Chapter 1918: Tears of the Gods - Part 7
A thought then, a supposition, that perhaps his understanding of progress was not all there. Once more a memory, from Dominus himself. He had said such a thing, hadn’t he? That, implicit in any understanding of progress, there seemed to be the assumption of its own demise. Progress was that which could not be contained. Once one sought to cage it, understand it, and study it, the thing itself, as if by pure disagreeableness, would distort, and it would change. It existed only to surprise. Under a strange pressure, it did blossom and find corridors towards brilliance and towards – at times – towards terribleness, that none could foresee. It was the honest magic offered to normal men, without the possibility of ever exerting control over it.
And where was such a power now, Oliver wondered? That thought he’d had. That perhaps, after all, even with all the cruelty he’d been afflicted with, perhaps the world did not dislike him? Perhaps it even favoured him. That too, cast away. An arrogance. They were all floating far too delicately for that. Any hint of arrogance, and they’d all be drowned.
His own arrogance then, in thinking he could stand his ground. Punished for that too. A thought as to the enemy in front of him, as to Tiberius. Understanding him, and how he might have beaten Blackwell, and Karstly, and Skullic and Broadstone – all four of them together, with Queen Asabel at their backs. Then the impossible question of trying to overcome that which they had all failed to do.
He snorted at the thought. A bitter snort. Impossible – that was the only conclusion. Once more they should have been satisfied. In besting Tavar, that was already a step too far. They’d won about a fortune that they did not deserve. But this was their limit. Cruelly, would they be swiped down for going even a step further.
Even in thinking so, Oliver’s body continued by its own path, as if it too, just like Oliver’s men, were rebelling from the thoughts of the mind. It cut down all that was in front of him. Then, when Oliver felt his men behind him beginning to flee – along with some calls that he could not understand – that body moved with him, and then they were racing their way up the hill, away from Tiberius, and the possibility of instantaneous defeat.
A sweeping gaze, and an analysis of what awaited him there. Chaos, but with more order in it than what he could have expected. A stern-faced Minister giving commands at the centre of his men. The Treeants with him. The remnants of the Emersons struggling to rejoin with them.
A chuckle again from Oliver. He’d wanted their alliance. But not like this. Not when they had been cut down so severely. They must have lost four thousand men already. The other six thousand, they were fleeing towards Hod. How strong was the strength still remaining? It was hard to tell. Perhaps twenty thousand still remained. Five thousand cut down, in the short opening moves of battle, and with a good deal of disorder sewn in the process.
A larger army than he could hope for, and now, in name, it ought to be Oliver’s command. The Gods had given him what he wished for, and they’d done so spitefully, with so much poison, as if warning him against grandness.
For that was still what he was, despite it all. There was that stench to him. He was still a peasant, fresh out of the mud. His entire advancement had been built upon a set of lies. Even that which the High King had seen him persecuted for – that too was a lie.
And lies were weak, and they were poisonous. No weakness could be allowed here. The pressure of the situation that Tiberius had created, before it killed Oliver, it strangled him. It held him in place, as the strongest of winds, and it bore down on him, tearing away from him anything that was not filled with overwhelming strength.