A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

He pulled up in front of Skullic's desk, and stood to attention. Today, for once, the General was busy signing one of the many documents that he always needed to sign. There seemed to be a great pile of them, but this time, despite his past record, he hadn't smashed up the room at the sight of them.

Oliver looked around the room, wondering if it was because of the influence of Mary, but he could see no sign of the retainer.

He was made to wait in silence and Skullic's quill scratched across the surface of the paper. He had a look of intense concentration as he formed each letter. "Damn it…" He cursed, when the ink pooled on one letter, threatening to blot. "A damnable amount of writing. These foolish scholars, saddling my genius with the likes of this… I ought to be doing… What ought I to be doing?"

He looked up, and it seemed as if he'd only just remembered Oliver was there, for his eyebrow twitched in the smallest measure of surprise. "Ah," he said, "I ought to be dealing with you."

He set his pen and paper aside almost gratefully, and sat up straighter in his chair, clasping his hands together. "If you have a complaint about the late arrangement of this meeting, do not lay it at my door," Skullic said. "This missive was only received last night – late enough that it awoke me from my slumber."

He held up an opened envelope with the broken royal seal of red and gold on it to illustrate his point.

Oliver gulped. "What does it say?"

"The usual," Skullic said, "is what I would have liked to say… But even for matters sent my way, this is of the rarer sort. An uprising, it seems, and a request for you specifically to put a stop to it. The Macalister House is behind this one. Middling in power, at one point, they started to decline around ten years ago.

The old Head of House, Ser Macalister, died in his sleep three months ago of old age. He died without sons and without daughters, without even a wife. The only bit of flesh with his blood stamped onto it is a bastard son by the name of Hoovel."

"He took the reins, then, illegally?" Oliver asked.

The General nodded slowly. "Or so the King declares… But in truth, he would have not acted, had the High King not provoked them. The High King sought to claim the lands for himself, when rightfully they should have gone to one of Macalister's retainers. In response, Hoovel the Bastard rose up to declare himself, and he's got an army supporting him."

"An army of how many?" Oliver asked. "You said this was a middling noble house, it can't be that many, right?"

"True enough. Only five hundred men, half of what Ser Macalister was able to field in his heyday, but it's enough to cause trouble. Even more so since the peasantry is on their side. If the peasants were to start marching, that number would balloon up to over a thousand," Skullic said.

"Five hundred..?" Oliver gulped. "That sounds a troublesome number. Who will I be fighting with?"

"No one new. Only the men that you're already acquainted with, and those that you bring yourself," Skullic said, affording himself a sip of his tea.

"A hundred men? That's it?" Oliver asked, incredulous.

"Indeed," Skullic said gravely. "It is not my choice, but the mission issuing declares that we bring no more than what we put the bandits down with. Word has gotten around now that you slew a number of more than four hundred men. The politics have been going well enough around your name for a while – and the High King strikes his blow, using your own achievement against you.

He wishes that you treat the bastard in the same manner that you treat the banditry. It seems like petty pride but…"

"But we know that isn't the case," Oliver finished for him, twisting his lips. "The victory over four hundred bandits was highly circumstantial. We were able to take them out over the course of three separate attacks – and they weren't trained soldiers. Against five hundred men, this is an entirely different story." Find your next adventure on My Virtual Library Empire

"Indeed," Skullic said, "but of course, now the High King is singing your praises on the success of your banditry mission, in an effort not to seem petty. He's playing a character particularly well, and he's got you trapped within his jaws now. Of course, any with any closeness to these events or to you will see through his intentions, but the others won't."

"Can I not refuse it?" Oliver asked.

"Refuse an order from the High King?" Skullic said. "Even I cannot. At best, it would make you a coward, and at worst, you'd be accused of treason. Either way, the High King has every tool he needs at his disposal to crush you."

"Backed into a corner, is it…" Oliver mused. "Where did I place my missed step?"

"In resisting, I suppose… Or in shining too brightly. Your achievements draw the attention, whether you wish them to or not," Skullic said. "Perhaps we should have seen that they would be used against you."

"Mm… The High King can only do this, because by the estimation of the populace, supposedly, that is my strength, is it?" Oliver asked. "They seem to believe me a man capable of achieving such victories. Does that not mean that my reputation is unexpectedly high?"

"The reputation of your strength is, amongst those that are interested enough to know, but do not grow a big head over that fact. Whilst rumour of your victory over the bandits has spread, it's not significant enough conversation to serve as the foundation for anything weighty – not yet," Skullic said.

"Besides, a swelled head, at the moment, would make it all too easy for the High King to strike you down. The situation you are in is not an envious one, Patrick. As you are, with the resources at hand, by my calculations, your chances of victory are slim."