Chapter 145 - 143: Prince VS Barbarian.

Chapter 145: Chapter 143: Prince VS Barbarian.

For someone who has spent the better part of his life chasing after Loac, Montrel knows very little about him.

He doesn’t know what his favourite colour is, where he goes when he takes off on his horse, or who he wants to be, but he’s come off second best to him enough over the years to know how he moves, and how he fights.

​He’d known he was going to lose the second he stepped out into that ring with him.

Because after all the times he’s been sent to retrieve him by force and failed, he knows that trying to get past his defense is like trying to siege a castle with a candle, and that trying to catch him off guard is like trying to catch a cloud with your hands.

​Khobi’s different.

​He doesn’t know any of that stuff.

​And even if he did, he probably wouldn’t care.

​He honest to god, thinks he can beat him.

​(Montrel wants to believe he can. Someone has to be able to.)

​And to the untrained eye, it looks like he just might. Because after the initial power struggle of their first engage, Khobi had thrown himself straight onto the offensive; seeking to break through Loac’s guard by sheer force and offering him no chance to counter. It’s a hard thing to do, that.

While Montrel shares the view that offense is the best defence, directly attacking without end is a quick way to exhaust a man’s strength, and fatigue brings the risk of becoming predictable.

​Offensive might means a whole lot less if an opponent can see it coming.

​But at times it seems as though Khobi’s stamina knows no bounds, and as he is now --despite all the fights gone before this one --he’s showing no signs of flagging. In fact, to the roaring, bellowing crowd, it looks like he’s all the upper hand and the momentum of the fight on his side.

To them, he’s got Loac on the run; backing his way across the ring and fast running out of options.

​But for someone with the right training, it’s not hard to tell that while Khobi may look ferocious, he’s getting nowhere.

​Because while Loac doesn’t do anything more than what any self-preserving swordsman would do in a duel; he just does it better .

Obviously no soldier is perfect. No matter how strong they are, or how fast, all swordsmen make mistakes sooner or later. Khobi knows that. It’s what he’s got to be looking for.

There are chinks in their armour that even they might not even be aware of, and every now and then their guard drops, just enough for a sword to slip through.

But what he doesn’t know --what he’s probably just coming to understand, is that when it comes to Loac, those moments never seem to come.

​Montrel’s never faced anyone with a guard so impenetrable. He’s strong, for sure, and wickedly, terrifyingly swift on his feet, but he has a way of knowing how a man is about to move, almost as soon as they do, and the reflexes to keep up with that.

And that steady rhythm of the fight; that back-and-forth of two men mirroring each other’s shape? He sets that pace, and anyone who thinks otherwise has already lost.

​If it looks like Khobi is beating him back, that’s because Loac is letting it happen.

​But, oddly enough, it doesn’t look like Loac’s toying with him.

And t hey all know what that looks like. Most of them know what it feels like. Honestly, Montrel had been expecting to be toyed with today. Embarrassed, even.

And to some extent he had been, because he hadn’t even been able to scratch the guy, but who was he to complain when he’d been beaten in an honest fight?

​It’s been a long time since Loac had fought him like that.

​Montrel’s not sure why he chose today, of all days, to at least pretend like he respected him as a soldier, but he’s glad he did.

​That’s not to say he’s not bitter, because he is. But while he doesn’t like the guy, when he fights like he means it, it’s difficult not to be left even a little bit in awe of him.

...

Distantly, somewhere beyond the cries of their swords beating blood-curdling screams out of one another, Khobi hears the crowd cheering; roaring for him like he’s winning, like he’s got Loac right where he wants him.

​He doesn’t understand that at all.

​He’s under no illusion that he’s in control right now. Because even though he’s slowly pushing Loac back, biding his time until that fleeting moment where he can drive holes into the cracks where his guard seems weakest, Loac doesn’t move like a man on the run.

He doesn’t feel like someone being slowly beaten down. The patterns he’s carving into the air look wild and vicious, and would score deep and ugly upon flesh, but each time, Loac’s sword is there to halt him.

Each block is as steady and as calculated as the last; each step back measured like it’s a pattern he’s walked before, and even though Khobi’s strikes are each swift and decisive, Loac’s reflexes are unparalleled.

​It’s frustrating, how easily he moves against him; dodging and parrying his way through anything Khobi can throw at him, and catching feints before Khobi even has the chance to follow through on them.

And maybe the crowd can’t feel the pressure behind Loac’s sword the way he feels it, but even on the outside looking in, how can it seem like he’s winning?

​How can he be winning, if he hasn’t broken through his guard even once .

​He’s yet to even throw him out of time, let alone land a scratch on him. And it’s not that he doesn’t try; it’s just that each of Loac’s movements feel so deliberate and even; set to a tempo that rather than breaking, Khobi can’t help but fall into.

It’s bad; he knows that --dangerous even --letting your opponent disrupt the rhythm you’ve trained to and push you into their pace is a surefire way of losing focus and your footing, but the tempo that Loac’s moving to feels so natural, too.

​It’s kind of weird, actually. It happens with soldiers who train together a lot. But Khobi’s never fallen into step with someone so easily before.

​And let it happen.

​Maybe it’s because even though the sounds their swords make against each other are sick and broken, the rhythm they’re really moving to lurks beneath the song; a strange, pulsing underbeat that he feels more than hears, throbbing under his skin, pulling him in. Urging him on.

​Daring him to push harder, and see what happens.

​(Khobi finds he desperately wants to see what will happen.)

​He gets his wish.

​The change to the beat is small. A split second of absolute stillness, maybe? Less, perhaps.

But when you’ve fallen into a pattern, into someone else’s rhythm, like Khobi’s gone and done, you’re trapped, and that brief moment of time means everything. It’s disruption.

It’s that tiny shift in the flow of the battle that throws your opponent off just long enough to change the course of the fight.

​It’s the kind of opening Khobi’s been waiting for, but unfortunately the one who’s been caught off guard is him. In that instant, frozen in time, the momentum shifts, and Loac with it. Straight for Khobi.

​The only warning he gets is the glint of sunlight upon steel, and then all he sees is blue.

​And then, pain. Not a lot of it, because he saw the blade coming in just enough time to keep his head attached to his shoulders, but enough; the edge of Loac’s blade scoring a line in red down the length of his jaw.

​It smarts something nasty, but they both know it’s nothing fatal, and Khobi senses the follow up coming before he sees it, and throws all his weight behind blocking it before it cleaves him in two.

​When he throws Loac back off him, the guy has the nerve to follow the red streaming down Khobi’s face with an almost disappointed expression --like somehow he feels like he’s gone and wasted his time.

​And that pisses him off .

​Men bleed when they fight. It happens. And just because Loac’s made it this far without having done so doesn’t mean shit .

He’ll bleed just as much and just as red as any of them.

So the next time he comes for him, Khobi lets him break through his guard. Not too obviously, and not too badly.

The leather of his armour takes some serious damage for it, but Khobi’s blade comes away just as red as Loac’s, and the mark he carves into his chin is deeper than the one Loac left on him.

​They break apart, possibly for the first time since their fight began, and for an entire heartbeat, the world seems to fall completely silent, uncomprehending.

​Loac, too, doesn’t seem to understand just exactly what’s happened.

For a moment there it’s like he forgets they’re even fighting. And when he reaches up to brush his fingers against his jaw, he looks vaguely confused to see them come away red.

​After what feels like an eternity, he finally looks across the ring at him; past the fresh droplets of blood they’ve both left upon the dirt, and Khobi, already drenched in sweat, lets out a low, heavy breath, and defiantly wipes a line of blood off his chin.

And then when Loac’s expression changes, the atmosphere shifts with it, and Khobi finds a strange heat start to stir up in his blood.

​It could have been a trick of the light, but he almost looks pleased .