Chapter 78: To The Grou.

Chapter 78: Chapter 78: To The Grou.

Getting flung around by Jaga is fun and all, but it’s not easy on the body, and it’s with a certain degree of relief that Khobi takes up his sword into his hand again.

The day’s still young and already he’s aching down to his bones. It’s one of those good aches though --the kind that will send him to sleep later that night feeling like he’s done a hard day’s work.

And it is hard work. Every day. The soldiers hadn’t been joking about Drogger’s expectations. His drills could go for hours, if he deemed it necessary. And he often did.

Khobi doesn’t mind.

It’s better than the alternative,he’s already spent too many years wasting away in cage. Out here, he finally feels alive.

Sometimes, being out here makes him think of his home. Of Scargga, and his aunt and uncle. The soldiers treat their Second Captain with the same mix of fear and reverence that his uncle’s men had shown his aunt.

She’d been a savage drillmaster, too. One who had driven her soldiers almost to tears at times, and then built them back up stronger than before. Khnoji had been her biggest project, and her greatest triumph.

(Sometimes, being out here makes him feel like maybe, he’s doing his family proud.)

"Okay you lot! Pair up!" Drogger barks from what feels like all around them. He’s not talking specifically to any one group in particular, but it sure feels that way.

"I want to see some spirited duelling today, you hear me? If you’re serious about participating in this tournament then you should start acting like it!"

" Yes, sir !" comes the chorus of cries from the surrounding area, as crisp a salute as Drogger could ask for.

By mutual agreement --between themselves, and all others around them --Rogard and Khobi gravitate towards one another.

"You sore or something?" he teases, when he sees Rogard gingerly testing the damage done to his jaw.

"Not even a little," he chips back, drawing his sword stepping back a pace to ready himself for Khobi’s attack.

It’s a little alarming how much more natural it looks on him now, after barely a week’s practice.

A brutal crash course of a week, but that didn’t change the fact that in such a small span of time, Rogard’s past skills were starting to catch up to him. "But you’re about to be."

Khobi smirks as he draws his own blade.

"Bring it."

Their duels are rarely short, and this one is no exception. It’s good. Khobi’s been given few opportunities to cross swords with a talent of this calibre, and it’s as invigorating as it is infuriating that Rogard refuses to back down.

He doesn’t fall for his feints as much anymore, and he doesn’t get knocked back nearly as far whenever Khobi turns aside his blows --the return to training is doing wonders for him.

All around the training grounds, the eyes of other soldiers turn to them, and they watch in awe and in envy.

Sparring is a normal part of everyday training, it’s expected that every man be adept with a sword and able to hold himself against another, but this is more than just your everyday training, and they all know it.

A good soldier knows skill when he sees it, and Drogger was proud to say that he had raised an army of good soldiers.

Khobi and Rogard barely notice them.

They’re just two blurs of colour moving against a sea of leather, and they couldn’t care less about the world around them.

Khobi can’t afford to let down his guard --even if Rogard isn’t as fast as him, he’s sneaky and he’s learning, and he’s always watching for an opening.

Finally, Rogard’s reputation, and his seemingly baseless confidence are starting to make sense.

(He’s good, but in the back of his mind, Khobi can’t help but think that the way he moves is nothing compared to Loac.)

Even so, he still manages to smash him in the face with the butt of his sword.

It’s only his quick reflexes that save his face from completely caving in.

Even a lifetime of training isn’t enough to stop the string of curses that leave Khobi’s mouth. His uncle would have been mortified. His aunt would have been impressed.

And then she would have kicked him for not dodging the follow-up.

The kick lands right in his gut and the air leaves his lungs in one fell whoosh . He automatically doubles over, chest heaving, his grip on his sword secondary to trying to catch his breath.

So when Rogard drops low and aims a sweeping kick at his ankles, his feet fly out from under him and his sword goes skittering across the ground.

He hits the deck hard .

" Nngggghhhh... "

It never gets any more fun.

Especially when he opens his eyes to find the tip of a blade resting neatly at his throat.

For someone who’s just flattened him, Rogard looks annoyed.

"Tsk," he scoffs, discontent, offering up resistance as Khobi tries to nudge the blade away from his neck. "You were distracted."

He’s a little right, but there’s no way Khobi’s going to admit that. He’s usually better prepared for cheap shots like that.

"...Don’t know what you’re talking about."

"Right," Rogard sniffs, hefting his sword up onto his shoulder and turning his nose up. Turns out, he’s not a very gracious winner or loser. "Well, I’m not happy with this, so I guess it’ll have to be a do-over."

It’s fair enough. Khobi wouldn’t accept a win like that either.

But he’s wearing a pretty annoying face, and let his guard down way too early.

As punishment, Khobi trips him. Rogard’s feet shoot out from under him, and he hangs almost comically in the air before he unceremoniously comes crashing back to earth. The only reason he doesn’t impale himself is because his sword goes flying.

"Ow," Rogard complains, pounding the ground with a fist in annoyance, and a bit of pain. "No fair."

"Fuck, hold your sword tighter, already! Ugh..."

For a long moment, they just lie there, covered in sweat and dirt. The exhaustion hits them all at once --the culmination of the day’s long fights, and from being out in the sun since dawn.

The training grounds offer no cover and even this late into summer the heat can be merciless.

Drained, Khobi closes his eyes, just for a little. He shouldn’t have let his mind wander. It had been a good fight, too.

"Y’know..." he says quietly, brow creasing as he squints up at the sky. Not a cloud in sight. Binny’s told him autumn is just around the corner, but with days like this, it’s pretty hard to believe. "...You’re pretty good."

A beat of silence passes.

"Well, I have been doing this since I was a kid," he says, like it should be obvious. It sounds like a brag, but it comes off a little awkward, like he’s not completely convinced Khobi isn’t making fun of him.

"Same," Khobi deadpans, to bring him down off his pedestal, and Rogard glowers at him.

"Hmph," he huffs, flopping back onto the ground and mimicking his listless gazing at the sky. "...You’re not bad yourself...I guess."

It’s probably the first time Khobi’s actually gotten anything close to a compliment from the guy.

"...Thanks."

As comfortable as the ground is, they’re going to get yelled at if they don’t haul ass and get moving again soon, and they both know it.

Rogard sighs, and Khobi sighs with him as they begin the laborious task of rising to their feet.

In the brief time he’s been motionless, his exhausted body has started to freeze up and he has to take a moment to work some life back into his biceps.

And then his thighs, since they’re starting to really feel the effects of sparring with Jaga. The walk to retrieve his sword is decidedly stiff.

"Hey," Rogard remarks to his back suddenly, taking his sweet time gathering himself up off the ground. "Is it true you punched Loac?"

Khobi can’t quite read his tone, and while he doesn’t exactly care who knows, some of the soldiers he’s familiar with have made it quite clear that he probably shouldn’t be advertising it.

Again, he doesn’t exactly care.

"Yeah," he says flatly, with a clear undertone of you got a problem with that ?

"...Cool," Rogard says, and then to Khobi’s surprise, nods approvingly as he rounds on him, sword at the ready. "He’s been a real dick these days."

Khobi likes how he seems to know that’s a massive understatement. It makes them both grin, despite themselves.

"Fuck, you’re tellin’ me. "