A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1743 - 1743: An Iron Curtain - Part 13

And he did – with more certainty than others might fall into bed with. He clenched his fist, and he growled, pouncing on that which he knew and he understood. "Men of men!" He said, his voice inflating with command, as naturally as he drew in breath. "Is this as far as you go? Is this where you want to die?"

It wasn't the words, it was the sentiment. It was the purple in Oliver's eyes that so understood them. It was the hands that reached for their hearts and saw potential where no other dared to look. That was what gave the spark in their own hearts in return. That was what made them pull their eyes up from the floor to look at him.

"GLORY!" Oliver said firmly, slamming a fist into his chest, emphasising the word carefully, so that they understood it. The Blackthorn men were forced to do battle as Oliver rallied his own troops, but even they were sparing him glances out the corner of their eyes, whenever they could, apparently roused to be his words.

"GLORY!" Oliver said again, thumping his chest, making flutter his surcoat with the sigil of the beast on. The intensity of it got to them. The fury in Oliver's heart. That overwhelm. That promise that he gave them.

"This is not it for you," he said to them, pointing a finger. "This is not it at all. They look down on you. Your own fear is the thing that keeps you in place. But see, gentlemen – watch how much the enemy has for you."

Oliver turned, and by Ingolsol's influence, he had his eyes swell with gold. From the work that he and Gar had done, the enemy was reduced to but a single line laid flat against the edge of the wall where Blackthorn men were holding them.

In front of them, Oliver seemed to swell in size, expanding like a shadow, till he drenched every corner of their vision. The threat was worse than the actual deed. Their eyes widened, following his sword, looking for the moment when either he or Gar would pounce – for indeed, Gar seemed very like an extension of Oliver Patrick himself. The expectation set them to quivering, and that quivering was too much for some of those men. Despite the unsensibleness of it all, a good handful saw themselves hurled over the wall and onto the ladders, crashing into the men that came up, and sending them tumbling in an unseemly display.

"IS IT US THAT YOU FEAR?" Oliver roared at them. They were on the edge of routing already, giving up that foothold that they had. The Blackthorn men joined him. Experienced soldiers in battle, bred on their Lord's instincts. They knew very well the scent of blood, and of fear. They grew with it, like wolves that had seen the weakness of new lambs.

Oliver turned to his men again then. "ARE THESE THE SOLDIERS THAT YOU SO FEAR?" He said.

By now, the fires burning in their eyes were blazing hot. They'd recovered their breaths and their muscles long enough to again hold their weapons tightly. "THEY, SOLDIERS OF MINE, ARE BENEATH YOU! YOU ARE MEN OF THE PATRICK ARMY! STAND PROUD, AND FIGHT AS SUCH. FIGHT AS THE SIGIL ON YOUR BREAST! FIGHT AS BEASTS!"

He stepped aside, to allow them their sweeping charge. The Blackthorn soldiers allowed it of them as well. They slammed into the remnants that so clung to the wall, and they dashed the stones with their blood.

When that was done, so acute was their fury, that they hardly paused before they began to seize those ladders and throw them backwards, with all the strange and wiry strength that the peasantry seemed to have. The sort of strength that could only be built up from years and years of hard and continuous labour.

That section of the wall soon too was cleaned up, and the effect of those men, and their continuous victories spread, just as the effect of the earlier troops had spread to those around them. It wasn't only from their victories that the troops nearby saw themselves ease – it was from the effects of Oliver's grand speech that they too had heard.

Those peasants who were all within earshot, even without a break, began to find themselves once more. They pushed forward with courage, supported well enough by the Blackthorn men.

Like the tide of the, suddenly coming back into the shore in accordance with the moon, all of that northern wall that Oliver held influence on saw itself set once more to the steady position that it ought to have been in from the start. It was achieved despite the loss of a troop that he'd sent to reinforce the Minister of Blades, and despite the steady pressure that Tavar had built up along with his troops.

An hour later, when Blackthorn did return, he found that the northern wall was still in almost as grand a position as it had been when Oliver had first sallied along its lines, to instil the troops with morale. He saw too that none of the other walls had collapsed, even though they had come perilously close.

With the right timing on a few small parties of reinforcements, Verdant saw his wall held steady, despite the men of Tavar's army that seemed to permanently dwell there. So too did Firyr and Jorah manage to keep their own positions held.

It was the Minister of Blades that struggled, even with those reinforcements. He declared hotly through a messenger. "I AM A SWORD! WHAT SORT OF FOOL GIVES A SWORD COMMAND OF A WALL?" But Oliver had merely smiled in response and told him to keep fighting, and in time, the condition of his wall did manage to show some signs of improvement.

Blackthorn grunted as he looked around at it all. He nodded once, and then slapped a massive palm down on Oliver's head, heavy enough to set his skull ringing even through the helmet that he wore. "Days done," he said, pulling the helmet from Oliver's head. "You can go. And in future, do the strap on your helmet." He pushed Oliver away, and tossed the helmet after him.