A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

Lord Blackwell shook his head at that. "You're positively feral, aren't you, Oliver? That is something that you will need to work on. No doubt that you will quickly pick up such things at the Academy, but do so with my warning: in the courts, I had to put out my neck for you. In the absence of your Father, and with the recommendation of Lombard, I've staked a claim on you.

Your actions, be they good or bad, in the future, they will reflect on me."

"And what do I gain from this arrangement, Lord Blackwell?" Oliver spoke directly, but politely. Even in the presence of a Lord, with such wealth draped over him, of the likes that he had never seen, Oliver did not hesitate to speak his mind.

The glint in Blackwell's eyes indicated his surprise, their narrowing soon displayed his irritation, but then the nod that followed both of them seemed to demonstrate a begrudging respect. "Very well. If you wish to be direct, then on this occasion, I will forgive it, and lay it out in the open so that you might better understand it. As an heir to the House of Patrick, you fall under my dominion.

I am your Lord, by right, and by birth. With the position your father left things in, House Patrick is hardly a house any longer. Those of high birth would not have recognized it. But out of respect for your father, I return that name to you, with the expectation that you honour the oath your house gave to mine, all those centuries ago."

"So, you'll protect me in exchange for me fighting for you?" Oliver said, remaining direct.

He was a boy that had suddenly found himself in the garden of nobility, amongst the wealth of the like that he had never seen in his life, following a battle that even the greatest swordsmen would have had nightmares about. His position was tenuous. His head was of clouds, there was no solidness there. With his directness, he sought simple things that he could cling to, reassurances.

Lombard – he trusted Lombard. He'd fought alongside him. But one thing was clear, following what Lord Blackwell had said: Lombard was not sufficient to protect him.

The title that Dominus had given Oliver did not come without its poisons. In order to keep it, and in order to make use of it, he had to accept those poisons, and deal with them as best he could, so that he could keep his eyes on the future that he wished.

"If that is what you wish, boy," Lord Blackwell said. "Though, I would not begrudge you a childhood now. I could consider your loyalty already done and paid for. I could make it such that you never see a battle again, if you so wished, though I would find that a terrible shame."

"I seek strength, Lord Blackwell," Oliver said, dipping his head, in what he assumed would at least convey an attempt at respect. "Much of what you have told me, I do not understand, though I at least gather that the position Dom—my father, left us in, is somewhat complicated. My wish is to experience these true battles that Lombard has informed me of.

Those with tens of thousands of men – those with Great Generals. I want to see just what it means to be strong."

And now, finally, Lord Blackwell was once again smiling. He stuck out a meaty hand, and Oliver shook it. "Now there are terms that we can both understand. If that is the path you wish, if you promise me strength, and you promise me your sword, I will shield you from the politics, and allow you the time you need to grow. Though, before such an agreement, I would ask you one thing."

Oliver did not need to ask what that thing was. Blackwell had already motioned with his hand, and suddenly there was a severing man approaching. Oliver knew not from where he'd appeared – the man had been so quiet as to be invisible, but now he was marching across the neatly cut grass, with a pair of heavy wooden swords in his hands, as though he had been waiting just for that moment.

"Blackwell… The boy has barely just had his wounds close," Lombard protested. "Besides, even if he was well, your strength even amongst the Fourth Boundary Generals is to be admired."

"I don't even have my men here, I don't have the Favour of Command to augment my blade," Blackwell protested. "It should make for a fair fight."

"You forget, the ordinary knight does not have the Favour of Command either. Nor does the boy. Nor does he have any men around him if he did," Lombard informed him.

Begrudgingly, Blackwell relented. He'd taken the swords from the serving man, and now he was just about to give them back, but Oliver was already holding his hand out for a weapon, unable to hide the eagerness from his face.

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"Favour of Command?" He asked as he did so. Blackwell hesitated to give the sword to him. He looked at Lombard for approval, but the Captain merely sighed and shrugged.

The leather grip felt good in Oliver's hands. It felt incredibly good. It was the most real thing he had touched upon since waking up in a foreign bed. He could not contain the sigh of relief that left him. Even the pain in his head seemed to fade, if only a little, and he was able to forget the aching of his wounds just as well.

"The Favour of Command is that which gives a commander strength, when he's leading properly," Lombard informed him. "If I tell you its other name, I expect you might understand it better: Varsharn's Blessing."

"Ah," Oliver nodded. He was more familiar with Gods than the average man. More familiar with them even than a knight. He knew the name Varsharn. He was the Stormfront God of War. The Yarmdon knew him by a different name, but that did not matter.

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