A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

Oliver was admiring his sword, twisting it in his hand, allowing it to roll open his shoulder, as he reminded himself of its weight and its feel. With his preoccupation, he did not notice the look that passed between Lombard and Blackwell, as the two acknowledged his immediate understanding of something that should have been the exclusive knowledge of the officer class.

"You had better give me that other blade, my Lord," Lombard said, in the end. "I make for a better opponent for the boy, given that we're both injured."

"You've lost your sword arm," Lord Blackwell pointed out. He seemed reluctant to part with the weapon. "Besides, aren't you of the Third Boundary yourself? And yet you condemn me for challenging him as a member of the Fourth?"

"Those two things seem to cancel each other out my Lord," Lombard acknowledged calmly. Blackwell's serving man must have agreed, for he gently pried the sword away from his Lord's fingers, and trotted across the grass to hand it to Lombard, who had already begun to take steps back in preparation for a sparring match.

It was only when Oliver had looked up again from his practice, that he was able to acknowledge what had been decided without his ascent. Lombard was gripping his sword ten paces away, an expectant look on his face.

"Your Lord wishes to see the strength that the rest of us have come to respect," Lombard reiterated for him. "These are wooden blades, so feel free to fight with all the strength you have, though I would appreciate it if you did not leave me with any broken bones – these swords are heavy, after all."

Oliver acknowledged that to be true. Despite being made out of wood, Oliver could feel the presence of something weighted inside them. The practice blades mirrored the weight of a true sword rather well – though the distribution of that weight wasn't quite the same, and the balance was off.

Now Lord Blackwell was looking truly excited. He'd completely washed away the serious mask that he'd been wearing earlier, and he paced with wide strides to get between the two of them to serve as a referee.

"We'll play for points, eh? Whoever lands a blow wins the round and gets a point. If both of you land, then whichever wound would have been the most deadly gets the point," Blackwell explained.

"I'm sure the boy is familiar with such rules," Lombard said. But Oliver merely shook his head. He wasn't. That wasn't the way he had Dominus sparred – there would have been no point to it, for he had never been able to land a hit on Dominus.

For some reason, the knowledge that he'd never engaged in that playful type of sparring before made Blackwll's expression dampen, as Oliver caught something akin to pity pass over his face, but he quickly recovered.

"Well then, gentlemen, show me, I bid you. Do not overstrain yourselves for your injuries, but do not hold back either. I wish to see just what it is that Dominus has delivered to me, begin, if you would!"

He swung his arm down to accent the beginning of their combat. Oliver did not hesitate. In his mind, the battle that haunted each thought was far from over. As soon as he took a darting step forward, the comforting blue afternoon sun seemed to fade back to black.

The warmer grasses of Lombard's estate that had not yet caught the winter snows soon felt cold underfoot. There was blood on his hands again. His name was Beam, and there were enemies to slay.

He felt Lombard's aura as the man unleashed it. The Third Boundary, and all the strength and possibilities that came with it, they streamed off him like a gust of wind. It would have been easy to confuse that strength for Jok's. They both had a serpentine quality to them, they both shared the same cunning.

"Hoh!" Blackwell explained.

Oliver had closed the ten-stride distance between them with only three leaping agile bounds. His sword was down by his right, and all his momentum was poised ready for a crushing attack. Lombard had not moved. He waited, calmly, a man accustomed to battle, even if he was not as accustomed to fighting with one arm.

Oliver brought his sword up in an undercut, rather than an overhand. It would have surprised another enemy, but not Lombard. The Captain calmly tapped it aside as though it was nothing but a childish attempt at hostility.

But Oliver was already chaining his next attack. He recalled how Dominus had been able to so effectively use the same strike in repetition, walking the tightrope of combat so tightly, that he could find the efficacy in beginner combinations like that, the type of thing that a warrior should have expected.

He sought understanding of that memory as he threw his next slash towards Lombard's left. Calmly, once more, Lombard shifted his sword in the way. He didn't take the strike head-on, but battered Oliver's sword away at its very tip, costing Oliver valuable time in steadying it.

But Oliver had already been readying himself for a different kind of attack. Even as he felt his sword be dragged off to the side, he was eyeing Lombard's front leg, which seemed ever so close. His leg was pulled back, and he went for the calf kick, mimicking the technique that he had seen Dominus use, and almost replicating it perfectly.

Lombard's eyes widened in surprise, and then understanding, as he too matched up the same memories in his mind. He pulled his leg back, before Beam could connect, narrowing his stance more than would otherwise have been comfortable, refusing to make the same mistake that Ingolsol had.

But here, Oliver employed old strategies with the new advantage that he held. His poison water style was rushing back into his mind. He could feel it just as easily as he could feel breath streaming into his lungs. It was that electrifying awareness that he'd cultivated in the midst of battle, it possessed him, as he felt the balance of all things.