Chapter 131 - 129: Time For A Fight.

Chapter 131: Chapter 129: Time For A Fight.

Khobi should really be sleeping.

​It’s dark outside; late enough that the candlelights of the city that lies beyond the castle walls are starting to snuff out, one by one, and he’s got a big day tomorrow, so he should be resting up; saving his strength.

​And yet.

​And yet, there he is, painstakingly folding up his clothes in the middle of the night, piece by piece; the way Binny taught him so they won’t crease; wide awake, and restless.

​After all, ever since he was young, he’s never been able to sleep when he’s excited.

​And he hates to admit it, but he is.

​Excited, that is.

​Tomorrow, he gets to fight . And not the way Silas always had him fight.

No, this time, he gets to fight with his own sword, on even terms, in a proper tournament, like a real fucking swordsman. And against some of the best swordsmen in the land.

​The circumstances might be less than desirable, but it’s exactly what he’s always wanted.

​And he’s going to win.

​The very thought gets his blood racing, and in the soft, late-night candlelight, he grins.

​He can’t fucking wait.

​Which is entirely the problem. He wants it to be morning already.

​...

​In the end, morning comes too fast, and Khobi wakes up feeling groggy, and entirely unrested.

And when he looks in the mirror, the bleary-eyed gremlin blinking back at him tells him that he looks about as good as he feels.

It’s a wonder he manages to make it through breakfast without face-planting directly into his stew. But at least he’s not the only one --there are more than a few haggard faces scattered around the dining hall, holding down their breakfasts as best they can, and looking exceptionally sorry for themselves.

Probably for a different reason, mind.

​" That is why you don’t drink the night before a duelling tournament," Gandy chimes from his high horse, jabbing a finger across the room in the direction of an entire table of young soldiers who look fairly close to passing out in their seats.

Looking at them, Khobi almost feels healthy. One of them’s already had to leave, looking more than a little green.

​"Don’t act like that’s never been you," Montrel scoffs, appalled by the blatant hypocrisy, "You were drinking last night, too."

​"Of course I was," Gandy sniffs back, "It was a party. But I know how to handle myself. It’s widely considered a bad look to throw up in front of your king. Which is exactly what those kids are gonna do."

​"The Second won’t let that happen," Jaga obligingly points out, although it’s clear that he disapproves of said soldiers’ current state, "They won’t even make it into the ring." At this rate, it looks like some of them won’t even make it through breakfast.

And for the ones that do, the threat of what Drogger is going to do to them for getting stupid drunk the night before an important fight looms overhead like a dark shadow.

​"...Yeah, I do not envy them," Gandy snorts, slurping up the last of his stew and pushing away his plate with resolve.

It’s only then that he realises that he’s actually the second person to have finished his meal.

The first being Montrel, who had wolfed his down in a matter of minutes and was absent-mindedly working on seconds.

"Khobi?" he states, looking with clear incomprehension from his own empty plate to the one that Khobi’s still working on.

"What the fuck? Why aren’t you done yet?"

​Khobi glares at him, chewing on muscle memory alone, and the redness tarnishing the whites of his eyes makes him look particularly menacing.

​"You look like shit," Montrel chips in unnecessarily.

​"I didn’t sleep well," Khobi informs them flatly, and blinks a couple of times to try and force some of the sleep away from his eyes. It doesn’t work.

​"No shit," Gandy snickers, then adds, as he kicks his chair away, "You better not use that as an excuse when you lose today."

​"Like I would," Khobi scoffs back, swallowing heavily, "But I’m not going to lose, so it’s fine."

​He says it so matter-of-factly that Montrel howls with laughter, and a particularly large vein twitches in Gandy’s temple.

​" This kid ," Montrel laughs, slapping Khobi on the back hard enough that he jolts in his seat, "Gods, I want to kick his ass so bad."

​"Give it your best shot," Khobi shoots back hotly, and promptly downs the rest of his stew in one gulp; right from the bowl.

"I’m done," he announces immediately after, and wipes the dregs off his face with the back of his sleeve as he eyes Gandy challengingly, "Happy now?"

​The intimidation tactic backfires a second later, when he realises with a very telling grimace that he’s just burned most of the inside of this mouth.

​He’s actually a bit upset. It was really tasty.

​Montrel laughs so hard he almost chokes, and Jaga wisely suggests that they get themselves down to the training grounds with plenty of time to spare.

The day’s event isn’t scheduled to begin just yet, he informs Khobi, and as they stand, chairs all around the dining hall scrape as if their decision to finish up has triggered some kind of chain reaction amongst the other soldiers, but, he adds, there’s a lot of pride at stake today, and it would pay to be properly prepared.

​Khobi doesn’t immediately understand what he means by that, but as soon as they arrive at the training grounds --the stage for the final and arguably most anticipated event of the tournament --he does.

​He understands too, that today, these are not the training grounds as Khobi knows them.

​Today, they’re an arena .

​"It’s really somethin’, ain’t it?" Montrel remarks with an excited grin, drawing to a halt at the top of the steps and gazing out on the grounds onto which they’ve spilled sweat and blood like he’s seeing it all for the first time.

​"Yeah," Khobi can’t help but admit. Because it really is. Something , that is. Gone is the functional simplicity of the training grounds, and in its place, grandeur .

​In the soldiers’ absence, stands --and hundreds of them --all decked out in bright streamers and ribbons, have been assembled in a perfect arc; following the very path Khobi used to run himself ragged on every morning.

At this hour, they sit empty but for the servants anxiously fixing the finishing touches into place; waiting in fervid anticipation for the crowd that will soon pack them fit to bursting.

There’s a banner hanging off every parapet; all of them different colours, and bearing the sigil of a different lord.

The largest, and most impressive of them all, hangs in pride of place, behind a dais set higher than all the rest; staircases winding up to it on either side.

​Like the rest of the stands, it sits empty, but there’s no doubt that that’s where the king and his daughter will be watching from. And Khobi, supposedly.

But he’s got other plans. Ones that, by the looks of things, won’t come together easily.

​Because, as deserted as the stands may be, the training grounds are anything but empty.

​Out there, in the heart of this grand arena, are soldiers.

​There have to be dozens of them --probably hundreds --all wrapped up in armour of all different colours and all different makes; each one gearing up for a day of battle.

Even from this distance, it’s clear that every single one of them came here intending to win.

​Suddenly, Khobi doesn’t feel quite so tired anymore.

​"The servants really know how to polish a shithole, right?" Montrel remarks, breathing deeply, like there’s nowhere else on this earth he’d rather be. He’s grinning --a little maniacally, even --like he can’t wait to get started.

​He’s not the only one. For once, the rest of the guards seem to share Montrel’s enthusiasm, and are already making their way down into the training grounds.

Khobi instinctively makes to follow them, but before he gets the chance, Montrel halts him, roughly shoving a packed bundle into his chest as he makes to move past him.

​"Here," he states shortly, and then adds, as Khobi tentatively loosens the cloth wrappings to reveal what it unmistakably the hilt of a sword, "Don’t cut yourself. It’s sharp."

​For a moment there --long enough that Montrel starts to walk away --Khobi’s absolutely lost for words.

​"What’s this?" he asks blankly, even though it’s obvious what the fuck it is.

​It’s a fucking sword .

​And, if what Montrel’s just said is any indication, it’s a real one.

​"...You can’t go out there with a training sword," Montrel snorts, like it’s obvious, and when he glances back over his shoulder, it’s with a surprisingly solemn expression, "Good or not, those guys would skin you alive. It’s nothin’ fancy, but it should do the trick until you get your own."

​Nothing fancy , he says.

​(The sound it makes as he pulls it from its sheath --a single tone; clear, and pure --takes his breath away.)

​It’s the fanciest damn sword Khobi’s ever held in his life.

​The ones he’s been training with have been the right shape, and the right weight, and have looked and felt like a sword should look and feel, but the one in his hand, is truly beautiful.

The steel is polished, and gleams in the morning sun, and even though it has a couple of light scratches, it’s clear that it’s a quality blade, and has been well cared for.

It’s thick for its length --the kind Khobi favours during training --but despite its size it’s light, and moves just how he likes it.

​It feels right .

​"...Thanks," Khobi says, because what else is there to say?

​"...Just don’t break it. Or stab me with it," Montrel growls, waving off his thanks dismissively as he stomps down the steps to join the rest of the guards.

"...It’s bad taste for a man to die on his own sword. And go get yourself some armour," he adds, almost as an afterthought, and nods meaningfully in the direction of the barracks, "You’d disappoint a lot of people if you got mortally wounded before they got the chance to fight you."

​From his tone, Khobi figures that Montrel might just be one of those people.