Chapter 137 - 136: Unfunny Joke.

Chapter 137: Chapter 136: Unfunny Joke.

In a still sea of strange faces, it feels good knowing that even a small few are on his side.

They seem so far away; the dirt on which he’s spilled sweat and blood stretching out between him and the crowd like a vast wasteland.

It’s no extraordinary distance --still close enough that he could probably throw a rock and it would land amongst them --but somehow, despite the eyes fixated upon them from all sides, it feels like there’s nothing for miles around but him, and his opponent.

​Khobi lets out a low breath, tasting iron, and snow on the wind, and turns to face his first opponent.

​The man standing in the ring with him is tall and serious, and seems completely unbothered by the weight of the thousands of eyes bearing down on them.

It’s clear from the way he’s carrying himself that this isn’t his first tournament by a long shot, and the steely eyes set in face that could have been cut straight from stone are calculated and focused.

​He looks strong, and his armour is thick, and the sword hanging at his hip looks to have more than a good few inches on Khobi’s.

​The hair on the back of Khobi’s neck stands on end, the way it does when he encounters a dangerous kind of man, and the excitement that comes with it ignites a spark behind his eyes on cue.

They don’t exchange pleasantries, or say anything at all, but his opponent inclines his head, just so, in acknowledgement that he’s made it this far, and Khobi finds himself instinctively returning the gesture.

His uncle always had --even though he was a king, and even if the man he was facing was as common as they come.

​As one, they draw their swords, and the sound his makes is one he could hear a thousand times and never tire of it.

It feels feather light in his hands and he impatiently tests the air with it as they start to circle each other, like mirror images.

Wherever he moves, his opponent follows, watching his balance, gauging his guard, wondering what his reflexes are like and how best to test them.

​He doesn’t focus nearly enough on Khobi’s eyes.

​If he had, he would have seen wildfire blazing red hot and relentless in them. Men with those kinds of eyes have nothing to lose, everything to gain, and those who stand in their path have an unfortunate tendency of being swallowed up by the flames entirely.

​After all, when it comes to swordsmanship, there’s much to be said for strength, and skill, and speed. But there are lots of swordsmen who are strong, and fast, and skilled.

​It’s the ones with passion that become the most fearsome.

​(His opponent quickly learns that if not today, then someday, Khobi Frost will become something truly fearsome.)

​Khobi sees the first strike coming long before it does --sees it in the tensing of a hand, and the planting of a foot, just a beat off of their tentative rhythm, and suddenly, the heat that has been building with every fight floods fire through his veins and brings his body to life.

​Moving with a life of its own, his blade swings high, and catches the attack with a hissing screech that summons an ungodly clamour from the crowd.

His hand quivers, just slightly; the weight bearing down upon him enough to shatter rocks, and with an intensity he hasn’t faced since his days in Briyagi, and despite the sharp of the blade passing dangerously close to his face as he turns it aside, he grins.

​"Let’s go," he declares, red eyes flashing, and then lets his sword say the rest.

...

Gurdet is a difficult man to impress. Always has been. It was a trait he and his sweet daughter had in common, and unfortunately one he couldn’t entirely blame on his wife.

As a king it had gotten immeasurably worse, because inevitably, one way or another, everyone in his entire castle would someday try to win his favour. Impress him.

Sometimes it was wealth, sometimes it was beauty, or musical ability or talent with words or a sword. In Lord Rogard’s case, all of the above.

​It rarely works, and often makes him develop an intense distaste for the individual, especially when they insist on pressing the issue.

​But today he must say, he’s impressed.

​His days of playing with swords are (thankfully) all but over, and although his sweet, darling daughter probably wouldn’t believe it, he was once a fairly competitive swordsman in his own right.

His dear wife had had many suitors, after all, and one who wished to someday be her king couldn’t be anything less.

​Not that anyone needed a background in warfare to know that when it comes to skill with a sword, Khobi Frost ranks as more than simply proficient.

​He’d seen him fight before, obviously --in far more barbaric fashion, mind you, and had been intrigued when he’d expressed interest in fighting today.

His early understanding of the man was that he was one of Silas’s less well-behaved dogs; a brute untameable, sent down into the Pit to demolish whatever poor soul had most recently fallen out of favour with Silas.

He knew a little better now, and had gleaned from interacting with some of his guards --the very ones that he’d come to blows with --that they had come to genuinely respect his aptitude with a blade.

​Saw him as an equal among them, almost.

​Watching him now, mildly interested despite himself, he sees why.

​"...Did you know about this?" he asks of Bongo, politely conveying his irritation that his most trusted guard, and companion had kept this from him.

He’d suspected, of course, and heard of his prowess in whispers, but Bongo’s men were supposed to be keeping careful watch over him, and reporting back regularly.

​Bongo, unbelievably, smiles. Like a proud father. It’s quite disconcerting, and Gurdet wonders if he should be concerned.

​"He’s good, isn’t he?" Bongo states, almost pleased with himself, and Gurdet toys with the idea that Bongo has been deliberately downplaying Khobi’s skill in an attempt to stun him.

​He’s a little touched.

​Bongo knows how bored he gets.

​And this, this is genuinely entertaining stuff. For his size, Khobi is exceptionally fast, and the way he moves is both like a soldier, and not.

His technique isn’t exactly textbook; a little messier, but with the right bones and highly polished fundamentals --like a man who had learned the basics, and then taught himself the rest.

No all men can do that. It takes a certain kind of talent, a gift, even, to muddle ones way to a level of skill like this.

It’s not at all like the usual fights he has to sit through, and it’s clear it’s throwing his opponent off. When you train day in, day out, against a certain style, you grow accustomed to its tendencies.

​"...He is," he replies, honestly, and decides to test dangerous waters by turning to his nephew and adding, almost conversationally, "Don’t you think so, Loac?"

​Loac’s eyes narrow, but never leave the fight, and when he answers, it’s awfully defensive.

​"...What’s it to you?" he scowls, slouched deeper into his seat as it to withdraw from the question.

And contrary to outward appearances, Gurdet notes the way his gaze flits to and fro; chasing the two swordsmen across the field in a way it hasn’t until this point. Until this fight, actually.

​Most intriguing.

​" Father ," Bongo reprimands from behind clenched teeth, and he doesn’t press the issue to placate her.

She smiles, sweet and pleased that she’s been able to get him to behave himself, and adds, clapping delightedly as Khobi sends his opponent careening backwards wildly, sword battering away attack after attack with steadily decreasing finesse, "He really is quite a wonderful swordsman, isn’t he? He’s been winning for quite a while, right, Captain?"

​"He has, Princess Xena," Bongo agrees with a small nod, and an eyebrow raised expectantly. Princess Xena immediately realises her mistake and quickly amends, " --But he hasn’t won yet ."

​"Right you are, Princess Xena."

​"...But he will win, won’t he?" she asks, eyes following the same path across the field as her cousin’s; hers wide where his are narrowed.

And even if she’s a princess, Gurdet knows that she’s not just watching, she’s trying to learn; trying to understand a soldier’s strengths and weaknesses so she can be a part of things, and not sit silent while men talk around her.

She’s gotten quite chatty lately, actually. "I know there’s no certainty, but..." She sounds like she wants him to win.

​"...Oh don’t tell me you want to marry him ," Gurdet complains theatrically, refraining from throwing his hands up in mock despair.

He’s not serious, but it gets a real rise out of his daughter so he doesn’t take it back.

​" Of course not !" she splutters instantly, absolutely aghast at the suggestion, "H-He’s promised to Loac!"

​Of all reasons, that’s the one she settles on?

​"...That doesn’t mean you can’t want to marry him," he states with a roll of his eyes.

How delightfully naive of her.

Men covet other men’s wives all the time. And their wives aren’t much better. One need only listen to the castle walls for a day to figure out that at any given time the castle is rife with extramarital affairs, unrequited love stories, and a fair amount of sneaking around with multiple lovers.

Rather hypocritical, Gurdet has to say, to scorn his nephew for philanderous behavior when they themselves, are just as guilty of such things.

​"Of course it does!" she exclaims crossly, "I’m a princess, father; I can’t go stealing other peoples’ betrotheds !" She lowers her voice for the last part, as if anyone can hear her over the clashing of blades and the rise and fall of the crowd.

​"That’s supposed to be one of the joys of being a princess," he scoffs lightly, enjoying her look of absolute horror at his casual response, "You can have anyone you want."

​"I don’t care," Loac informs her plainly, as if that’s going to make her feel any better, "You can have him."

Princess Xena gives her cousin an utterly scandalised look, but he doesn’t so much as glance in her direction.

​"...How generous," Gurdet replies with a grimace disguised as a smile, "I know your cousin doesn’t like to share his toys." He just likes to take other peoples’ toys. And unfortunately, he’s easily bored, and is usually quick to move onto the next, shinier and prettier toy.

​It’s a medical marvel that there aren’t a horde of blue-eyed children wrecking chaos in the city streets. Or in the castle, for that matter.

​"But no, Loac, I’m afraid an arrangement is an arrangement," he sighs, voice not as apologetic as his words, "I’m sure Silas would love for Princess Xena to marry Khobi instead, but I would not."

​Loac just shrugs, like it doesn’t matter to him either way. Gurdet hopes that once he’s married he’ll at least have the decency to be a little more discreet, lest his cousin hear about his...indiscretions.

He gets the distinct feeling Khobi wouldn’t care either way --as long as Loac’s attention isn’t on him --but Princess Xena, bless her, would undoubtedly be hurt enough for the both of them.

​"...Whatever you say, Gurdet."