A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

The rest of them formed up, protecting Amelia and Pauline, as they dealt with the rest of the pack that stormed through the trees. This was a smaller pack, with only nine, but they'd been doing the same thing for approaching half an hour now, with packs of a much larger size.

Even against the stronger enemies, Kaya and Jorah's spears found themselves to be effective, whilst Karesh and Blackthorn's swords dealt with any foolish enough to get within range.

In such situations, Verdant was almost an unfair advantage. Gavlin seemed to think so. He'd noted more than once that it was inappropriate for a member of staff to be serving a mere student, but Verdant had rebuffed the disapproval with practised politeness, and Gavlin had not pressed it any further.

Every one of the animals that Verdant touched with his spear, he left a sizable hole, brutalizing the corpse. Oliver had seen Kaya and Karesh regarding a couple of the bodies, seeing a fist-sized hole with every wound that Verdant inflicted. It seemed far too big a hole for the simple spear point that he'd dealt the wound with, but Oliver thought he was beginning to understand why.

Despite his clumsiness, Verdant's Blessing seemed to have given him physical strength approaching Olivers, or perhaps even exceeding it. Every strike he landed – when he was lucky enough to land one – was like a shot from an alchemist's cannonball. It left the bodies messy.
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Whether that physical strength was simply a symptom of Bohemothia's Blessing, or whether it was a magnification of Verdant's own innate talents, it was hard for Oliver to tell. He still made a note of it, and decided that it would be worth testing in future. If only to get a better understanding of Oliver's own wound…

The moment he thought of it, his head afflicted him with an almost immobilizing pain. He grit his teeth, and turned away from the others, so that they could not see the pained expression on his face. It felt as though there was a giant fist inside his brain, punching from the inside out.

His breath heaved, and sweat coated his forehead as he tried to recover. Such a thing was not infrequent, not lately. He distracted himself from the pain with thoughts of progress, with the things that he could control, such as the need for the retainers, the future of the Games, his future on the battlefield, his need to grow stronger… But they were indeed distractions.

The true source of his discomfort, that pain that came when the world was quiet, that he suffered in silence, he still had no idea how to cure that.

His hand shook, and he heaved in deep breaths to steady himself. He hoped that his quest against the Boulder Crab would offer some sort of insight into his recovery. At the very least, it couldn't hurt, could it? He was running out of options at this point.

He heard the rest of them finishing up. He didn't look back as he set off again, calling out a command and using his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his forehead. "We march, quickly now," Oliver said. He pretended not to hear the sighs of exhaustion that came from Amelia and Pauline.

They hadn't complained about the distance, not with words, but the posture of their bodies said far more than words ever could. They were out of their depths like this.

A part of Oliver asked himself why he'd dragged them out this far, for his own selfish reasons. A part of Galvin seemed to be asking that too. The man spoke to him amiably enough, but his eyes seemed to be searching deeper, for reasons that Oliver didn't want to offer, that he hid from the whole world, including himself.

…

…

They trudged through the snow, up the hillside. Another five minutes, the map told Oliver. That was one of the few skills of an intellectual sort that he'd been able to immediately apply. Never before in his life had he attempted to read a map – but with some patient guidance from Verdant, he'd quickly got the hang of it.

And it had felt good to get that under his belt so quickly. Almost depressingly so, as though he was a dullard, normally incapable of progress. But it was more that he simply hadn't been exposed to the same sort of academic tasks that the nobility took for granted.

With a strained smile, he'd have to work his brain over time, in an attempt to imitate in minutes what they'd spent a lifetime trying to acquire.

For mathematics, advanced strategy, and the more complex facts of the medica, those were impossible feats. Even reading and writing were difficult. But map reading came so easily that it was a delight, and it helped prove to himself that it would be possible to achieve a more respectable level of competence in the other subjects as well, in time.

Besides, finding the right direction was something that had always come easily to Oliver. It was one of the first things that Dominus had praised him for.

The last part of their march also happened to be the most physically taking. Pauline and Amelia dropped even further to the back of the group. Jorah eyed them worriedly. He and his friends were aching just as badly, but they were nowhere near as in as bad a shape as the two girls.

He'd taken Oliver's orders that they keep the two girls safe seriously, and Oliver could see him biting his lip, anxiously looking between Oliver marching forward, and the two girls trailing further behind.

Oliver should have stopped. He knew that. But he couldn't. His hands ached. His headache. He needed to fight this Boulder Crab like a drunk needed a drink.

It was the only hope of salvation he had. The pain in his stomach and head were growing worse, and worse. He could hardly turn his face for fear of revealing the pain there. The path in front of him was distorted by that perpetual dizziness that had assailed him for so long.

He couldn't stop, no matter what. No one chided him for that. They should have, likely, but no one did. He hadn't known any of them that long, those retainers of his, and yet already he was sure that they were too good for him.