A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

"Failure! FAILURE!" They roared. How was it that the children screamed the loudest?

He found himself gripping the wooden of the bench so tightly that his knuckle went white. He had failed. He acknowledged that to himself. Almost madly, he acknowledged that to himself, every time they came, and every time he had the strength to reply. Experience more content on empire

Like a wolf, he growled back at them. 'Aye, I failed. I failed, damn you. But I will get stronger for it.'

When he opened his eyes again, he was smiling. These were exactly the type of problems that he wished to solve. He did not know the professor's name, not yet. But the man could teach him things, many things. Oliver got that sense from him. The next time that he had to battle, he would not be so weak.

"Information," he said, more to himself. But the professor overheard it, and he frowned.

"I don't think that answers—" he began.

"I would gather more information out of it. Your Burning Building – it buys time, and it buys attention. If we can send commands to the Burning Building, then order it to stand its ground. Men fight better when they are not fleeing, even if those men are surrounded. With no cavalry of our own, we will not catch the enemy, so the best we can do is hope for information."

This time, no one laughed. The boy in the front row, with his gangly arms, and his long hair that gathered in a mop around him, even he was looking to the professor, an unsure expression on his face. He wasn't so sure that it was the wrong answer this time.

"…Good," the professor said at last. To Oliver, he suddenly sounded tired. "That's good."

There was the loud sound of wooden heels thundering hard onto the tiled floor as the boy at the front hastily brought himself to his feet. "But professor!" He cried, the irritation obvious in his voice. "Aren't you being too lenient? Just because he's a new student, and doesn't have the foggiest of what he's talking about, I don't think there's any reason for you to indulge him?

This isn't what you taught us – you've taught us tactics, and true strategy. What he talks about is just… vague problem-solving. Anyone could come up with the answer of gathering more information, without half the knowledge that we have."

The professor listened to the outburst patiently, as Oliver received the harsh glares of the boy, and even harsher points, as he accented his words with physical venom. The boy was taller, now that he stood, those long thin limbs of him raising him to tall heights, like stilts, and his long straight black hair danced around as he aggressively made his points.

"And what would you have solved this with then, Gargon?" The professor asked, without only the smallest amount of irritation, despite receiving the full brunt of the student's venom.

The boy was only too eager to reply. He puffed himself up. "The distance is irrelevant. Force the soldiers at a hard march, and employ the typical infantry net. We'd have blood in response for it, and even be able to pin the cavalry if the conditions were favourable."

"To cover a distance of a mile?" Oliver said, fighting back a laugh. "To catch them before the Burning House has burnt itself out, you'd have the soldiers sprint it. You'd have them do their best work getting to the battlefield, only to be exhausted by the time they arrive. Now you'll lose five hundred."

Oliver had trained with the soldier's under Lombard. They were well-trained men. Fit men. Their endurance was admirable. They could fight for hours at a time quite comfortably. But that was not an all-out sprint, that was a carefully measured pace.

Even at an all-out sprint, they'd be running hard, in full armour, for nearly seven minutes if they were fast, to cover that mile. The air would be long gone from their lungs by then. Of course, given a minute or two, they could soon recover that – but this boy wanted them into battle immediately, against attackers that would likely flee.

The youth bristled at that, and made his reply. The professor seemed content to let them argue it out. "What do you know of soldiery, boy? You've barely been here ten minutes. I don't know what hole you've crawled out from, but I bet you hardly know how to swing a sword. The tutelage of the Academy is second to none.

Would you mock me, by assuming that we are equal, when you lack its many teachings?"

"Gargon," the professor warned. "We are speaking of strategy, not status. Keep it civil, and answer the question."

But there was a smile waiting on Oliver's face. He'd always been easily bristled, always been one to bite. He'd bitten back at Greeves long before he had the competence to sustain such an act. Against a youth like Gargon, someone so fresh-faced, so free of scars, Oliver was not likely to tolerate him so freely.

"No, I would not assume that we are equal," Oliver said. "Perhaps in strategy, you might know more terms than I, but I can see from the thinness about your arms that you have no clue of combat. You would turn your soldiers into walls of paper before you even have them battle the enemy.

Do you not see that your professor brought this problem to you because he knew that you could not – or should not – solve it with what you've been taught? He tempted you with it, with a mile, and you fell for it."

Gargon's eyes were full of anger, and he was tearing into his lip, ready to utter an angry response, but when he heard how Oliver finished, he rounded on the professor, to see if it was true. The old man merely gave a wry smile, and shrugged.

"I am a strategist, after all," he said, amused. "Would you not expect me to be setting traps within my problems?" And then, when it looked like Gargon would physically explode with rage, as his face purpled, he made an effort to placate him. "I imagine Patrick likely would have been the least receptive to this trap of mine, since I had not intended it for a student.

Perhaps this is one of those rare occasions where an outsider's perspective is likely superior, no?"

The professor seemed to be directing that question to Oliver, as though asking for his assistance in calming Gargon, who'd grown rather disembroiled in his effort to assert the superiority of his knowledge.