Chapter 54: Fist Fight.

Chapter 54: Chapter 54: Fist Fight.

A couple of the guards aren’t laughing.

Hasbar, unsurprisingly, is one of them.

"Funny story," he says, over Montrel’s snorts. He doesn’t sound sincere, and his wide smile doesn’t reach his eyes. "Really, really funny. Out for one day and you assault our prince. Hilarious. Dunno if it’ll be quite so funny when they lock you away again for it, but that’s just me." Montrel’s laughter abruptly dies, and he squares up against Hasbar with eyes narrowed.

"Don’t get all righteous on us now, Hasbar," he scoffs, "You wanted to deck the guy just like everyone else." Hasbar doesn’t back down.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," he says, like the accusation’s untrue. "He’s my prince. I’m sworn to protect him --"

"Save your breath, Hasbar," Albi sighed dryly, "We all know our duty."

"Do you?" Hasbar sniffed, "Because surely it’s our duty to see that any harm that comes to our prince is punished?"

It’s clear what he’s getting at.

And Khobi’s having none of it.

"...You got a problem?" he demands, shouldering past Montrel to face down Hasbar. Hasbar’s wiry, for a soldier, but not small, and when Khobi looms up into his space, he doesn’t give ground.

"Yeah, I do," he says back, smile unfriendly. "And it’s you. Men have gotten themselves thrown in dungeons for a lot less than what you did --"

" Back off, Hasbar ," Jaga warns, voice low, but Khobi cuts him off.

"No, it’s fine," he says flatly, rolling up his sleeves. "I’ll handle this."

He doesn’t reach for his sword, because he’s pretty sure this isn’t going to be that kind of fight. He’s proved right an instant later, when a fist comes lashing out at him from nowhere, straight into his ribs.

"Oh shit ," he’s pretty sure he hears Montrel curse, but he waves him off before he can intervene, because he’s getting real sick of this guy’s attitude.

"Nice punch," he remarks, and means it. But he’s got some nice punches of his own.

"Thanks --" Hasbar manages to grit out an instant before Khobi sends a hefty uppercut into the right side of his jaw. His teeth clack together, and the watching guards all wince in unison as he reels backwards. But none of them make any move to stop them.

Hasbar’s fast and very nimble, with sharp, biting punches that always seem to land exactly where they’ll hurt most. Khobi’s still riddled with injuries that are still healing, and Hasbar, it seems, knows precisely where to jab to make them hurt.

And it does hurt.

But that’s to be expected, and Khobi can take it. Hasbar on the other hand, probably can’t. For all his bravado, he’s soft, and has probably never taken a real beating in his life. He can brawl, that much is obvious, but Khobi’s better. He’s good at ducking under attacks --a whole lot of Khobi’s punches sail right past him, and he laughs --but when he’s not fast enough, and one connects, well, it’s enough to smack the smile clean off his face.

After the fourth blow, he’s flagging, and he’s not fast enough to dodge the follow up. It slams home right in his gut, and he staggers, then pitches forward.

Khobi thinks, as he falls, that it would be so easy to finish him off right then and there. He’s done it before, slammed an elbow into the fragile bone at the back of a man’s skull and crushed him into the ground. Skulls didn’t take much to break if you knew where to hit.

But he doesn’t have to do that.

He doesn’t want to do that.

Hasbar’s an asshole with a big mouth and a face he doesn’t much like, but he doesn’t want him dead.

(There were actually very few people Khobi wanted dead.)

His arm’s already set to fall, and he realises with a start that he raised it out of reflex to deliver a final, punishing blow. But Hasbar’s already falling, lip bleeding and clutching at his gut. He knows it, too.

Just like that, a couple of minutes and a handful of clean hits later, it’s over.

Khobi spits out a wad of blood from the side of his mouth and lowers his arm as Hasbar crash lands in the dirt at his feet.

"Are we done here?" he asks flatly. Hasbar for once, has nothing to say.

And that really, says it all.

Khobi backs off, leaving Hasbar lying where he fell. Considering what the guards know he’s capable of, he’s still looking in fairly good nick. No one makes to help him from the ground, but Albi is kind enough to kneel down beside him and allow him to use him as a crutch to gather himself to his feet. He’s a little wobbly, and his breathing doesn’t sound too healthy as he tries to recover the wind that’s been knocked out of him, but he’s still in one piece, and the expression he’s wearing is one of regret.

"You’re really stupid sometimes," Albi says flatly, not to be unkind, just honest. Hasbar looks away from him like a petulant child. Albi lets him, because he’s lost, and prideful men are unbearable when they’ve been wounded. But it’s important that he realises his folly, realises what the other guards have already realised.

That Khobi Frost isn’t a monster.

"You know he could’ve killed you, right?" he says lowly, looking over briefly at Khobi, who has slumped down against one of the fence posts and is inspecting an ugly bruise on his ribs for any deeper damage.

"...Yeah," Hasbar mutters after a moment, shamefaced. "I know."

That was good. Soldiers who have never seen war in all its full might, those who have never looked death in the face sometimes lacked awareness of their own mortality. It was good, maybe, that Hasbar had finally seen it.

"And he didn’t," he points out.

"...And he didn’t," Hasbar pouts back. Albi claps him on the shoulder and makes him wince.

"That’s right," he said firmly, "So I don’t want to hear another word out of you. Or the Second will be hearing about it. Is that clear?"

Hasbar mumbled something.

"...Is that clear?" Albi asked again.

"...Yes, sir," he grumbled.

"Good," he nodded, and patted him on the back, a little gentler this time, "He’s not your enemy, Hasbar. So stop looking at him like he is one."

"Besides..." he adds, sparing Khobi another sidelong glance, "One day, he’ll be your prince too."

...

"...Looks like you’ve got a fan," Montrel remarks conversationally as Khobi plonks himself down on the ground in the meagre shadow of the fence to take a break. He groans and runs a hand across his ribs. He’s sure they’re still bruised, and getting into a fist fight with Hasbar probably didn’t help. Montrel joins him at the fence, looking out towards the rest of the training ground like he’s surveying the crowd. His words are low, meant only for Khobi, but he needn’t have bothered. Khobi had noticed a while ago, that they were being watched.

Rather, that he was being watched.

Credit to Montrel. He didn’t think anyone else had noticed.

"I know. I see him too," he mutters flatly, taking a swig of water when Montrel offers him some. Up above them, ramparts and galleries overlook the training grounds, and seem to be constantly alive with streams of people, all going about their daily business. Every now and then a couple of them stop, and linger to observe the soldiers down below before carrying on their way. But not him.

He just stands there, leaning on the edge, making no effort to conceal himself, or indeed, who he was watching.

"How long’s he been there?" Khobi asks, and Montrel shrugs, wiping a trail of sweat from his brow and doing a fairly good job of pretending he’s surveying the rest of the grounds.

"Hmm, about an hour, I think."

"Yeah, thought so."

"...You think he’s gonna start something?" Montrel inquired, and Khobi shrugs as he turns his gaze up towards the ramparts and their observer. Even from down here, he can tell who it is.

Rogard.

He can’t be certain, but he’s sure they lock eyes.

"Probably," he admits, but doesn’t sound too concerned. "Let him."

"You know his old man’s pretty powerful in these parts," Montrel remarks reproachfully. "Could’ve been royalty. ...Maybe don’t start shit with his son."

For some reason, he’s got a bad feeling that that’s pretty much exactly what Khobi’s going to do.