A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1640 - 1640: The Unexpected - Part 1

"When my will was pointed differently, he should have moved to make it a reality," the High King said.

"I am not a magician, Your Majesty! I am a strategist!" The Chief Strategist thundered, his voice filling the throne room, his old eyes full of lightning. "If you do not obey my experience, and the skills that I have built up in this one singular realm, then what is the point in my post!? If you act against me, how am I to move? I can not make things happen that have no road to existence. I am not a dream maker. I am, again, a strategist, and if you wish for victory, you will obey my strategies from the start, or I will have no hand in it whatsoever. I shall no longer receive these comments, and degradations from you, High King, on matters that you had proceeded beyond my post. I will snatch the reins in their entirety, or you will find another Chief Strategist who can clean up your messes for you."

The degree of rage from the old man was enough to make even Justus uncomfortable. Though the Chief Strategist was quite clearly not a man ready for any sort of physical violence, from how heavily he leaned on his cane, his anger was still a rather frightening thing. The High King cowered before it, falling back into his chair, looking as meek as a terrified rabbit.

The Chief Strategist seized on the moment of quiet. "Do you wish to win?" He growled.

The High King nodded.

"Then you will give me complete authority in dealing with this war, and you shall do nothing, but wait to celebrate once it is done," the man continued.

Again, the High King nodded, and only then, did the Chief Strategist's expression shift from thunder, and towards light, as suddenly as clouds parting to let the sun through. The smile that he gave was kindly, and gentle.

"Then, you need fear not, my King. All shall be well. You have my oath."

Ernest was beginning to recover, little by little. It heaved under the immense tension of having so many prisoners of war, but somehow, even that had settled into an equilibrium by itself. It was as if the quietness offered by the snow so too dulled the fighting spirits of the men that had been captured.

It had been questioned whether they ought to be allowed to be camped inside the city walls, for even without weaponry to hand, with so many men, by sheer mass of flesh, they could cause disturbances if they so wished. But General Patrick had ordered them brought inside regardless, and given shelter, and fire, and good food to fend off the cold, and none had dared to question him.

He operated with such a whimsy, that even the enemy Emerson soldiers feared to see him. They would catch glimpses of him, as he walked down the snowy streets, with his hands behind his back, and his retainers beside him, or occasionally the little woman with the wild red hair, who had slain so many of their Captains with her arrows. There'd be such a gentle look on his face, that one would never have thought him to be capable of the feat that he had achieved over them.

The Emerson soldiers had been given their own particular section of the city to be encamped in, but amongst them, there were still threaded a good few Patrick tents, as if to shatter the combined unity of hatred that might have otherwise festered.

The embers of such a hatred had difficulty smouldering even without those counter measures. A man might speak up ragefully once, and expect a chorus of agreement, but he found himself more increasingly met with silence, and wary glances, as if warning him away from saying something he might regret. And that same man would soon be sitting again, huddling under the furs that they had all been allowed, wondering why it was that he didn't feel half so vengeful as he ought to.

It was as if the anger came, when it did, because it was expected to – because they ought to have felt that loathing towards their enemy. They ought to have lamented the loss of their General Tussle, and cursed at the General Patrick for taking their Prince prisoner, and holding him hostage above them.

But that anger was tapered, if only by an unconscious acknowledgement of the fact that they were still alive. Some recognized it well enough that they preached it, they went around quashing the embers of rebellion amongst themselves, warning just how easy it would be for General Patrick to see them all killed, at the slightest motion.

"You don't think he'd be capable of it? He defeated us on the open field. What good are we now, without weapons, or armour, right in the lion's den? He's showing us good will. We're being fed well, and we're being kept warm. Yer a fool if you're going to try and snatch that away from us… If there's anything to be done, it's waiting. We'll get relief from one of our allies soon enough."

So it was said. So a hope was given. Simply wait, and all would be well. Some General, even more impressive than their own, would lay siege to Ernest, and then, it would be the opportunity that the Emerson men were looking for. They could rise up, and contribute, and make themselves known once more. But they had to wait, just as Oliver Patrick had waited for such a time during their battle, to make use of everything that they had. Otherwise they'd die dogs' deaths, or so was the excuse.

The continued strange presence of the Patrick General, when he would walk by them, only added to that. Never ought a man to have been so relaxed to host more than ten thousand soldiers within his walls, knowing that all of them were the enemy.