A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1702 - 1702: To Poke a Bear - Part 4

"The army that marches toward you is headed by General Tavar of the Academy, and King Germanicus of the Treeants. They ride with a host of a hundred thousand men to see me brought to justice," Oliver said with a smile. "So, I can assure you, I have other business other than seeing you men harmed."

"Then what's you doing here?" A woman said, her voice thick with mistrust. "What do you want from us?"

"Did he say that his army was half peasants?" Came a mutter, which spread from man to man, as a little rumour in the back of main conversation.

"Simply to warn you," Oliver said. "I know you have no want to be part of this war. But with a hundred thousand men passing through, you will see yourselves harmed regardless. They'll have an interest in your firewood, just as you feared that I would. When battles happen amongst the nobility, it is my regret that it does seem to be the peasantry that suffers."

There were some more murmurs at that. A mixture of distrust, and confusion. It was as if there was a ball being tossed from man to man, and it was struggling to decide quite where it might currently land.

An old man parted the crowd with his long cane – a truly old man he was. To the point that the crookedness of his back bespoke his age even more than the harsh wrinkles on his face did. The skin around his eyes had grown so baggy that the only vision he could likely ascertain through them – if he could indeed see anything at all – was likely the narrowest of little slits.

He silenced the young men, squabbling as they were, trying to decide how it is that they might feel about the sudden arrival of high nobility. And he did all that silencing without speaking.

He was not particularly well dressed. None of them were, being peasantry. It was warmth that he favoured along with the rest of them. A tattered old and thick brown scarf that looked as if it would give the neck a nightmarish itch seemed his most highly placed garment, and that was the sort of thing most Serving Class men and women would rather burn than seen worn.

Oliver spied him, and he spoke to the man directly. "Do you have words for us, Elder?" He asked not unkindly.

The old man took his time to find some form of moisture in his mouth, working his lips together. It seemed to take an age. But the effort did not seem to do much to detract from the old man's dignity. "…Nobles do not come to Heath's Edge without wanting something." He said finally, as dry a statement as it was, it elicited a good few cries of agreement from the other villagers.

"That's right! That's right! You claim to be here on good will, but how are we to trust that, eh?"

"If there is indeed an army of a hundred thousand coming our way… why is it that you, Lord Patrick, find yourself here?" The Elder asked.

It was hard to really tell if he was looking at Oliver. His face was certainly pointed Oliver's way, but with the narrowness of his squint, and the sheer age to the man, it would not have all been surprising if he had not seen the slightest trace of light in a full decade.

Oliver took it in, patiently, with a smile. He saw in that man the same sort of old and wise command he saw in some of the older villagers of Solgrim. Those men that had offered wise counsel when their village had been in such times of strife. The same old men that had refused to be put into safe keeping with the women and children, and had elected instead to go into battle – and a most likely death – with borrowed words in hands.

"Naturally, Elder, I come to find the seeds of my victory," Oliver said.

The villagers caught on that, and their mistrust heightened. "There it is! He wants something from us!"

"It's about him, ain't it? It's about him. Where's the warning? What bleedin' warning? He's seeking to stir the pot."

"Are you seeking that, Lord Patrick?" The Elder asked. "Do you seek to turn us against our masters? Is that your aim? Your words certainly seem to carry that intention."

Immediately, Oliver gave in. Caught out like that, there was the instinct to lie. It hovered around his head, as a little golden key that he might seize on. Something that he might snatch, as if the Gods had offered it. But in the end, it was always the bluntness of honesty that Oliver found to be his eternal rewarder. He could not keep up a lie for long.

He gave up on his strategy of seeing them rallied there and then. He gave up on the prospect of recruiting any peasantry from Heath's Edge, and even from the other villages around them. Such was the lightness of the strategy that he had arrived with – there had been no real weight on it. It was simply an option.

"Perhaps," Oliver said, smiling ever so slightly. "I had come to you with that proposition in mind. I had wondered if you might be inclined to fight for a different cause. A more worthy one – as the peasantry around my lands were inclined to fight. You are a fighting force that my enemy does not seem to recognize – but men of your class saw themselves proved in the battle with the Emersons. You are not as insignificant as you think you might be."

"THERE IT IS! THERE IT IS! A LIAR, JUST LIKE THE REST OF THEM!"

"TRYING TO RECRUIT US TO GO INTO BATTLE!" A man spat on the ground. "I'D RATHER DIE OF THE COLD THAN FIGHT FOR YOU NOBLE PIGS! LEAVING US TO ROT HERE!"

"As you can see," the Elder said. "My men have no keenness for this sort of fight. We wish to stay out of your wars, Lord Patrick. All we wish to do is survive the winter."

"I understand," Oliver said. "The winter is a far larger foe than the likes of the armies of the High King."

"Indeed it is," the Elder said, dipping his head. "For us, and for me. It will claim my life sooner than any sword shall, and that of our kin."