A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor
Chapter 1568 - 1568: The Strategy of Defence - Part 3

Some corridors would be sided by a long wall of windows, letting in the light of the day. To walk down such a corridor, to Oliver, felt like the highest of luxuries. To have the light streaming in onto the tiled path ahead of him – and complicated those tiles were, with mosaics in places, painting the picture of various battles.

With each passing day, he appreciated the residence more and more. With his mind feeling increasingly light, he often spent nearly half an hour just gazing at what was around him. There was love in every brick. It told of a stonemason with the highest level of compassion and loyalty for his Lord. The pillars that buttressed the wall at regular intervals had been chiselled with spirals along their length, or attached with guardians of gargoyles, or given little riveted patterns that ran in rings around its width.

The place was a treasure, of the highest sort, and in that building that was a treasure itself, even more treasures were housed. One could sit upon a bench, outside one of the many rooms, enjoying the sunrise, as it streamed through the windows, and one could look down and know that it was priceless.

Merely from the wait, and the dark varnish, and all the carvings sewn into it, one could guess that it was centuries old, at the very least. And the Blackwell estates were home to many such treasures. That Lord Blackwell could make the sacrifice of giving it up all at once, for the sake of their campaign, it boggled Oliver's mind. It was such a display of commitment, he'd thought continually. That, or it was complete destructiveness.

The gardens around the estate were just as vast and endless. Hedges mazed over large spans of ground, indented to easily get lost any who would dare enter inside. Flowers bloomed in the glassy confines of green houses, despite the snow that gathered around them. Trees, trunks thicker than several men put together, were enshrined by low walls, protecting their roots, and their centuries worth of knowledge.

And then, behind the estate, just before the defensive walls began to run up out of the ground, there was a graveyard, with mausoleums, and crypts, and simple gravestones sewn amongst them. It was there that Oliver dragged Professor Volguard to, and it was there that Oliver had spent hours wandering himself, looking at the names of the dead, tracing back the linage of the Blackwell's.

Amongst them, there was a newer grave, cut mere weeks ago, made of marble, and chiselled with the name Ferdinand Blackwell. The ground above it was recently turned, and the soil still hadn't changed its colour to match what was around it. In that scrap of land, Oliver made sure that not a single flake of snow dwelled for long. It was a soothing activity, to keep the gravestones clean, and he had a sense that the dead did appreciate it.

Oliver saw the names of the Lord Blackwell before the current, and the Lady Blackwell, and he had wondered upon them, in hearing that it was the current Lord Blackwell that had carried the house back to its prime.

Then, in the centre of the garden, it was an ancient crypt that he continually wandered towards. The name had been chiselled into stone centuries ago, and now stood faded. One could only see the 'Black' of the Blackwell title. The wooden door that had once stood protecting the marble coffin inside had long since rotted, and as soon as Oliver had tried to push it open, it had collapsed in his hands.

"So this is the subject of your curiosity," Volguard said. "Evidently you don't need me to tell you that it is centuries old?"

"I figured that much out," Oliver said. "I'm having one of the men fashion up a new door. It shouldn't be too long. I felt that he deserved that respect."

"Even if when the enemy arrive, they might well plunder every scrap of land and burn it to the ground? And the people would celebrate such a fact, General Patrick, for we are rebels now. And to rebels, one can do what they wish. No punishment is ever harsh enough," Volguard said.

He eyed Oliver carefully, as the young General crouched down, to dust a path of snow away from the entrance to the crypt. Oliver continued to smile, despite his words. "Then we had better not lose, Professor."

"…Do you have a plan?" Volguard asked. "You have seemed increasingly relaxed with each passing day."

"How could I?" Oliver said. "This is a problem far beyond me. I have no solutions. I could not even dare to ask for one."

"Then, what is the source of your confidence?" Volguard said.

"Is it confidence?" Oliver said. "I don't know. I am not certain in our victory, so I could not say that it is confidence… But I do have the sense that we are doing the right thing, and what could be better reassurance than that?"

Volguard regarded him, trying to see through the strange aura that Oliver had built around himself. With each passing day, the young General seemed to change more. Even for Oliver Patrick, it was a degree of such rapid change that it came to be unnerving.

"So, tell me, good Professor," Oliver said, standing. "Who is that man that lies there, with such a proud look on his face?"

A mason had carved the dead Lord's likeness into the lid of his coffin. One could see the strength of his beard through the harsh lines that portrayed it. His brow was stern, and the sword clasped between his two hands was held tightly, by two broad shoulders. It was easy to see the relation of such a man with the likes of Lord Blackwell. It was only the long hair that they held differently, for Lord Blackwell kept his hair cut short, like a soldier. And this dead man seemed to prefer to keep a circlet on his brow, with some sort of jewel embedded in it – a matter that would likely not have been allowed to fly in modern times, for how similar it seemed to a crown.