Chapter 106 - 105: Start Of Something.

Chapter 106: Chapter 105: Start Of Something.

Honestly, Khobi doesn’t want to go back to his room.

All of his encounters with Loac so far have been admittedly fairly brief, but exclusively unpleasant, and he’d really rather not have his good mood ruined.

But there’s no helping it, Binny’s made it clear that he can’t just keep hiding away in the servants’ quarters, and Khobi doesn’t want to get the guy in trouble.

So, resigned to another confrontation, he traipses back to his room.

At least someone’s fixed the door.

It swings open with a creak, and the first thing he notices is that the bed is empty.

Hasn’t even been slept in, by the look of it.

The rest of the room is unrecognisable.

Mostly because every single surface is now covered in clothes.

"Rogard," Khobi grinds out with a sigh, peeling a shirt off the chest at the end of the bed and admitting to himself that, well, it’s not the worst thing Rogard’s ever picked out for him.

In fact, most of this stuff isn’t too bad.

Surprisingly.

It takes him a while, but eventually he manages to pile everything Rogard’s gone and bought on his behalf in one corner of the room.

It’s not very neat, and everything’s already getting crumpled, but the way he sees it, he’s gonna wreck them anyway.

Well, maybe not all of them.

Rogard had looked pretty distressed when he’d said he would.

It feels weird, once he’s done. Empty, even. Loac’s left the window open, and the cool autumn wind rushes in until Khobi manages to slam the shutters closed.

Then, it’s not only empty, it’s dark, too.

And Khobi finds himself feeling oddly restless.

Usually at this time of night he’s aching in his boots and only minutes away from dropping where he stands.

Sometimes he swears he falls asleep even before he manages to bury himself under his blankets, but if he wakes in the night he’s always wrapped up tight.

Drogger had dismissed them all early today, since so many of his men had been chomping at the bit to get down amongst the gypsies, and it’s left Khobi with energy to spare.

Some of the other soldiers might be a few too many ales deep, but his head’s still feeling pretty clear.

Maybe he should’ve had a couple more. It might have sent him off to sleep.

He tries,he really does. Slips under his blankets and closes his eyes and everything.

But the floor is too cold, and the stone so uncomfortable that it’s a wonder he ever actually sleeps in the first place.

He gives up after only a few minutes of agitated tossing and turning, too awake to sleep.

There’s only one thing for it.

...

"What do you mean someone ate it?" he exclaims mournfully, after searching through the cupboards for a third time and finding that his leftover meat buns have definitely, undeniably gone missing.

Been stolen, rather.

"...Sorry, Khobi," Binny says apologetically, patting him on the back and shaking his head when Khobi shoots him a hopeful look.

After all they’ve been through in the short time they’ve known each other, it’s the first time he’s seen him this genuinely upset.

"Looks like someone got to them."

"But..." Khobi pouts glumly, unhappily clambering down from the shelf he’d hidden his handmade snacks up on specifically to avoid this exact situation.

Wrapped up and stuffed in a pot, too, so even the mice wouldn’t get to them.

"...But I was saving them..."

...

It’s not like Rogard had really been intending to go to the training grounds; it’s just kind of where he ends up.

Maybe it’s because that’s where he goes in the evenings these days, or maybe it’s because his father will still be up, and he’ll want to know where he was, and who with, and why he smells like ale.

Maybe a bit of both.

He’s not even that drunk anymore.

Carrying an unconscious Montrel up three flights of stairs to his quarters, and being punched a few times by Khobi has done him a bit of good.

That doesn’t stop him from stumbling on the steps and nearly ploughing face first into the ground.

He’s still a little drunk.

It’s a small miracle that he manages to stay on his feet.

Despite the hour, and the party going on outside the city walls, a few dedicated souls linger,armoured up and on horseback, jousting by torchlight.

The flames flicker as the horses surge by them, and cast wild, dancing shadows.

It’s beautiful.

The torches have a bit of heat to them, which Rogard finds welcome what with the autumn air fast cooling around him, and when he reaches the fence he sags against it to watch the horses and riders steady themselves with new lances.

It comes as no real surprise that one of the soldiers is clad in that boring, practical, chunky armour, because of course their Second Captain would choose an evening hard at work over drunken revelry any day.

The thought makes Rogard wrinkle his nose with distaste.

Maybe that was what happened when you got old,you stopped wanting to have fun.

Then again, he doesn’t really remember Drogger ever really wanting to have fun.

Maybe he had just been born old.

That makes him laugh.

Drogger’s had wrinkles since he was sixteen. Rogard’s fault, he’d probably say.

Which is largely unfair, he thinks, because for a long time there, despite Loac’s terrible influence, he’d honestly tried to be a model student.

His grades weren’t good, and his attendance in classes was at times shaky, at best, and maybe—maybe—he had cried a little too much for someone his age, but so had Loac, back then, but he’d tried.

Purely because of moments like these.

Even at sixteen, Drogger Noog, six years his senior, and the son of a common tailor, had been more of a soldier than some men could ever hope to be.

He was strong, and carried himself like a man, and when he talked, even an over-excitable prince and his equally obnoxious friends shut up and listened.

And even the adults who whispered that he was too common, that he should never have been permitted near their children lest his common ways rub off on them—he had been able to render them speechless.

As a swordsman, he wasn’t a natural, wild talent like Loac, or even gifted in the way Rogard was, and as a man he was a nobody, with no wealth, no land, and an unimportant name, but he had never let any of that stop him.

Never let any of that matter.

It was so, so hard not to admire him back then.

It’s even harder, now, nearly a decade and a half later.

He fills out his armour now.

Plate isn’t designed for teenagers. They still look mighty to children, but somehow, they always look a little awkward,like they’ve dressed up in their father’s armour.

There’s no awkwardness now.

Now, Drogger Noog is an imposing figure.

The torchlight makes his shadow loom dark, and long, and in it his plain old, standard-issue plate gleams.

He looks quite gallant, actually.

Stop, Rogard chides himself, again, like that’s ever worked, only to find that he can’t seem to look away.

It’s hard not to hold his breath as the two soldiers lower their lances,horses pacing as though sensing the rising anticipation.

They charge, and he holds it anyway.

It’s difficult to tell since he’s wearing a visor, but Rogard could swear that Drogger glances his way.

An instant before a lance makes direct, thunderous contact with his chest.

The tip of the lance splinters, and Drogger goes flying.

He hits the ground with a horrific thud.

"Ow," comes the understated complaint, a moment later, when his opponent has wheeled his horse around and the watching grooms have gotten Drogger’s under control.

He groans, and manages to roll onto his back with some difficulty.

"Sorry, Captain," Ynoro’s voice says, a little muffled by his helmet.

Not that he has anything to apologise for.

Throwing an opponent off his horse in dramatic fashion is almost the point of jousting, after all.

He flicks up his visor as he peers down on Drogger’s motionless figure with a mixture of remorse and amusement.

"I can’t remember the last time I managed to knock you off like that."

"...I can’t say it feels good," Drogger grumbles, and manages to yank his helmet off.

He’s bleeding, but his hair, somehow, looks great.

He grimaces, brow creasing as he clutches at his shoulder where the lance made contact.

"Nice hit, Ynoro."

"It was, wasn’t it?" Ynoro admits with a gracious smile that has Drogger rolling his eyes.

It fades just as quickly when Drogger hisses in pain as he struggles to prop himself up.

"Drogger, are you okay?"

"I’m fine," Drogger assures him, and ruins it by grimacing.

Rogard’s eyes narrow as he inspects the armour at the lance’s point of impact.

It’s cracked, and by the torchlight it’s not difficult to see that he’s taken some damage.

"Heavens, Captain, you’re not fine," Ynoro exclaims immediately, clearly seeing what Rogard sees and bounding off his horse to get a better look.

Drogger just clucks his teeth impatiently and lets him look.

"Look, you’re bleeding."

"It’s no big deal."

"No big—" Ynoro splutters. "Are you crazy?? I almost skewered you!"

"You’re being dramatic," Drogger snorts—because he is—and staggers to his feet,rolling his shoulders to test the damage.

The movement seems to cause him a fair amount of pain.

"Damn..." he grits out, and seems to suddenly catch sight of Rogard over Ynoro’s shoulder.

"...Rogard?"

"Hi, master," Rogard says with a small wave.

"What are you doing here?"

"Couldn’t sleep?" he offers innocently, which is part true, part not.

Predictably, Drogger doesn’t buy it.

"Go home, Rogard," he sighs, shaking his head and stooping to pick up his discarded helmet. "It’s late."

"You’re hurt, master."

"I’m fine," Drogger assures him and Rogard frowns, since he’s clearly not.

"...Would you believe me if I said I was fine after a hit like that?" he asks, and maybe it comes out a little childishly, but it has the desired effect in that Drogger is lost for words.

Because if any of his men tried to play off that fall like he’s trying to do he’d have them dragged to the infirmary by their ankles.

And chain them there, if need be.

Ynoro sees Drogger’s jaw clench, and nods his thanks.

"Drogger," he deadpans, laying a hand on his friend’s uninjured shoulder, "Practice what you preach."

He nods over at the barracks, which is a compromise on a trip up to the infirmary.

"Rogard, go with him, would you?"