A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1567 - 1567: The Strategy of Defence - Part 2

He felt a spell of nervousness take over him. He had to admit to himself that he'd been off his game, given his new position. He couldn't approach the Battle board with the same detachment that he usually did. He'd known since the first instant that he set foot on the battlefield, that his weakness would eternally be applying the theoretical to the real world, and now that he was in such a position where he was forced to, every day he found himself growing weaker.

He regarded the young General swinging on his chair across from him, ever so casually. Something had changed in Oliver, as the pressure had built up. Something had broken. It was with a sense of sadness that Volguard saw it happen. The stench of defeat sat very well in the air, yet there was something else amongst the ashes of it. Something had died, that was true. If he looked at Oliver for long enough, he could still see its remains. Something had died, but something had been born as well. There was a freshness to him, an excitement in existence. It might very well have bordered on madness. Volguard could not exactly tell if it was a good thing, though at times, the results did indeed seem to be favourable.

Oliver's heightened attention to his men was something that Volguard decided was at least favourable. He'd always been the attentive sort. He'd said that when he first began training his troops that the only way they'd raise an army quickly was to play to the strengths of the individual. Somehow, however, he was doing that even more so now, without realizing it, than he was when he'd done it with the fullest of his attentions. He almost seemed to be enjoying the position that he was in. Or else, he was simply enjoying existence in general.

All that Oliver did now, he did so with the most extreme degree of casualness, which made him all the more frightening. The position that he had worked Volguard into, whilst hardly looking at the board was one such example. The old strategist licked his lips, and clenched his fingers about the table. Oliver had asked him to serve him in the capacity of Chief Strategist, but what use was he, if he still lost to the man himself?

He glared at the board, almost angrily. 'I cannot lose,' he told himself. 'If I lose here, how can I be trusted when the Battle comes?'

"Hm?" Oliver said, looking at him all of a sudden, with those different eyes of his, as if he had borrowed a fresh pair, ones that seemed to see straight through Volguard. "You know, Professor, those defences that you've put in place, they give us more options than I realized. Didn't you say that your strengths were purely theoretical?"

Volguard straightened. It was the opposite of a knife targeting his weak point. It was as if a musical instrument had been played, that achieved just the perfect degree of resonance. Volguard felt himself soften, a small degree of warmth spread through his heart. He realized that, far beyond loyalty, and far beyond simply serving a promising youth that he respected, he simply liked Oliver Patrick deep down. He found him to be a good man, someone worth serving, even if it meant humiliation at the hands of another, far more capable General. "And yet here, General Patrick, you have bested me. I see no way out of this entanglement."

Then Oliver looked down at the board, and tilted his head, ever so slightly surprised. "Huh," he said, and then he followed it with a shrug. "Well, I suppose it's good to know that can happen sometimes… Oh, would you visit the Blackwell estates with me? I was hoping that you could tell me something of the men buried in the graves there."

His celebration of his victory was nonexistent. There was no damage at all to Volguard's pride. He had to shake his head with a wry smile, wondering why it was that he had ever felt so alarmed being defeated by the hands of this young General. He was so easily distracted as of late, so interested in everything and nothing at the same time. It was worrying, but equally, it was exciting. Volguard hardly knew if he was witnessing the breaking of a man, or the blossoming.

"We can," Volguard said. "I had wished to talk with you more about Blackwell's campaign, and our own expectations in defence, so that does work rather nicely. However, before we do, there's a question for my curiosity that I would pose: have you been reading more works of the First King?"

"Ah…" Oliver said, looking almost guilty. "No, I haven't. I think I probably should, because I enjoyed them so much before. But I don't know, it just doesn't feel right at the moment. Why do you ask?"

"No reason at all," Volguard said, standing. "None whatsoever."

The Blackwell estates, and all its classy rooms, were where Oliver and his highest ranking officers found themselves sleeping on the evening. They were still replete with all the refinements of the previous residents that had owned the rooms – quilts embroidered and stitched in silk and wool, with likely more time spent in their making than it took to build some of the village houses.

Paintings were still on the wall, and silverware still sat upon some of the desks. The place had been left in a hurry, but Lord Blackwell, and what remained of his family, did not scorn them any of the minor furnishments.

Oliver's young Commanders had met the rooms with particular excitement. Oliver had overheard what Firyr's reaction had been. He'd almost been a monkey in the noises he'd made, as he'd jumped onto the bed with his muddy boots, and delighted in its softness. But Oliver had continued walking down the long tiled corridor, pretending not to have heard, as Verdant had done his best to hide a rueful smile.

The estates were vast. In terms of buildings, they were second only to Ernest's church. They were constructed of long, magnificent stone wings, spanning off in different directions, with tens and tens of rooms, and likely – at one point – a seemingly infinite number of serving girls required to maintain it all.