Chapter 146 - 144: Clashing Blades.

Chapter 146: Chapter 144: Clashing Blades.

And even though the sun is high, and the sky is a clear expanse of blue, it feels like there are clouds are gathering all around him.

Thick, and grey, and dark with thunder. He could swear he hears it.

​Closer, this time.

​...

​Loac doesn’t wait for him this time, like he’s just decided on his own that Khobi’s had enough turn on the offensive and he wants to show him just how it’s done.

​And it’s completely unlike anything Khobi’s ever faced.

​He’s fucking incredible.

​Khobi has never tried to fight a raging winter tempest with nothing but the clothes on his back and a borrowed sword, but he thinks that this must be what it’s like.

He’s seen with his own damn eyes that the guy only has one sword, but it feels like he’s wielding a dozen of them --as soon as he deflects one blow there’s another coming at him from an impossible angle at an impossible speed --and Khobi has to channel every ounce of his concentration into making sure that none of them hit their mark.

And that if they do, it’s nothing fatal.

​It’s different, now. Khobi can’t quite explain how, or how he knows it is, but something’s changed.

Something’s shifted. Loac’s not content to just sit back to let him slave away trying to break him down.

He wants to break him right back --seems to want to push him; make him bleed. Or rather, see if he can.

​But it doesn’t feel like he wants to kill him.

​Far from it, actually. It’s like he wants to see if he can keep up with him.

​Khobi doesn’t really get it, but he’s happy to oblige. He’s going to keep up with whatever Loac can throw at him.

​It’s a vow that proves difficult to keep. It could be minutes or it could be hours that they spend pacing their way across the ring; trading jabs and vicious slices but Loac does not tire.

Khobi’s never once seen him at the training grounds --some of the soldiers can’t even remember the last time they saw him there, but he moves like he’s been doing this every day of his life.

It comes so natural to him. He moves the way soldiers wish they could move, following up feints and slices in turn with barely a moment’s hesitation, changing his attacks at a whim just when Khobi sure he’s predicted what he’s about to do next.

And just when Khobi thinks he’s locked his rhythm down, he breaks it himself, and swoops in with such terrifying speed that had Khobi not been able to parry him, he probably would have died on the spot.

Meeting Loac blow for blow is exhausting. It’s like he knows the most awkward angles to strike from --the ones where the sun is in Khobi’s eyes, or where he has to aggravate an old injury to block him --but it is exhilarating.

He barely has any time to think; just has to let his body move how it feels natural --let his body respond to Loac’s.

​It’s strange, how easily it does.

​How easy it becomes. They move like they’ve been training together their whole lives.

​It gets that way with strong soldiers, too.

​And every now and then, from the corner of his eye, Khobi sees it. That strange brilliance; a glimpse of something bright lurking behind Loac’s eyes, yearning to break free.

​He wants to see what it is. What it means. What happens when it’s finally set loose on the world.

​So no matter what Loac throws at him, he pushes it back. And it doesn’t get easier. Just the opposite, in fact.

Loac gets more inventive with his attacks, and Khobi in return, has to get more creative with how he defends, but it’s hard since the early beginnings of fatigue have long since started to set in, and the first major mistake belongs to him.

​He loses his grip.

​It can happen. It’s happened today. Khobi didn’t think it would happen to him, but there you are.

Loac comes at him in a beautiful, sleek sequence --three fast jabs, a feint to his feet, and then a violent swipe at his throat.

Khobi parries the jabs, backs away from the feint, and blocks the fatal blow, only to have his blade wrenched from his hands a moment later as Loac throws his entire weight behind disarming him.

​He’s tried it before (and so has Khobi) and each time they’ve failed, with his arms practically coming right out of their sockets, but this time his gloves, slick from wiping the sweat and blood out of his eyes, betray him.

​It’s kind of anticlimactic, really; the sword doesn’t even fly very far, or very dramatically. It just kind of comes loose from his hands, and feebly tumbles blade over hilt until it comes to rest in the dust.

Just beyond reach, but not by much. Khobi probably could have put it in his mouth and spat it farther.

​But beyond arm’s reach is beyond arm’s reach. And Loac is armed, and watching him.

And Khobi tries to meet his gaze, honest he does, but his eyes betray him, flitting to his weapon, lying so alluringly close. Loac just scoffs, and sets him with a look. He’ll get to it first, and they both know it.

​"Yield," Loac advises him stonily, sword at the ready in case he decides to do something stupid.

It’s the first word that’s passed between them since they stepped out into this ring, and it sounds hoarse.

Khobi’s sure he’s been yelling, but for a second there he’s not sure that if he tried to speak, any words would come out. His lungs are aching; the burning of his limbs has risen from healthy to steadily overheating, and there’s sweat pouring off his body in what feels like waves.

Or maybe it’s blood; he’s not too sure now. Loac’s cut him up nicely by now; nothing too damaging, but each one stings, and leaks, and saps his energy bit by bit.

The only consolation is that for every drop of blood Loac’s torn from him, he’s been sure to take right back.

Khobi might be a sweaty, heaving wreck of a man right now, but it gives him a sick sense of pride that his opponent, having made it through the day so unscathed, is now faring just as bad.

Honestly, Loac’s never looked worse.

​It’s an oddly good look on him.

​Like for some reason, this was how he was meant to be.

Out on a bloodstained field in battered armour and drenched in sweat.

​Khobi can relate.

​It’s weird, but he’s never felt more himself than he does right now.

​It’s a thought that brings a grin to his face, even as he stands there unarmed and at another man’s mercy.

He’s fucking exhausted , he’s bleeding and he’s nearly had a few of his limbs severed, and his heart is pounding so loud it feels like blood might start pouring out his ears, but the truth of it is that this has might just have been the most fun he’s had in his life.

​But it’s not over, not while he has fight left in him, so he can’t let his body quit on him yet.

​And it would be a shame to end things here, like this.

​He has the feeling that Loac wouldn’t be satisfied by that, either.

​So he does something stupid.