A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor-Chapter 865: The Crushing of Pace - Part 6

"A threat from a defeated man?" Rivera said, a contemptuous look on his beautiful face. "If you surrender here and now, perhaps we would allow your men to go free, and only take your life."

"Would you?" Oliver asked.

"We would not," Talon said grimly. He would not lie to a foe that he respected – not with words. "The High King has given us our orders. Try not to hate us too much, vanquished one. You have earned my respect."

"Respect?" Oliver said, still struggling to find his balance, as he tried to put some sort of strength in his arms. His legs hardly seemed to want to move, and his head was ringing with dizziness. He wanted to pass out and go to sleep again, more desperately than anything else, but his hunger would not allow it. "I would ask for more than your respect. I will snatch victory from you."

"I have already taken it, and I shall be keeping it locked tightly away," Talon replied. "You will not catch sight of its light again. Your place, from now on, will be in the realm of Gods. You shall join the ranks of all those youths with potential, snuffed out before their time. Allow me to end your misery now, little Tiger – give my regards to your father."

"Tiger?" Oliver said, feeling the most sudden flicker of strength. His movements up until then had been pathetically weak, but something about that word, and its significance gave him strength enough to thrust the sword into the snow with an almost alarming suddenness. The wariness of his foes quickly returned.

The guards that they'd been letting down upon seeing the direness of his condition were suddenly up again. "You speak the same words as Minister Hod."

The General laughed. "Hod?" He said, as though he hadn't ever heard something so amusing in all his life. "That whimsical little clown of a boy? Those words aren't his. Those are a King's words – back from a time when that title meant something."

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"A King's words… eh?" Oliver said, using his sword as a crutch, he put all his weight on it, whilst apologizing quietly to Dominus in his head for using his treasured weapon for such a task. He put all the strength that he could into his arms, and he hauled himself with enough strain to make him gasp for breath – but finally, his legs moved.

Twisted though they'd appeared, there was nothing wrong with them. He got his left leg under him, and then his right.

Rivera was looking at his Lord pointedly. Oomly gave off the same kind of hunger. The wounded wolf that they'd thought put down had found its way back to its feet, and they weren't keen on that fact. Gadar, for his part, wanted the same conclusion as they, but for different reasons – he could see those Macalister men had organized themselves, and they were about to make the charge.

"A King indeed…" Talon said slowly. "I wonder, do you know what he meant, when he foretold the Time of Tigers that would soon be to come? 'Whether it be in a decade, or a century, or even centuries, there will come a Time of Tigers, when the rule shall be done once more only by the fiercest. When the crowns shall switch hands, and the Gods shall switch their places.'"

"If those are his words, then I would think it obvious," Oliver said, managing to once more stand upright, though there was a stoop in his back, and his legs were shaky, as he fought against his imbalance. "He means me, old man – strength will rule again. Your ways, cemented by lineage, mean nothing. Your army and your position mean nothing.

Here and now, I will crush you, and seize everything that you have – there's your Time of Tigers, masked man. A man like me could never lose to the likes of a High King's dog."

Talon's attendants bristled before he could. They felt his anger for him. In return, he was allowed to feel something else – intrigue, for the first time in a while. He could not recall more than a handful of men who'd made him feel so curious. It was the emotion of a youth, still not understanding the ways of the world.

Even after all his time on the battlefield, Talon found that he did not understand the youth in front of him. Just as he had once not understood Arthur, or even Dominus.

"Boastful words," Talon said, ignoring his men. "About the only thing a man in your position could speak. An effort to rouse your own spirit, I wonder?"

"You see through me," Oliver admitted, smiling a fearless smile, his teeth stained with his own blood.

Talon returned the grin. He reached up a hand behind his head, and slipped off his helmet, cradling it in one arm, as he used the other to fiddle with the straps of his mask.

"My Lord, you ought not—" Gadar began to counsel, but he stopped himself when he saw Talon's expression. There was an unusually serious light in his eyes – a light that he only got when he was in the midst of battle. Talon, at least, didn't seem to think this battle was over. Not anymore.

He took off the leather mask completely, revealing his face for all to see. Scarred and grey and wrinkled. The face of an old General nearing his fifties. "Not a dog of the High King, boy," Talon corrected. "I am General Talon, foremost amongst my peers. There was a time when I was called the Sun's Mace, with how I left fields of enemies to be burnt in my wake.

Now you will only know me in comparison to the men around me. Perhaps if I claimed to be General Blackthorn's rival, and his superior, I might see some flicker of recognition in your eyes?"

"Blackthorn's superior…" Oliver murmured. "Sounds like a bold claim, Talon…" He considered the fact, and then he grinned. "How would it make you feel, if one of those attendants of yours was killed by Blackthorn's own hand?"

It was only then that Talon's calm seemed to fade. He narrowed his wrinkled eyes, and practically growled. "A threat ill-considered. You mean to tell me that Lasha Blackthorn is amongst your number? I do not believe I was informed of this."