Chapter 138 - 137: The Thrill Of A Fight.

Chapter 138: Chapter 137: The Thrill Of A Fight.

They watch the rest of the fight without speaking.

It’s relatively short-lived, in comparison to some of the others that had dragged out from a stalemate to a bout of endurance; half the audience on the edge of their seats waiting to see which man would crack first, and the other half bored to tears and hungry for the quick gratification of action and violence.

Khobi is so easy to watch; he’s got sharp, clean reflexes on him, and an unpredictable strike pattern that is whirling the initially sceptical crowd into nothing short of a frenzy.

Not to mention, in the armour he’s wearing, he wouldn’t look at all out of place as a royal guard.

​As a prince, even.

​Come to think of it, that armour did look awfully familiar.

​(Gurdet can’t resist a subtle glance in Loac’s direction. The leather armour his nephew is wearing is definitely newer, darker, and less worn, but undeniably the same shape and design.

Probably even made by the same hands. Khobi was going to be furious when he found out.

He hopes he’s there to witness it.

​Honestly, Silas had had so much entertainment value in Khobi Frost, and wasted it on bloodsport with criminals, slaves, and people he just kind of got tired of.

There’s always a kind of energy that hangs over a duelling tournament --a heartbeat of adrenaline, excitement, and fear at a constant boil --that can be thrilling yet overwhelming, but despite being a first timer at this sort of thing, Khobi is thriving off it. It’s like it’s feeding him.

​At the moment he’s got his opponent dancing and ducking and trying with all his might not to lose his focus.

The man’s been giving as good as he’s getting; driving Khobi back and crashing through his guard with swings that make Gurdet’s bones ache just to watch, but right now, Khobi’s blade down there is moving so fast that if his opponent’s not careful, he might just not make it out alive.

Some pairs break apart every now and then, usually by unspoken mutual agreement, to take stock of their enemy, catch their breath, and assess their next move.

But not Khobi. He seems perfectly content to relentlessly trade blow after blow and weave glowing patterns of sunlight into the air as the light catches on their blades.

​And then quite abruptly, it all stops.

​All it takes it a single, piercing high note --the final, fading scream of a blade wrenched from its wielder’s hand and tossed high up into the sky --and the fight is over.

The crowd, shocked, watch the blade’s arc first as it rises, and then as plummets, hissing its rage, back to earth.

It lands rather pathetically, far beyond it’s master’s reach, and bounces upon the dirt before it comes to rest.

And it’s owner; Khobi’s opponent, now unarmed, and with the tip of a full length blade poised at his chest to strike him through should he try anything, yields.

​There’s a lot of booing. A rather tasteless amount, in fact. The man was a favourite to win, allegedly (weren’t they all?) and the great many who had wagered in his favour --thinking him a sure thing, especially over the rabid dog Khobi’s earned a reputation as --seem very sour over their loss.

But the men down in the ring seem not to hear it. Khobi, who was closer, even retrieves the man’s sword for him, and hands it back to him.

And the man must have a couple of exceptionally choice words for him because when Khobi hands it over, it’s him, and not the loser, who dips his head low.

​Both men walk off with their heads high. And despite the booing, and the jeering, it’s the cheers that ring out loudest.

​Some of his own castle guard are actually on their feet, and greet Khobi as he comes away from the fight with wide grins and laughter.

One of them even dares stuff a hand into his hair and tousle it until he’s bodily shoved away. It’s the sort of disgusting, heartwarming scene that he’s sure will have his daughter squealing and beaming in utter delight, but when he turns to her expectantly, the expression he finds her wearing is entirely unexpected.

​She’s not looking at Khobi. She’s looking out into the arena at the scuffed up dirt the pair of them have left in their wake, and there’s a far off look in her eyes, like she’s gazing back in time, trying to play back a memory.

​"...It’s the strangest thing, father," she tells him faintly, voice so soft and small like a secret meant only for him, "...But he kind of reminds me of someone I know."

​Gurdet doesn’t tell her so, but sees it, too.

​He wonders who else does.

​...

​Khobi returns to his seat feeling alive . His blood is singing; roaring in his ears, and the way it courses through his veins is hot and liberating. The win, well, that was one thing, but the fight.

​The fight .

​What a fight. What an opponent.

​They didn’t make men like that in Briyagi. Silas bred cruel, desperate men; cheaters, and liars, crafty thieves, and as such Khobi had spent the last years of his life forever looking over his shoulder, and fighting rabid, broken men, who had lost themselves in the darkness.

​Being able to fight an honest fight, well, that’s a luxury not afforded to Khobi in too long.

​He already can’t wait for the next one. There’s a soft, almost satisfying ache to bones as he sinks back down into his chair; a determined glint shining bright and fiery in his eyes --the kind of ache of a fight well fought, a reminder of the strength he’s faced, and overcome.

Because the other man’s strength was seriously something else. He was deft with his sword, and moved easily on his feet, but what had set him apart from other men he’d fought before was the weight behind each blow.

Every attack, without fail had come down on him like the side of a mountain crashing into the sea, and there had been a couple of times where Khobi hadn’t been sure that his own strength would hold.

​But it had. He’d stood against the landslide and torn it down around him. Made him run, and dance, and move to the beat he chose. And the beat he’d chosen was his favourite; hard, and relentless.

​In the end, his opponent hadn’t been able to keep up. Which was a real shame because Khobi had been really enjoying himself. The chase.

The turbulent back and forth of battle. The thrill of staring down a blade and trusting your instincts and the strength of your own hands to keep it at bay.

And that moment; the instant in time when you know, and your opponent knows, just who has won the fight, well, it’s exhilarating. Watching that sword leave his opponent’s hands and fly to the heavens by the force of his will had felt like casting off chains and throwing them into the sea.

​And when the fight was over, when the adrenaline is pounding drums in his ears, and his heart is hammering in his chest, the soldier tells him, quite plainly, that he does not fight like a man from Briyagi.

​Khobi tells him that that’s because he’s not from Briyagi. He t ells him that he’s from Scargga. And t he soldier’s face had changed at that; the rough edges softening at the corners as if recalling a fond memory.

​" I have been there ," he’d said, almost in understanding, " Before ."

​He doesn’t say before what. They both know.

​He fought Kiyoshi, once, he informs him. When he was young, and before he was a king. And then, a touch mournful, he’d added, " I would have liked to fight him again ."

​"... Maybe you’ll get to ," Khobi had told him, handing over the man’s sword and informing him, quite matter-of-factly, " He’ll come back, one day ."

​The soldier had smiled at that, but sad, like he doesn’t quite share his optimism.

​" I hope so ," he had replied, all the same, and had sounded like he genuinely meant it when he’d added, a little softer, as if there are ears to listen, " He was a good man ."

​It means a lot that even after all his years spent in exile, there are strangers from strange lands that still remember his uncle.

And Khobi hopes that somehow, wherever he is, word of today will reach him, and he’ll know that he hasn’t given up yet.

​That even after all this time, he’s still fighting.