A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1361 - 1361: The Problem - Part 5

"Some wisdom you can't put into words…" Skullic muttered.

"Then it would have been pointless me trying to find it in the First King's words then, wouldn't it?" Oliver said with a grin.

"Aye… But across an entire book, the words cease to be mere sentences, and the wisdom can be felt, rather than read. But go along then, boy, and wipe that stupid look off your face. I can see just from your mood that you've been a pain in the arse for poor Professor Volguard. Would it kill you to take your studies anymore seriously? You were the one writing with your questions, after all."

"I take it seriously enough," Oliver assured him. "Just going through the same drills and same motions as before, I can't see it helping me. I'm hoping the Professor might be able to assist me in coming up with something new."

"A holy grail, of sorts, is what you're betting on then?" Skullic said. "Now there's the subject of childishness. Nothing comes so easily. But you will find that out yourself soon enough. Away with you now, I have reading to be done."

Oliver's next destination could not exactly have been called the home to strategy. It was likely that, as far as his hope for a new place in the world of strategy went, he was the furthest away from it that he could possibly be, in this particular yard, where weapons crossed endlessly, and the shouts – though strict – were often loud, and foolish.

"Goddddsssss beeee gooodddd!" Firyr howled his exasperation. "Is that all you lot have? That's bloody embarrassing, gentlemen. I'm sorry to tell you. You're about as much use as a herd of buffalo."

"Don't think a herd of buffalo would be too bad in combat, to be honest," Karesh said. "They're like heavy cavalry."

"You, shut up," Firyr said. "Who's the Commander here, eh Karesh? Why don't you talk back after you've climbed your way up the ranks."

"Why do you two not leave it there?" Jorah said. "You've picked a poor time to start arguing. Good day, my Lord."

"Eh?" Firyr said.

"Eh?" Karesh echoed him, and the two turned together, along with the heads of nearly a hundred new recruits, who were being put through their paces in the training grounds, on the very edge of the village, pressing right up against their new wall.

"M-morning, Boss," Firyr said, throwing up a sloppy salute. The men that he'd been training copied him, and, just as one might expect, their form was no better than his. They were stiff, and uncertain in their motions. They were the same sort of men that the Patrick forces tended to recruit – ex-slaves, or members of the peasants. Men with no manners to start with.

"Good morning, Firyr," Oliver said, grinning. "I can see that you're already ruining our new men."

"W-well, I wouldn't go that far, Boss," Firyr stammered.

"At the very least, we can claim that you haven't taught them how to salute properly," Jorah said.

"I've only had them a few weeks," Firyr shot back. "I've been focusing on the more important things, like fighting."

"And would you say they're up to scratch in that regard?" Oliver asked. "If they are, I would see it."

"Well… Maybe not quite yet," Firyr said.

"This isn't sounding too good, Firyr," Oliver tutted. "Verdant had warned me that perhaps it was too soon to be leaving so many men in your care, but I'd had hopes for you…"

"It's not as bad as it looks, Boss, they're just a ragged bunch, as you well know, and there's a lot of them… I've been getting the veteran men to help with training, to pull them up a bit, but there's five hundred of us kicking about now… There ain't enough space in here for us to all be training at once," Firyr said.

"Take them outside the walls, then, for your future training," Oliver said. "You are right that these training grounds don't provide adequate enough room for more than a hundred men."

The training grounds, as they called it, were no more than a desolate patch of dirt where houses and other buildings had yet to be built. There was enough distance for a short sprint from one side to the other, but no more than that.

"Really? You reckon I can?" Firyr said, almost embarrassing in his excitement.

"You're just stepping outside the walls, not moving country," Oliver said dryly. "Naturally, it isn't a problem."

"You hear that, fellas? We're getting out of this cage!" Firyr said, raising his spear in the air as if he was starting some sort of slave and rebel uprising.

The men were only too eager in their response. They raised their own weapons up to echo his, and gave out mighty cheers.

"Perhaps I ought to have let them free sooner," Oliver commented to Jorah, as he let Firyr and the rest of the men return to their training. "They're acting like stabled cattle that have been given the opportunity to touch grass again."

"They're simply eager, my Lord," Jorah smiled. "I do believe they're earnest in their want for some measure of improvement. They've been training harder than any new batch of men that we've brought in. They've been fed on tales of our victories on campaign, and they're surrounded by men only too eager to tell them more. It makes for a compelling environment, it would seem."

"I ought to have come around more often," Oliver said apologetically. He'd distanced himself to a degree from the training of the new men. Since his return from campaign, he'd felt the need to do as much. There was a strong necessity – he had felt – that he reevaluated his approach on the battlefield, and the breaking of his normal routine had seemed a prerequisite for that.

"You need not worry, my Lord," Jorah said. "We are well aware that you have other business that you need to attend to. That is, after all, why you hired us as your retainers, is it not? So that we can perform duties on behalf of you? We would have no worth if you did not rely on us, at least in this capacity."