Chapter 135 - 134: Watching The Prince.

Chapter 135: Chapter 134: Watching The Prince.

The first rounds are exactly as advertised, and over fairly swiftly. As it turns out, those who are serious about competing are all-too easily distinguished from those who, well, aren’t.

​It had been an easy start to the day; enough of a fight that his body is feeling nicely warmed, but not enough to break him out in a sweat, but Montrel had told him not to get complacent.

There were always idiots who entered the field wanting to make a quick name for themselves, but once they were weeded out, the men that remained were no joke.

That was when the tournament really started.

​By the time the last stroke falls, Khobi understands.

There are a whole lot fewer men standing in the arena with him than there were to begin with, and the ones that are, are clearly of a different calibre than the ones who are not.

Predictably, most of the Crade guards he spends his time with have made it through, and Khobi is pleased to catch Rogard’s eye from across the arena; clearly not intending to let today end like the one before.

It doesn’t even look like Montrel’s nose is broken, yet. And he’s also pretty sure Jaga’s last opponent had been crying over a broken arm when he’d been escorted off.

​Today is going to be nothing like training, it seems.

​Perfect.

​...

​After what feels like an eternity, the matches finally begin. Opponents, determined by lot, are one by one, summoned back to centre stage to fight; to prove their worth before the undivided attention of a fickle and unforgiving crowd.

And Khobi, itching for his turn, watches every single one of them.

​" Get a good look, kid ," Montrel had advised as he’d passed him by, " If you want that win, these are the jokers you’re gonna have to go through to get it ."

​He’s right, for a change, but Khobi would have watched anyway.

​Because each and every one of them is, in their own right, incredible.

​These are seasoned warriors; swordsmen who have clearly trained all their lives to stand upon stages such as this, to enthrall and delight the masses.

And Khobi is, in all honesty, completely, and utterly enthralled.

​The jousting was fun, for sure. It was new, and exciting, and something he had known little of, but this, this , Khobi knows.

He doesn’t need Montrel tugging excitedly on his arm to know when someone’s done something exceptional, or exceptionally wrong, because he can see it with his own eyes.

Each swordsman has his own distinct style, but some things don’t change, especially if you know what to look for. Which Khobi does.

He’s a swordsman himself, so has spent a lifetime learning how to read an opponent’s body and their movements and know if they are gaining momentum, out of rhythm and off-balance, or severely outmatched and trying to hide it.

​Many in the stands probably don’t even really understand what it is they’re watching, or appreciate the level of skill, and reflexes required to tirelessly execute manoeuvre after manoeuvre --all the while keeping their sword in hand, and body intact --but he does, so for the sake of those who have dedicated themselves to the art of a blade, he doesn’t want to miss a single moment. Because in a duel, everything can change in that single moment.

One misstep; one feint, one mistimed strike or lazy block is sometimes all it takes for the tide turn.

Down in the ring, both men are looking for it; testing their opponent’s defenses, pushing them for all they’re worth, looking for that opening that will decide everything.

And the fickle crowd cheers and boos for each in turn; placing wagers and playing favourites, and changing their tune at a whim.

And the soldiers take it in stride, for whether they win or they lose, they all walk off with their heads held high.

And Khobi, unable to resist the infectious energy encompassing the arena, claps for them all. For even the ones who lose put on a mighty show.

He sees hardy, giant men the size of oxen, wielding blades the size of battleaxes like they’re weightless, rending holes in the earth where they fall, and slight, swift soldiers that move likes cats in the night.

He sees princes move like soldiers, and soldiers move like dancers, with their blades singing whenever they meet.

And Khobi, inched forward in his seat, drums his fingers impatiently to each song, eyes hungrily tracking the movements of each blade and the man wielding it as if to memorise the lines they carve into the air.

It’s nothing terribly complex, but the men in the ring have even the most simple of movements so sharply, and delicately refined, and respond to one another’s attacks so effortlessly that it looks seamless and impossibly intricate.

​Silas Luminus hated beauty in all its forms, and would never have allowed anything such as this to enter his halls.

​It’s incredible, and as he watches, Khobi finds himself almost missing Montrel’s company.

The guy’s enthusiastic running commentary on the jousting had been borderline irritating at times, but the guy definitely shared Khobi’s appreciation for a good fight.

Present company is...decidedly more reserved. The king is politely interested, and Vogrid, having taken over guard detail for the day, looks about as happy to be there as Khobi is to have him there.

Bongo is plenty knowledgeable about the soldiers and their respective kingdoms and their fighting styles, but he’s older, and more proper that Montrel probably ever will be, and as excited as the princess is about the proceedings, she only allows herself to get so animated before reigning her enthusiasm back to more princessly levels.

​And Loac, well, he just sits there in silence, not seeming in the least bit interested in the proceedings.

At one point in between matches, while one of the competitors is being carried off with a nasty looking leg wound that’s steadily staining the ground red, Khobi catches him just gazing vacantly up at the sky like a child looking for shapes in the clouds, and starts to wonder why he even bothered to show up in the first place.

In fact, the only sign that he’s been paying attention at all is when he rebuffs Vogrid for criticising Rogard for a sloppy parry.

​Even Vogrid looks a little taken aback.

​Despite Vogrid’s accurate assessment --honestly, it really had been uncharacteristically sloppy --Rogard wins his first match, and as his defeated opponent gathers up his fallen sword, he turns his gaze up towards Khobi in the royal dais, as if to remind him that they have unfinished business.

​He needn’t have worried. Rogard has been going on about getting his ’revenge’ on him for some time now, and Khobi is, in all honesty, looking forward to their rematch.

Rogard’s been working hard --harder than a lot of the soldiers, even --and sparring with him is always fun, and a good workout, and Khobi’s excited to face him again for real.

They’ve both been waiting a long time for this; it’s not like he could just forget about it.

​And then, extraordinarily, something happens that, for a small moment in time, makes him forget.

​Makes him forget everything, in fact.

​Because, for that small moment in time, the one that begins the instant that Loac steps out into that ring, absolutely nothing else matters.

​Khobi’s never seen him fight before. Not properly. They’ve roughed each other up a couple of times, but always with fists --more bar-style brawl than anything else.

He’s seen the way he moves though, and wondered; heard the soldiers whisper of how once upon a time, Loac Trent was the most fearsome and incredible swordsman their kingdom had ever seen.

​Today, for the first time in what may as well have been a lifetime; in front of his own people and those who, on another day, might have been his enemy, he proves that he still is.

​To his credit, his opponent doesn’t quake. He just draws his sword, and readies his shield, and bows, as a mere soldier should when face to face with a prince.

​Loac doesn’t bow back. He doesn’t even touch his sword.

​In fact, he doesn’t so much as move.

​In the back of Khobi’s mind, he realises that once again, the crowd has been struck dumb.

They don’t applaud, or call out support for the sorry sod who has to face off against Crade’s infamous prince. They just watch, with bated breath, aching to know what will happen next.

​"Poor man," Gurdet tuts, breaking the silence and shaking his head pityingly, "Loac’s going to make a right fool of him."

​Khobi doesn’t get the chance to ask what exactly he means by that, because an instant later, he sees for himself.