A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1411 - 1411: Ambitions - Part 8

"I think I… might get a bit what yer talking about," Firyr said.

"Let us see, then," Oliver said.

This time, Firyr came at him more cautiously. He poked forward with his spear, as he circled Oliver, rather than committing to an all out attacking. His eyes tracked even the slightest of movement from Oliver, from the twitching of his fingers, to batting of his eyes in a slow blink.

Oliver gave him some feints of his own, to play with and consider, in the efforts of trying to build that image of the battlefield in Firyr. When Firyr thought himself to be of sound understanding, he came rushing forward, in an attack more crisp than the last. A single potent thrust, straight up the middle.

Gently, Oliver guided the thrust away from himself with his sword. "Indeed, that is the proper use of it. A strong strike to try and evoke a reaction. A combination attack should only be used when you are sure you can seriously injure an opponent, or outright kill him. However, in your case, even a single strong attack is revealing too much."

Oliver jabbed him in the stomach, and he saw Firyr's eyes bulge in both surprise, and pain. It wasn't enough to make the man collapse – for Oliver had taken much of the sting off the blow – but it was enough to give rise to his indignation.

"H-how!" Firyr said. "I've been careful!"

There came a smile from Oliver. "Ah, see this is the unfairness of strength. You have played the fight well, and you seek calmly to map me out, to give rise to the opportunity of your attack. But, the longer this combat is carried out, the more its favour will shift to the advantage of he who is stronger. That is the simple gravity of it. Only by the most perfect battlefield strategy would you have been able to overcome that."

"Is that even possible?" Firyr said, almost bitter now. "Yer too strong, Captain. I was sure I had you there… I thought I knew where your opening was. Or at least, I reckoned I could start pushing you on the back foot. But then you were still able to wallop me, and I don't even understand why."

"Now there's a question," Oliver said. "With perfect battlefield strategy, is it possible to eclipse the distance of two whole Boundaries?"

Oliver feinted at Firyr again, as he considered. "Indeed, I think it to be true. The laws of progress seem to point to the fact that any boulder can be quashed, and obstacles can be overcome – it is only that some require a far greater distance to be covered than others. You could defeat me, if you operated along a tightrope of perfection, perfectly in line with the laws of progress. But the second you strayed from it too far, by the slightest amount, you would be in danger. As you are now."

He drove his sword into Firyr's stomach again, putting him down for good this time. Firyr groaned, as he lay on his back. "I don't get it…" he complained.

"Neither do I," Oliver agreed. "If it was the sort of thing that one could understand from the slightest shift in mindset, I wouldn't still be so inept on the Battle board. It will take time, but it will make you more fierce once you understand it. And, for what it's worth, I think your understanding is more than sufficient to take care quite handily of most Second Boundary men."

"Well… I suppose that's what I'm after…" Firyr said. "Just to win the tourney. Would have been nice to land a blow on you, Captain, but it seems like I've got to wait for a few more years."

With Firyr out of commission for a little while, the training grounds grew significantly quieter. They were still filled with the shouts of battling men, but Firyr's shouts so dwarfed those around him that it seemed like silence in comparison.

Oliver stood, watching, to see if there were any new men that caught his eye. They were all as big and as burly as the other slaves and peasant soldiers that Greeves had snatched for him in the past. Though, he fancied that their morale was far higher than past batches of new recruits had been at that point.

He wondered if that was simply the virtue of having more men, who had once been in their position, around them, to tell tales of glory of valour. Or he wondered if the tournament for them was providing significant motivation.

From the way they battled, it certainly seemed like a place amongst that twenty or so men mattered to them. Many of them were on the edge of exhaustion, but they still pushed themselves in their training with no less ferocity.

Oliver stood by the water barrel, and gave a few quiet words of encouragement as the occasional man came over, to take the wooden cup floating on top of the water, and to see it filled to quench their thirst.

The majority of the men were too stiff to have a proper conversation with. They saluted as Jorah had taught them to, and spoke to Oliver in the most respectful terms that they could. That naturally still came off as a deal too gruff by noble standards.

It was only when Commander Yorick came over, looking thoroughly defeated, that Oliver thought he might have a chance at a proper conversation.

"Captain," Yorick said, saluting with all the crispness that Jorah would have hoped to instil in the new recruits.

"Commander," Oliver said. "Thirsty work, it seems."

Yorick nodded, filled the wooden cup with the cold water of the barrel. Oliver wouldn't have been surprised if the surface of it had ice floating in it, with how cold it had been lately.

"What do you make of the new recruits?" Oliver asked. "Do you suppose you'll find yourself any more cavalrymen amongst them? They're always a deal more difficult to train."

"Some, Captain," Yorick said. "I think they'll be ready before our next campaign."