A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

Chapter 397 Awakening - Part 9

His blade went crashing towards Lombard's shoulder before the man could comfortably ready himself. He was forced to twist his body with that narrow stance that Oliver had forced him into. And then Oliver's eyes twinkled golden, as he saw the winning opportunity, ferocity poured out from him, along with blood lust, and he was Beam once again.

WHAP WHAP WHAP.

Shoulder, side, chest, his blade battered three different places at once, forcing Lombard to try and keep up with him – he couldn't. Beam had already secured the advantage when he compromised his footing. The Captain seemed more shocked than anyone, as Beam ducked low, and swept the man's narrowed legs from under him in a low kick, sending him collapsing to the ground.

Beam was on him with a ferocity before he could even react, steaming like a wolf, his sword was ready, as he held it against Lombard's throat, as he straddled him, holding him in place with his body weight.

"Yield," Lombard said icily. Beam could hear the irritation in his voice.

"Oliver," Blackwell corrected. "I believe we said to the first point."

With those words, Beam fought to regain himself. With a few breaths to steady himself, he stood up from Lombard, and was Oliver once again. His clothing was rumpled.

"Sorry," Oliver grumbled, realizing that he'd gone overboard. There was dirt on Lombard's sleeve from where Beam had forced him to the floor.

Lombard shook his head, regaining his calmness. He managed to look dignified, even as he hauled himself up off the ground to dust the grass off from him. "No, it is not you that I am irritated with," Lombard assured him. "You fought well, as your Lord bid you to. That reflects well on me, as your guardian."

With a bob of his head, Oliver hesitantly accepted what Lombard said, still unsure whether he had done something unforgivable. He turned back to see the Lord's reaction, but it was not the man himself that caught his attention first. It was the maid, Marianne, who was standing stunned, as she stood with a bucket of gardening supplies in her hand.

Feeling Oliver's gaze on her, she regained herself, and hurried back inside, closing the door behind her with a click. At the same time, the shutters of a window on the second floor gave a similar click, as they were closed, and a shadow drew back from the curtains.

"Marvellous! MARVELLOUS!" Lord Blackwell said, shouting the second part of his explanation at the sky with a clenched fist, as though the horse that he'd bet on had just come first. Gleefully, he came striding across the grass to grasp Oliver by his shoulder.

"Better!" Blackwell exclaimed, speaking to Lombard, as he sided next to him. "He's even better than you proclaimed him to be, Captain."

"He might well be," Lombard acknowledged slowly, though when he said it, the words seemed to have a different meaning. It was as though he suspected Oliver had progressed once again, since his time resting.

"And you yourself aren't as weak as you made the loss of your sword arm out to be," Blackwell said, clapping him on the back with a meaty hand. "You still retained your crispness, did you not? How would you rate your strength? Well? What has you looking so glum, good man?"

"The middle of the Third Boundary, I imagine," Lombard said. He was not one to overestimate his own abilities. "And I am not particularly glum. I was merely irritated to have been caught out, as I was."

Lombard's declaration forced Blackwell into silence. "…Truly? You have a better eye for these things. I only know strength," he had begun to speak far quieter than he had earlier, as though they were discussing a secret. "Do you mean to say that the boy's strength exceeds that of the Third Boundary?"

"At the very least, he can walk amongst it, if the conditions are right," Lombard said, not allowing his own feelings to get in the way of the assertion of a fact.

"Oliver, how many times has Claudia blessed you?" Blackwell asked, his voice still hushed, and his tone just as serious as it had been talking of Lordly duties.

"Once," Oliver replied calmly.

"That places you in the Second Boundary…" Blackwell acknowledged with a slight intake of breath. "And yet, you fight evenly with a man of Lombard's experience, a man in his Third…"

He went quiet. Deep in thought. He left them standing there for a whole minute. And then that minute stretched into two. The serving man behind him began to grow uncomfortable, as though expecting something was wrong. He shuffled nervously on his feet.

"Next week," Lord Blackwell declared. "We'll have him sent next week."

"To The Academy, Lord Blackwell?" Lombard clarified. From the tone of his voice, he seemed to have been expecting that. "But they are halfway through the year. Will that not pose problems?"

"I care not. What say you, Oliver? Speak plainly to me once more. You want strength, do you not?" Lord Blackwell asked.

"I do. Will this Academy really provide me with that?" Oliver said, unable to hide the doubt that coloured his opinion on the topic.

"The Academy itself is a fine place to learn – a fine place. Many fine knights have been flushed out through its bowels. Though, had the laws been different, I would have admitted that it is likely not the place for you. But go there you must – and learn, you shall. As much as you are willing to be taught, that much you shall learn.

Will you go there, despite the animosity you're likely to receive, and despite the struggles you're likely to have there, owing to your lack of knowledge, and your missing the first three and a half years of its instruction?" Blackwell asked.

Oliver frowned. He wasn't that convinced. He knew nothing of this Academy, and still, no one had properly explained it to him. It seemed like a place of tutelage, but a tutelage in what things? He said there were knights pushed out of it – did that mean it was merely battle training then?

If that was the case, how could it possibly be better than simply going to a true battle in itself, and throwing one into the reality of it? Instead of the aimless theorizing, and supposing, he would have much preferred to actually do it.