Chapter 59: On Your Feet.

Chapter 59: Chapter 59: On Your Feet.

It’s rough going. Not the running so much, even though for some reason he and Montrel have, by unspoken agreement, set a lung-shattering pace, but because while he’s stuck running circles around the perimeter of the training grounds, there are men getting to spar and shoot and do everything he wishes he was doing instead of this.

A lot of the men he overtakes look like there are a lot of things they’d rather be doing than this.

And they overtake a lot of them.

Montrel wasn’t kidding.

These guys are out of shape.

No wonder their captain wants them to run.

And there are lots of them running, too. Probably more out of the circle than in, by the looks of it, and more arriving almost by the minute.

And their complaints, and excuses, and pleas, just like everyone else’s, fall on deaf and very unsympathetic ears. Some of them already look absolutely shattered.

Not that many of the ones already running look much better. As they run they blow by what must be dozens of sweaty, shambling soldiers with red faces and heaving chests and guts that tell of too many nights of too many beers.

Honestly, Khobi doesn’t mind the run. He’s been getting aches, on account of being too impatient to warm up properly, but after the obstacle course they’d taken to get here, this is a piece of cake.

(His aunt would absolutely kill him, if she knew he didn’t take the time to warm up before intense training. And then she’d kill his uncle, if she ever knew it was a bad habit Khobi had picked up from him.)

"Hey, pick it up Khobi!" Wakamatsu yells, as though Khobi’s not literally a foot behind him. It’s also not like they’re slacking.

They’re already taking the training grounds by storm, overtaking, overlapping, and generally making everyone else look pretty bad, and from the resentful glares his back receives from the leaden-footed masses, his zeal is not well received.

It’s nice, for a change, to not be the most hated person in the immediate vicinity.

"--The faster we run, the sooner we get to do the fun stuff!"

He’s certainly singing a different tune several laps later.

Thunk !

"Nice shot, Gandy," Jaga remarks conversationally, clapping Gandy on the shoulder and squinting down the range towards their wooden target, pincushioned with arrows.

"Really?"

"Yeah, looks like you might’ve got dead centre, too," Mural assures him, mimicking Jaga’s stance. It’s a little difficult to tell from here, but he’s pretty sure he sees one of Gandy’s arrows quivering in the tiny centre of the target. Gandy lets out an explosive sigh of relief and releases the tension of his bow a little too excitedly.

"Oh thank fuck, my arm is killing me," he winces as their drill instructor calls for a ceasefire so they can go collect their arrows from the target. "Come on, if that arrow’s hit dead centre you owe me a drink tonight."

The three of them amble up the range towards their targets with the rest of their company,soldiers around them stopping every now and then to pick up a stray arrow that had been misfired.

Theirs are some of the furthest down the range --a request from Jaga that Gandy had not been quick enough to veto --and as such, they have the longest walk.

"Uh, you guys go on ahead," Mural sighs resignedly, stooping down and yanking an arrow out of the dirt. "I’ve found some of mine. Maybe I’m rusty."

"Try my bow next time," Jaga suggests, walking up towards his target and plucking one of the arrows out of the wood with a sharp tug, "I think the one you’re using is too small."

Mural looks thoughtfully at the bow he’s holding and seems to come to the same conclusion. Jaga nods to him and sets about retrieving the rest of his arrows.

He’s fairly happy with where they’ve struck, considering the distance, but they’ve dug quite deep and it takes him a little while to work them free.

He’s just about finished prying the last one loose, when who should collapse against his target, but Montrel, panting and holding his stomach like he’s been hit.

There’s no blood, and no arrow, but the agonised way Montrel sinks to the ground against the target really sells it. Jaga looks at him a moment, then back the way he’s come, in time to see Khobi fall flat on his face at his feet, chest heaving and sweat pouring down his back. By the looks of things, they’ve been running. And have taken a little detour.

"You’re not supposed to be out here," Jaga reminds them with a frown, even though that should be obvious because they’re standing on an archery range. Not everyone is a good shot, and even those who are can have bad days.

"...Drogger can’t see us over here, right??" Montrel hisses urgently, and leans back into the target with a groan of relief when Jaga shakes his head.

"No, he’s over the other side," he says, as Gandy wanders over, ready to head back for another round. "You should be okay for a bit."

"Thank fuck ," Montrel groans dramatically, stretching out and sucking in a deep breath as Khobi slowly gathers himself to something a little more dignified than face down on the ground.

"This is the fucking worst. Bongo never makes us run laps."

"You guys were late too, huh?" Gandy remarks casually, and Jaga sends him a look for laughing.

Montrel looks unimpressed, and wipes a thick sheen of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

"Yeah, by like ten fucking minutes," he drawls, clearly not about to let that go. "Because he wasn’t even ready --"

("Hey, don’t pin this on me --" Khobi grits out, and promptly gets waved away.)

"Well lucky you," Gandy cackles, jabbing a finger back towards the start line, where there were still dozens of unlucky souls pouring in and finding themselves sentenced to a fate almost equal to death. "Cert only just got here. He’ll be running laps for hours ."

"Yeah, lucky us ," Montrel mutters mutinously. " Ugh --"

" --We have to get back," Jaga informs him, glancing back and seeing that most of the other archers are looking ready for their next volley, "So you two need to leave before someone shoots you." It’s not a threat, it’s just fairly likely to happen, and Montrel acknowledges that.

He claps Khobi on the shoulder and the pair of them drag themselves to their feet. They look pretty beat. No more so than anyone else Jaga has seen running, but still.

"Maybe...maybe we should just like, jog the next one," Montrel suggests, using the target for support as he gazes back out at the perimeter and how far they’ve still got to go.

"What, getting tired, old man Trelly?" Khobi needles, wheeling back towards the pack with a superior smirk that makes thunder crackle over Montrel’s head. " See you at the finish line !"

" Hey, where do yo --who are you calling ’old man’ ??" he shouts at his back, instantly steady on his feet and ready for a fight as he eyeballs his snickering comrades beadily. "Okay, which one of you taught him that?" None of them reply, just turn their backs on him and wave as they head back towards their drill instructor with their arrows.

"See you guys next lap!" Gandy hollers over his shoulder, grinning. Montrel makes a rude gesture at his back as he jogs off after Khobi, already a decent way behind him.

"I hate you," he shouts at him, but Gandy laughs because he’s heard that before, "I hope your mother sets you up with someone ugly !"

"And that ," Montrel tells Khobi, some time later, when they’ve run out their sentence and they’re both doubled over where they started with their hands on their knees and their hearts hammering in their chests, " Is why you don’t turn up late ."

...

He’s late, every single day.