A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1852 - 1852: Old Boulders - Part 9

That Captain that she was targeted had been deeply entrenched, it ought to have been a risky manoeuvre, and yet she reached him as though she was in a dream. Her sword found his neck before she knew what was happening, and her rapier ran straight through to the other side.

And when she did try to turn again, for the quick intended movement of leaving, so that she might strike elsewhere, she found that she could do so with only the smallest amount of resistance, as her mend wound round behind her, and pushed her forward at that same speed.

Her sword was faster than it had ever been as she carved that path outwards, and it seemed to be growing even faster still, landing with a heaviness that one would have expected of a far weightier weapon, carrying men off their feet.

The little golden sparks of light that danced up her fingers and ran up the length of her forearm, and at times even raised strands of her as if in electrocution, they were the evidence of it – that which she had dared not even aim at, for how high she had already soured. The sweet lull of the Third Boundary, along with Claudia's gentle yet excited hand guiding her through it. "Carefully now dear, pick your way through," she said soothingly, as if Blackthorn were walking down an overgrown garden path, and not engaged in mortal combat, surrounded by dozens of foes.

Before she knew what was happening, she was rushing off elsewhere, towards another Captain, and her men were coming along with her. She moved with all the speed and freedom of a bird, her heart filled with elation, to the point that she thought tears might form in her eyes. With Claudia's guidance, that sudden feeling of warmth spread, marking her entry into that sunlit new world of the Third Boundary, so far apart from the winter cold that they were all enduring in front of her.

"Blackthorn too…" Oliver noted, hesitant, wondering if it really had been his chains that had held them back. They had all done enough by now, with the harshness of battling that they had endured together, and the greatness of foes that they had seen put down. Verdant and Blackthorn had survived deadly combat with Generals themselves – although barely – and they'd walked through impossible battles together with their General. It was easy to suppose that he ought to have set her free sooner, but once more, he held back ridicule of himself, knowing indeed how Claudia worked.

Firyr was no less than a product of complete outrage, as he took those men that he had been given, and without a hint of shame, declared that he would be the one to snatch the victory for them. "There's been enough pissin' about, you understand me? That General Blackthorn, I reckons he's got the right idea. So we're gonna climb across those corpses that he's left for us, and we're gonna rush ahead of him, and get the General's head for ourselves, you understand?"

His men, somehow, did understand, there were a few growls of agreement, though they weren't quite cheers. Naturally, any sane man couldn't see it ending well. But if one took Firyr's command and tore it apart a little bit, they could assume that he merely meant to reinforce General Blackthorn, and that by itself seemed a solid enough path to victory. Though, naturally, that wasn't at all what Firyr intended to do.

He could feel his heart throbbing, with that delicate nervousness that he always got when the situation was so very much set against him. That General Tavar had glanced towards him more than once, as he had made his little speech. He'd done the same for Lady Blackthorn, and for her, he seemed to give a nod of acknowledgement. For Firyr it was something else, though. He knew him not. The pressure of that gaze was enough to bring Firyr's heart thudding all the further – it was enough to make him aim for the mightiest goal on the battlefield.

Already, he was set to running, already, was he set to plunging into the walls of the encirclement, along Blackthorn's path, letting his spear flash, trying to find something to set against the fear that was building up inside him. It was always there, whenever he battled, and whenever it was, Firyr rebelled against it. He went exactly where that fear pointed he ought to go least.

It was worse now than normal. Normally, he had his General as a light to return to. But his General had taken a step back, as he had in the battle with the Emersons, and that terrified Firyr all the more. To have his fate in his own hands, to be responsible for the lives of five hundred men. Though he did his best to seem nonchalant in it, it was a burden that Firyr found in his shaky hands difficult to bear.

For was he not, at his heart, a failure of a soldier? Incapable of following instructions, to the degree that he was cast out away from his Syndran army, and sold into slavery. Was he not living his life as a fraud, simply because there was a man like Oliver Patrick in existence? A creature strange enough that he dared to suppose that there was some usefulness in Firyr after all – but even he, Firyr was lying to. There was nothing there, nothing, and he was sure of it.

He looked over his shoulder, and his men were beginning to fall behind. Firyr had gone in far too deeply by himself. He growled, trying to cover up his apprehension. He wasn't a leader, he knew this. It wasn't a surprise that he wouldn't be able to band his men together. Blackthorn had managed, through that natural battlefield charisma that she got from her father, but Firyr was no such a man. He was the lowest of the low – a slave had suited him more than anything.

"DIE, TRAITOR!" A sword was swung at Firyr's head, filled with rage.