Chapter 174 - 172: Tales Of Old Memories.

Chapter 174: Chapter 172: Tales Of Old Memories.

It hardly seems possible, but the maze of tents feels even more alive than the last time.

It was a mess of fabric and bodies before, but tonight everything seems heightened; men and women everywhere he looks, and colours and torches and sound coming from all directions.

It’s colder out tonight, but the air seems...lighter, somehow. Like the tension that had been steadily building as the tournament drew closer had snapped back, broken away, and was now trickling off on the wind.

The soldiers from other kingdoms don’t wear their uniforms quite so crisp, or hold their swords as close.

They mingle more, crossing firelit circles to greet those they recognise from the displays or playing at cards while they swap tips for ale.

​It occurs to Khobi, for not the first time, how much things can change in only a short span of time.

​Only days ago, all of these people here felt almost like enemies.

As much as the king had preached about friendship and unity, they had all watched each other far too keenly and with too little trust for there to be any illusion that they were in the company of friends.

And their looks for Khobi had ranged from disdainful indifference to positively scathing.

​Tonighr is a different story.

​Tonight, as with the night of the ball, men who would have previously turned away from him, nod to Khobi as they pass.

Some of them are from Crade. Some bear sigils he doesn’t recognise.

Most are soldiers, but some of them aren’t.

​It’s a weird feeling.

​Khobi isn’t sure he likes it necessarily, but he definitely doesn’t hate it the same way he does the alternative.

He doesn’t quite feel at ease as they wander through the stalls and between caravans, following his nose to whatever place smells best, but he’s definitely able to relax a little more without eyes boring through him on all sides.

​It’s hard to believe that he’s outside the castle walls again.

​(Apparently he owes Montrel a drink for arranging it.

​Or rather, Rogard does. Because Khobi doesn’t have any gold.)

​And while his wounds haven’t healed per se, the medics up at the infirmary say it’s healing nicely despite his extracurricular fighting a few days previous.

They seem pretty confident that it’s not infected, so he’s officially allowed to resume training with the rest of the men come dawn.

He’s looking forward to it; to getting a good chance to stretch his legs. A few days off had done a world of good –his late night rematch (of sorts) with Loac had further broken down his already shattered body, and he’d woken up the most stiff and sore he’d been in years.

It had taken all his strength just to scrape himself off Binny’s floor, his legs all the while threatening to give out at the slightest of breezes.

​After laughing the whole way through his struggle, Binny had finally taken pity on him and ran him a bath.

​More exhausted than he could have ever imagined, he’d been in it for what felt like hours.

Partly because the hot water had soothed his aching bones like nothing else, and partly because he’d been far too stiff to climb out.

And then, even with another night on Binny’s floor, he’d slept like an absolute log, and dreamed of summer mountains and starry blue evening skies.

​It had been a refreshing change of pace, but it felt like it had been a long time since his last back breaking training session, and now, with his aches slowly fading, and cuts closing over, he’s relishing the thought of taking up a sword again.

​(And not even because he’s got something to prove, just because -- if he’s being perfectly honest, these past days he’s found himself missing it all, just a little; jostling with Rogard during their laps, and trading barbs with Gandy over lunch. Laughing, when Montrel gets ploughed by Jaga, and even hearing the others laugh right back when it happens to him, too.)

​Just a little.

​(It reminds him of warm summer nights back home, when his uncle, even as king, would join his soldiers at training, and do the same.)

​But for now, the night is young, and the fires are calling.

​It’s obvious that he’s not the only one more at ease out here.

Tonight, the soldiers with him drink more and talk louder and more animatedly, and when they call out to faces in the crowd that they remember from their time spent in the arena, they receive hands and tankards raised in greeting and at times, in toast, like somehow crossing blades on the battlefield has forged a new bond.

A few even join them at the fireside, where in between drinking games they trade stories of their lands and their training, and argue over whose Captain is the harshest of them all.

​Khobi tells them, when they ask, about Scargga.

About his uncle, and his aunt, and the mountains where they lived.

Some of them even crossed paths with Khojin Frost –his aunt Mozry, too –in their youth, and he hungrily eats up each of their stories in turn no matter how small, because most of them he’s never heard; his ears having much too young at the time for some of their tales.

It’s been so long since he’s been able to talk so easily about his family like real people, and not just getting lost in his same old memories.

​No one asks about Briyagi. Either they’ve been, and already know, or they’ve heard the rumours, and would rather not have them confirmed.

The drinking games too, are new territory.

And for some reason it feels like a mistake when he admits that. It makes the soldiers around him, familiar and not –drunk or not –hoot and cheer into the night air.

In his defence, it’s not like he’s never had much opportunity.

He was too young, when Briyagi had taken over, and he hadn’t exactly had much leisure time in the years that followed.

The rules don’t seem too complex, and he catches on pretty fast.

It’s just betting drinks instead of gold on cards, or dice, or some variation of seeing who could drink the most the fastest.

He quickly finds that he has quite the aptitude for it. Not the betting part; that, he’s rubbish at. But the drinking?

That he does pretty well.