darkness of that wintery night, it seemed to him that the stars – though invisible behind the clouds that had quickly come in – shined all the brighter. He fancied that he could see for miles around. He fancied that even the animals of the forest, that should have been well on their way towards hibernation now, were looking their way, and exclaiming with a degree of reverence.

A voice in his head niggled him towards movement, urging him to see the deal done, while the blade was still pointed at Prince Hendrick's neck. That voice didn't trust that the job was done until the very moment that their army surrendered. It was a wise voice indeed, even if it was irritating, but Oliver managed to find reason enough to ignore it for a time. That reason was simply an emotion grand enough that he wished to replace it with nothing else. That swelling pride that came with victory, the overcoming of a dragon of the like that he never believed he could defeat.

He was certain this would be the end of his road, he was certain there was nowhere to go, that the problem was unsolvable. He had not thought beyond his victory, for he was certain that no victory would ever take place. The second his mind had ever dared to blossom into post battle thoughts, he would slap it down, and call himself a distracted fool. He'd accuse a part of himself of weakness, and draining their chances of victory even more.

Where he stood now, he ought not stand. He hardly felt like he was standing at all. He felt like he was practically floating. The misty air that his borrowed horse snorted out of his nostrils seemed like the tendrils of the clouds above.

He could feel the battlefield swirling all around him, locked in the chains that he had put on it. He could feel the magnificence of his own influence, as Ingolsol urged him to, and through Claudia, he could see the perfect moment of coalescence.

It was a victory that he fancied he'd wanted more than anything else in the past. The want had grown to the point that the pressure of it had distorted his own personality. He had been willing to give up his mind for it, and his body, and his men had been willing to give up their lives. He'd been unable to dwell on past morality. He'd had to forsake everything, just for the slightest step forward.

They'd pushed, and used every bit of magic that they had available to them, and all it had managed to get them was just far enough to touch the dragon's nose. Any further, and their bridge would not have reached. But it mattered not. For they were here now. Oliver needed not an overwhelming victory, it made him almost angry to consider the thought. For to achieve a victory at all, that was an impossible feat.