A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1617 - 1617: The Fingers of Man - Part 4

He added his own voice to the cheers of his men, and he lifted his fist, and gave a grand bellow, full of the pent up emotion of all the weeks of tribulations. Still, it felt not real. Only the feeling of overwhelm could convince him it was so. He bellowed, because if he were to go forward, and seize the victory in its entirety, he feared that his hands would shake. Checkmate had been achieved, but to really secure the victory, to have it done, and sealed in a box, away from the moment, as now a memory – was Oliver Patrick still equal to that?

He fancied not. Not the Oliver Patrick of times past. He had to allow in a degree of insanity to suppose that he could make it that far. With Ingolsol always whispering in his ear, such an insanity was never so far away.

With the swell of emotion, he allowed himself a distance from himself. He'd practised playing different roles before, for he found it more comfortable, and once again, as the situation demanded it, he fell into a role then, one that was other than himself.

He became the creature that Verdant had tried to begin building in the opening ceremony of the tournament. Something that was a mix of royalty, and arrogance, and a hint of General Karstly. The sort of man that Oliver himself wanted to punch. Arrogance, however, in the wake of such a grand victory, carried the mighty whiff of truth.

With his heels to his horse, he urged it forward, swaggering in his saddle, the creature's hooves crunching in the snow.

Away from his men, and their bellowing, he was struck by the silence of the tens of thousands of Emerson men, as they stood there frozen, cast in a spell of ice. They dared not move, for the head of their Prince was ever at the mercy of their enemy. One wrong move, one slight offence, and the deed would be done – the most important person on that battlefield would be slain.

Verdant and Blackthorn came a few paces along behind Oliver, in the capacity as his retainers, and bodyguards, but the rest of their force were content to wait, even as Oliver went all the way up, to just a few steps before the spear wielding enemy all by their lonesome.

They bristled, seeing him right there, taunting them, a smug smile on his face, and his head tilted off to the side. "General Fitzer," Oliver said loudly. "Your troops seem to be under a misunderstanding. Why is it that they think they can stand in my way?"

Fitzer stiffened, grinding his teeth. He said nothing.

"I said, Fitzer, why is it they think that they can stand in my way?" Oliver prodded, more danger in his voice this time, forcing Fitzer to act.

"Move aside, fools," Fitzer growled. "Do you want to see your Prince cut down?"

And there it was, a step closer to that absolute defeat, as General Fitzer was forced to acknowledge to his men just how tightly bound that noose was around their necks. There seemed nothing he could do. With his obedience, the last of their wills died out, and they parted before Oliver like the sea, their grief a palpable thing.

Oliver watched as the corridor opened up before him. It was the bridge that he'd been looking for, in a more physical sense. Once the foundations had been secured, off his own back, the world distorted itself, and formed a path right where he wished for one to be – right up towards General Fitzer, sitting upon his mount.

"Now, Fitzer," Oliver said, his horse pawing at the ground in impatience. "I could come to you, or you could be a good dog, and come to me. What way shall we have this done?"

"Watch yourself, Patrick," Fitzer said, his anger growing, about the only thing that could keep his heart from breaking in its entirety. "Push too far, and I will be forced to do very foolish things."

With a jangle of chains, and the thud of metal, Verdant cast a set of shackles down into the snow in front of Oliver, guessing at his intentions.

Oliver didn't need to turn around to give his thanks. He looked ahead instead, and nodded down at them for Fitzer's benefit. "Come on, Fitzer, put them on," Oliver said. "Let's get this over with."

Fitzer looked up towards the walls of Solgrim, wearing distress to a degree that a General should never have shown to his troops. With a sword pressed so tightly against his throat, Prince Hendrick could offer no comforts. He was as white as a ghost, completely immobilized, knowing that the slightest movement would cause the razor-sharp blade to begin piercing his neck. The sour smell of the merchant filled his nostrils, and the best the Prince could do to get a look at him was a difficult glance out of the corner of his eyes.

"Damn it all…" Fitzer cursed to himself. His eyes swept over the magnificent army that they still had available, but he saw not a means to use them. To be so powerful, and yet still so restrained. It brought to mind the question of what power even meant, if just a needle, perfectly placed as this one was, was all it took to put them into checkmate.

A stellar career Fitzer had been gifted, all in the service to the Emerson House. His family had sworn their service to the Silver Kings centuries ago, and it had been his honour, since the youngest years of his youth, to see that service continued. He'd trained, and he'd fought, and he'd won, all in their name.

He fancied, when he was questioned by those younger than him, with equal levels of ambition, wishing to arise to the same station as he, that it was his loyalty to his royal masters that allowed him to go so far. "Man can not climb to the highest of heights in service to himself," he was fond of saying, ever so seriously, and ever so – he thought – wisely. He was inclined to give in to his own brilliance at times, and see it admired. About the only thing that could keep that in check was the royal family that he eternally held above him.