A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 1160 Two Generals - Part 5
1160: Two Generals – Part 5
1160: Two Generals – Part 5
Oliver heaved a sigh.
He was being walked into danger again.
It was Verdant’s gravity of competence – and that gravity had pulled in an opportunity that was bigger than Oliver himself.
It seemed likely to swallow him.
Already, he could see the list of problems that he needed to solve the instant that he took the position on.
Besides, was victory even possible beyond it?
Was it even right to receive an opportunity like this?
No other General in all of the Stormfront would have breached protocol to the degree that Karstly had, in order to give him that opportunity.
‘I suppose, in that sense, this might very well be once in a lifetime,’ Oliver muttered.
‘I might never get the chance to command so many men again.
An arrow could take my life, today or tomorrow.’
He had no illusions about his own invincibility.
Even less so since he had injured his hand.
He knew how the jostling horse of the battlefield could toss a man off and send him to a quick death.
But still he chased more.
He’d been burdened with the knowledge of Dominus Patrick from far too young – he knew what the top of the mountain looked like, and just how far away he was.
He couldn’t afford to slow down.
The days spent watching Blackwell and Karstly and Khan had cemented that fact even further.
As far as battlefield strategy went, they might as well have been a completely different species to him.
If there ever was to be a day that Oliver was to call himself a General, he needed experience, he thought, and he needed it quickly.
He took in a deep breath, and he pushed back his wavy brown hair that was just beginning to grow a degree too long.
Then, he gave his nod.
“Very well, General.
I shall do as you ask.”
One would have thought that a freezing cold wind had just blown, from how cool the surrounding men became.
Only the Patrick forces radiated any degree of excitement.
Them, and General Karstly himself.
Everyone else seemed ready to turn their swords upon their allies, forgetting the war that was going on around them.
“Then, it shall be done,” General Karstly said with an air of finality.
“You shall take Colonel Yoran, and Captain Lombard, each with their three hundred men, and you will have your numbers made up to a thousand.
When the sun begins to set, find me before you make your camp.
That is all.”
That was all that Oliver was given, as Karstly turned his horse around, and went charging in the direction of General Blackwell.
The General watched his approach with careful eyes, seeming to pick apart the men that still remained.
Then he looked towards the thousand that Oliver still had with him, and he must have put the pieces together in his head, for he gave a grand sigh, and set his war horse to a canter.
“…Impossible,” Yoran said.
The dust hadn’t even begun to settle yet.
He seemed not to be able to conceive what he’d been reduced to.
An officer in charge of a mere three hundred men.
He looked around and saw the thousand that should have been his, and he grasped the slightest ray of hope.
“That’s it,” he said.
“I am the Colonel here.
I shall be taking command.”
He moved himself forward with dominance, but a sword pointed at his chestplate blocked his way.
Lombard was not even looking in his direction, as if he couldn’t bear to make eye contact with the man.
“As erratic as General Karstly’s orders might be, they are orders nonetheless.
If you take whatever foolish ploy you have in your head any further, you will be killed on the spot.”
With him, Yoran’s Blackthorn men bristled.
They saw kindred spirits among what had become the Patrick forces, in those old Blackthorn men that Lady Blackthorn commanded.
He looked to them, and he made his appeal, seeming to think that if he could win them over, then there was still hope.
With sword scratching against the steel of his chestplate, he leaned forward with near feverish excitement.
“Come, comrades, you will not stand for this, will you?
A Colonel is a Colonel.
Our Lord Blackthorn gave me this title, before the King himself.
It can’t be stripped of me by some up-jumped General on his very first campaign.
Would you rather serve this… this… boy, still wet from the womb than I?
Would you drag yourself towards the grave for that?”
Whatever he thought was likely to happen must not have gone as he’d expected, for that hopeful and near pathetic smile that he wore soon faded, as the Blackthorn men turned away from him, and Lady Blackthorn rode forward in their place.
“You bring up my father’s name,” Lady Blackthorn said, “thinking that he would be in agreement with you.
You have failed to fulfil the duties of your post, and now you flap about pathetically, trying to start a mutiny.
Be silent, Colonel Yoran, or I shall ensure that you see no life beyond this campaign.”
It was the coldest that Oliver had seen Lasha in a long time.
It was enough to make him embarrassed that she was standing up on his behalf.
He almost averted his eyes, but then he stopped himself, realizing that would be even more pathetic than simply accepting her kindness for what it was worth.
“My Lady…” Yoran said, stunned by the harshness of her pronouncement, and even more so by the coolness in her deep black eyes.
To be shut down by a woman of Lady Blackthorn’s beauty only added another layer to the pain.
Now Oliver wasn’t sure whose side he was on – he could well sympathise with the man.
“That will be all,” Lady Blackthorn told him.
“What are you for, Colonel Yoran?
Are you for victory, or are you for your own personal reward?”
“…I am for victory,” Yoran said slowly.
