A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

"You allowed me in," Commandant Amion noted. "You've skill with a sword?"

"Once," Oliver replied.

"Left hand," Jericho said. "Strange."

"It is no different. Watch the blade. We will see this done at speed," Amion said, deciding that he would get nothing from Oliver with mere words. He'd been afforded the opportunity. Whether it was willing, or whether it was by force, it did not matter. All that mattered was that he made something from it.

He found himself moving again, as he had earlier. Movement was the best way to rid himself of uncertainty. The Scribe Soldiers had been taught that as a skill. Light movement was preferred, movement that wouldn't put them in danger, or change the state of the battlefield too significantly. Something to allow them the chance to feel out the situation they were in.

That was exactly the sort of strike that Amion threw. With his curved half-moon sword, he gave the lightest of slashes towards Oliver's side. It wasn't a strike that he overcommitted to. It was thrown without his body behind it, making the fullest use of his range.

With almost contemptuous ease, Oliver stepped away from it. He felt a strange thrill as that strike passed him by. It was a reminder. Though his hand might have been injured, and his swordsmanship was no doubt lesser, it wasn't as if all his limbs had left him. He still had his legs to rely on, and his agility, should the fight grow tougher.

That one movement, as swift as it was, made both Amion and Jericho pause. That was not the movement of a man inexperienced in combat. It was far too sharp. It reeked of experience, and it reeked of strength. They were suddenly struck by the chilling sensation of having wandered into the tiger's lair.

"They fear you," Ingolsol noted with pleasure. "Their instincts are strong."

'Strongly misguided,' Oliver thought. Perhaps he still had the presence of a man that was as strong as he'd once been, but in that moment, Oliver knew he would have had a hard time matching that strength.

"…I might have miscalculated, Jericho, forgive me," Amion said, reverting back to the Verna tongue.

"How were you to know, without seeing him yourself? Such a monster should not exist. He cannot be barely older than twenty. Why are we only hearing of him now?" Jericho said.

Suddenly, the conclusion was seeming very obvious. The answer to all the questions that hadn't quite made sense. Why had a mere Captain been put in the vanguard? Why had Oliver been so bold as to invite them in? How was it that such a young man already had such a grasp of command?

He was simply that strong. The unlikeliness of his existence was the answer. They'd bet on probability, knowing that Oliver's existence, as such a well-rounded Captain at such a young age was unlikely, and they'd come up short of it.

"You are Third Boundary?" Amion said. Somehow, his sword had slowed. He felt the need to reach with words, rather than with the blade. He didn't want to die ignorant, nor did he want to die with helplessness swimming about in his chest.

"If you call it by the same title that we do," Oliver said. "Then I am that, just as you are that."

"Too young, aren't you? Your age? Twenty-two?" Amion guessed. "You Claudia worshippers – do her Blessings come more easily?"

"I certainly would not call them easy," Oliver said. "Not unless I wished to anger a whole nation. As far as my age, I am eighteen, though I must remark that it is strange that an enemy wishes to know me so well."

He was content to talk, as long as it took, for the fullest might of the Patrick army continued to be in their vanguard. They were gaining ground at an alarming speed. The more time they were given unchecked, the better it was for their whole army.

Amion shared another look with Jericho. The two remained silent. "I have one last question," Amion said. "With the thanks, for the respect you have given me in conversation – what is your name, young warrior? I must introduce myself as well. I am Rogue Commandant Amion of General Phalem's forces.

This is Violet Commandant Jericho, of the same."

Even with their swords still pointed at him, Oliver could not help but smile at the respect that these people – his enemies – showed him. He knew he would never have gotten even a whiff of the same from Yarmdon men. Not in the midst of combat. "I am Oliver Patrick. Captain, Oliver Patrick."

"…Dominus Patrick?" Jericho said, tilting his head. "A son?"

That his mentor's name was known in the Verna lands, when it was so scorned by so many in the Stormfront, made Oliver happier than he ought to have been in such a grim situation.

"Then all makes sense," Amion said. He too broke into a smile. "This world, so full with mystery. Still, the strong birth the strong. The fact is known. We have the honour of crossing swords with the strong, and so we, and we nod, and we give our thanks to you, and to Icaron.

We will have your head, great one, for the sake of our peoples."

He renewed his battle stance. There was fierce determination in his eyes. Learning the name of his foe had done nothing to deter him. Quite the opposite.

"Then I shall tell you the same," Oliver said, returning the gesture, pointing Dominus' curved blade their way. "You will not find victory easy in me."

CLANG!

The blade felt abnormally heavy as Oliver caught it against his guard. That was an attack from a Second Boundary man in Jericho, but Oliver was forced to catch it with the comparative weakness of his single left hand. The grip of his sword ached for a second hand to stabilize it, but it was left lonely.