A Time of Tigers - From Peasant to Emperor

The Syndran shifted, glancing along the line of men. More than a few were sharing glances. It was a hard thing to agree to all at once. Even harder to trust. Until they held coin in their hands, they likely wouldn't believe it.

"You… do not ask why I was made a slave," the Syndran man noted. "Despite my rank."

"Murder?" Oliver guessed.

The man flinched, but nodded. "A Captain. Can you guarantee that I will not do the same to you?"

That brought a wolfish grin from Oliver, and it even elicited smiles from Greeves and Judas.

"That is something that I can propose, if you wish it," Oliver said. "You may attempt to strike me down at any point. Now, or later, I will accept any challenge. If you so much as manage to land a single line of blood on my skin, I will double your pay."

The Syndran flinched, his eyes widening for a second. He flexed his wrists, feeling the freedom that came once the chain had been gotten rid of. The look in his eyes was exactly that which he claimed to be – they were the eyes of a murderer, and the eyes of a thoroughly dangerous man.

"You believe so, do you?" The Syndran said. "Oliver Patrick… I think I might have heard that name once or twice before. You foreigners love your stories. But the Syndran might be different. If not for my lowly place of birth, I would not have stopped at the rank of Sergeant. My spear can end any man.

If you offer me a challenge and you offer a reward, I will take you up on it."

The man stepped out in front of the rest. He was clearly different from them. None yet had dared to speak, apart from him. The bruises that scored his cheeks and his neck seemed to have found their explanation. He was a slave that had not yet been broken.

"How long have you been in chains for?" Oliver asked.

"Five years," the man replied.

Oliver's eyebrow twitched. He felt a respect for the man at that. Even the most resilient slave would lose his fire after a year of hard labour under the whip, yet this man hadn't.

"I accept your challenge," Oliver said. "I hadn't intended for you to reach for a weapon to strike me straight away, but I suppose there is no better showing of my sincerity than to do so. Step outside. I have no spear to offer you – will a sword do in its place?"

The man responded immediately. "Any weapon. I would not complain. None have dared to put one in reach for years."

"Then take it," Oliver said, throwing him the sword that he'd been gripping, and stepping out of the rugged roundhouse, into the snow beyond.

The man snatched it out of the air, a predator's look on his face. He looked Greeves and Judas up and down – and Greeves in particular – seeming to be coming to a decision about whether he should be cutting them down or not. In the end, he saw Oliver's exposed back, marching well clear of the door, and he decided to follow it.

"Fine," Greeves said, "the rest of you get outside as well. You'd do well to hammer this lesson home, I suppose."

The others responded as though they were still in chains, and the merchant had struck them by the whip. They nervously shuffled out into the snow, unsure of themselves, squinting at the bright winter sun that shone down at them.

"What is your name?" Oliver asked without turning.

"Firyr," the man said, his own name feeling foreign on his tongue after so long spent without disuse. "Where is your weapon, noble? I do not see another on your belt."

"I do not need one to best you Firyr," Oliver told him without a shred of condescension. "I do not intend to insult you – this is merely the difference between where I currently stand, and where you do. Come at me whenever you're ready." Your journey continues with My Virtual Library Empire

Somehow, Oliver's words then were worse than years of abuse endured under the whiphand of his slave masters. Though he'd been called worse than rotten, and beaten for his disobedience, none had ever truly expressed a disdain for his strength. If ever someone had made the impossible mistake of calling him weak, they hadn't said it with the fullest confidence in their voice.

They'd only said it meaning to insult him. With the boy across from him, it was entirely different.

He was unarmoured and unarmed and had freely given Firyr the fine sword that now sat in his hand. Firyr looked down at the weapon, realizing that he cost more than his own life, easily – far more than Greeves had paid for him. A vein bulged on his forehead. Without his strength, he had nothing.

"If I kill you," Firyr said, "then I still want my coin. Five times the amount – and I will be leaving here with it in my hand."

Oliver nodded. "You have my word. Greeves will take care of it. Do not hold back."

"I shall not!" Firyr said, bounding across the snow, kicking up a cloud of it with his powerful limbs. His shirt was far too thin to reveal the wiry figure that lay beneath. He was underweight for a man his size, but his muscles were hard to compensate for it. The speed that he managed to reach, despite his large figure, was awe striking.

The slaves watched, finally a trace of true life in their eyes, seeing something spectacular. Even they could recognize the man's strength at a glance.

The sword was unfamiliar in Firyr's hands compared to a spear, but that didn't mean he was incompetent with it. As he neared Oliver, he allowed his arm to drift up, making room for a wide slashing blow, intending to cut the boy in two, if he could at all manage it.