"It isn't the work of a noble, though," Lasha said, joining him. Her statement sounded more like a question. She seemed to think there was a deeper meaning in what he was doing, as though it would be some hidden part of what it took to be a grand swordsman.
"That makes our nobles rather weak then, don't you think?" Oliver said, as he plonked the heart down into the snow, and then went searching for a liver. "These are important tasks. If you can't do something yourself, why would you expect it of your retainers? Mm, maybe that's a bad argument… I don't know anything about smithing, but I'd still expect a smith to make me a sword.
Maybe my point is just that being able to do something is better than not being able to do something?"
It wasn't exactly profound, and he frowned at his own lack of eloquence on the matter, but before he knew it, Verdant was kneeling next to him, nodding solemnly, and setting to work on removing the Hobgoblin's tongue.
"No, my lady… Your clothes…" Pauline's feeble attempt at stopping Lasha echoed out. The girl kneed in the snow next to them, using her skirt to shield her knees from the snow's bite. Soon, she was clipping away the fingers of the Hobgoblin.
"I suppose, for a swordsman, knowing the body is pretty important too," Oliver decided, as she worked next to him.
It was a strange sight, one that would have baffled any passersby if they were unlucky enough to stumble into that Hobgoblin clearing. To see Lady Blackthorn of all people butchering a corpse, joined by two other nobles, whilst their retainers watched on.
A training spear rushed past Oliver's side. If he'd had his sword, he would have rounded on the enemy in an instant for such a rudimentary mistake – he'd committed far more to the failed strike than he should have.
But with a spear in hand, that proved to be far more difficult than he would have liked. The weapon felt unwieldy in his grasp. He couldn't shift his momentum and press the attack like he could with the sword.
Of course, that didn't exactly matter. His physical strength and speed within the Academy were unparalleled. It so easily made up for his lack of technique – as it did with Verdant – that it was almost disappointing.
The boy that he was sparring stumbled and grunted, as he received the tip of the wooden spear onto his pad-armour. Even with that padding to protect him, and with Oliver taking most of his bite from the strike, the boy still looked stunned.
Finally, the Close Combat training class rolled around. Here, they were taught to wield a variety of weapons, rather than just focusing on the sword. The Professor – a quiet man by the name of Kolan – insisted on the necessity of understanding a range of weapons in order to defeat the enemy.
The class had begun with him drilling them in specific weapons. The shield and short spear were one – an exciting combination, said to be used by the Syndrans, further north than the Yarmdon – and then they'd gone on to maces and axes, focusing merely on controlling the weapon and performing the basic strikes.
The Professor had firmly expressed the strengths of each weapon, and how that dictated one's purpose in combat with them. The purpose of the mace was to use force to break the enemy, whereas the purpose of a sword was to slice with as little force as was necessary.
After the initial drilling, they'd been thrown into sparring. The Professor had told Oliver that most of their lessons followed a similar pattern, unless he decided they needed to address something particularly urgently. When sparring, they were allowed to use whatever weapons they wished.
As he explained these things to Oliver, Oliver had gotten the distinct sense that the man was wary of him. His eyes had tracked him like a hunter tracked a bird with his bow. It might have simply been the way the man looked, but either way it was unnerving.
"Too much," the Professor said, noticing Oliver's sloppy technique.
"Sorry," Oliver said "I tried to take the sting off the blow."
"No. Not too much force. Too much movement. Sloppy," the Professor said. He took the spear from Oliver's hands. "You know the sword.
The sword begins here," he slashed from overhead, twisting his hips into the strike, a perfect slash. Even though he was holding a spear, Oliver saw a sword in his hands. "The spear, begins here," he locked his feet, and he thrust, similarly twisting his hips through, and extending his arms. Oliver could see a man dead on the end of it.
"Understand?" He asked. "You start too complicated. Sword and spear – they're different. Start at the heart, build around it. Your thrust is lacking, your spear is lacking."
Oliver could see the wisdom in what he said. The man understood his weapons deeply. He nodded enthusiastically, pleased to see that another combat professor other than Yoreholder – his archery instructor – was interested in teaching him. Ever since the incident with Heathclaw, he'd be half expecting to be ignored or sabotaged in some sort of way.
"Thank you for your instruction, Professor," Oliver said, with a bow of his head.
The Professor grunted. "Do not thank me for doing my job," he said, before muttering the rest under his breath, "some of us do for the love of strength, rather than petty politics."
Oliver made way to resume his sparring. His opponent was patiently waiting for the professor to conclude his instruction. The professor turned to him instead. "And you, recognize your opponent's strength. Don't treat all enemies the same. The weak, kill quickly.
The strong, expect your strikes to fail, instead go for combinations."
The boy nodded, but from the glazed look in his eyes, he hadn't taken much of that explanation in. Something about Professor Kolan seemed to intimidate many of the students. The Professor grunted, seeming to realize that he wasn't getting through to the boy.