A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

The parrying of a spear thrust from behind. The turning of that into a twist, and he dodged another thrust from his front, and brought his sword down onto the neck of the man nearest to him. The panic that came with that, all part of the same picture, the same flourish. Danger now, with the necessity of changing direction. A good timing from his foe, aiming the thrust at where Oliver would land. A more difficult problem, without sword ready to solve it. Armour played its role. Gauntlet thrust into its path, using steel to divert steel. Another rush, as Oliver remembered the technique, from a lifetime past lived.

Then sword again as payment, on the man that had missed the opportunity to end him. A good game, a good sport, with a line of red and a pool of blood to show for it.

Fear now, evident in the eyes of those that still faced him. It became clear that three men would not be enough. A strange sensation in himself as he saw that fear. Something stirred within his belly. He became aware of a feminine joy along with it. The excitement about his feet, that which made him want to move with the lightness of a feather, and all the risk of a cat that still had nine lives to go.

For now, he put those sensations away. His interest was too captured still. The feeling of his hands on the grip of his sword. The exquisite terror as his heart beat violently against his ribcage. The sweat that dripped from his forehead. The mounting threat of exhaustion, if he moved at his best for too long. But then, despite it all, that beautiful painting, that all those things added to.

A confrontation. Three men left, and Oliver chose one of them. A contest of speed. Shooting off from the back foot. A good few metres of distance to cover. Daring the man to react in time. Using power, where once he had used grace. Spear crept up, but sword was faster. A slash across the chest. A strange familiarity to that slash. An old friend, practised a thousand times. Oliver grinned, feeling it. A sense of belonging. Something that he'd earned, something that belonged to him. It made his heart beat with the fiercest joy.

Again, the same dash, the same speed, the same slash. Another man brought low by it. The sacred simplicity, impenetrable, practised a thousand times.

The memory of rock beneath foot, stream to the side. He could hear that music now, as he pushed himself further into that stream of men, fighting by his lonesome. Just him, and his sword, and the powerful overwhelming urge for that to be all there was to him for the longest of times.

A man stronger than the rest, he saw. Like a bear, somehow mixed in with a pack of wolves. Unsure as to how Oliver was able to tell his strength, but he knew it more certainly than he knew the ground beneath his feet. A difference in the magnitude of aura. Something just above that of the realm of normality. The man had broken through something, but Oliver forgot what.

A stern look on a bearded face. A sword wielder, this one, barking orders to his men, as he prepared his own long sword, straight up, point in the air, inviting Oliver in, with hand pressed against shoulder.

That was familiar to Oliver too. A sword stance that he'd seen thousands of times. A wonder of how he knew that. It didn't matter. There was time enough for all that. There was a whole lifetime's worth of time. A childish selfishness, to run wherever it was that interest pursued.

The same recklessness that he'd dealt with lesser men. He rushed in. The same charge, the same slash. This time, with no blood as a reward.

The swordsman brought his blade down, and parried the attack, the force of it sending him tumbling. Oliver looked down on his own ringing blade, confused. A loss. Why did that feel even more exciting than the win? Why did he know to rush in, and push the attack? Why was it more rewarding to see the man gradually crumble after he'd put up such a resistance?

The game was more exciting the more difficult it was. Surrounded again, the Second Boundary man still having not fallen. Oliver's heart beat with more enthusiasm.

A different opponent now, a difference in approach. Wading in too deep. When was it that the ordinary soldiers that had been around him were replaced by those men wearing complete suits of plate armour? There was an aura of menace to them. Something that Oliver didn't like, that made him growl.

A seriousness now. He cut down the Second Boundary man in front of him, dodging under the blade, feeling the rush of the dangerousness of the manoeuvre. But then his gaze was on those men around him. He felt something from behind their visors that was almost inhuman and corrupt. That which took away from the honour of the game that he'd been engaging in.

Something in their hearts. An unnaturalness. He seized upon the first of them before he even knew truly what he was doing. Dodging straight into the heart of danger, ducking under the swing of a great sword, and slashing for a neck, drawing blood in the process.

Eyes looking around, wearing gold in them. Anger. Feeling a sense for the slightest bit of his enemy's fear, yet there was something else overriding it, something that he liked not. He reached for something in himself, as naturally as he might reach to scratch something on his back.

"Stay," he told them, having every confidence that they would, but growling the command regardless, remembering something in the process as he did. Ingolsol. Then, quickly after, Claudia. They that danced with him, on the very edge of his heart. They that inhabited the same forest as he, and played the same games, with different intentions. They that hated that which was in front of him as much as he.