Chapter 134 - 133: Ready...

Chapter 134: Chapter 133: Ready...

The king’s speech is short this time, like maybe he’s sensed the impatience in the air, and knows better than to keep a mob waiting.

Khobi’s grateful, in part because he’s a part of the impatient masses, and in part because he really hates when kings go on.

They always say such pretty, meaningless things, and today it means even less, because he talks about allies and union and friendship that he hopes will prosper and endure.

​Khobi doesn’t particularly like the king, but he doesn’t think he’s stupid enough to believe that anyone is here because of friendship .

​Probably just the opposite, in fact.

​With his pretty words, he extends his gratitude to those who have journeyed to be here for this celebration, and to those who have done themselves and their kingdoms proud over the past few days, and then at last, with a grand, sweeping gesture, he invites all who wish to prove their worth, to enter the ring and be tested by their fellow men.

​"Best of luck to you all," he states, as the floodgates open, and soldiers begin to swarm back into the arena, lured by the promise of gold and fame, and the opportunity to pit themselves against the strongest fighters in all the lands.

"Let’s not have any unpleasantries, hmm?"

​Right on cue, as if unable to contain themselves for a moment longer, the crowd bursts into uproar, baying and howling as their chosen champions hold their blades high, and bring them down upon their shields like drums, heralding the battle to come.

It’s an ungodly clamour, but it is music to Khobi’s ears, and it calls to him.

​He can’t explain why, but in that moment, he finds himself glancing across the dais towards Loac.

​(He’s not sure why it matters, or if it even does, but despite those blue eyes drooping closed, his fingers, long and dark and splayed lethargically upon the armrest, twitch in time to the chaotic beat.)

​"What are you waiting for, Khobi?" Gurdet inquires lightly, as he settles back down into his seat, and when Khobi shifts his gaze from Loac, the king’s watching him carefully; eyes positively gleaming.

​"Aren’t you going to join them?"

​...

​Khobi joins them.

​And a few moments later, so does Loac.

​....

​The early rounds, Khobi was earlier warned by Montrel, are nothing short of minor chaos; a gauntlet of bedlam designed to thin the ranks; to separate the overconfident and overzealous from the truly strong whilst providing a bloodthirsty crowd with an abundance of mayhem.

This is the messy part.

A necessary evil, the soldiers all freely admitted to him, and as soon as Khobi sets foot into the arena once more he sees why.

​If possible, there’s even more of them than before, like somehow the king’s words have spoken to the inherently proud nature of men and shamed them for sitting idly by while their countrymen fight in their name.

They pour in by what has to be the hundreds, and as they do, each and every one of them is deftly paired off by the surrounding Crade guards set in place to deter those who would marr a day of honour and skill with any unpleasantries.

Opponents are selected for each man at random; pretty much entirely on proximity, it seems, and there appears to be a general consensus that any man who complains that he’s drawn an unfair match, has no business being there.

​Khobi’s fine with it.

​He’ll happily fight anyone here.

​Unfortunately, his first opponent doesn’t seem to share his enthusiasm.

​They face off, waiting for the call to arms, but while they’re meant to be sizing each other up for the fight to come, Khobi is annoyed to find that his opponent; a thick-set man with beady eyes, seems more interested in the pair behind him than in the opponent right in front of him.

​A quick glance reveals that the person he’s set his eyes on is none other than Rogard. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that he --and a whole lot of soldiers in the vicinity --had been privately hoping for an easy win against a man whose apparent ’lucky streak’ had come to an abrupt and unfortunate end.

And that just doesn’t sit well with Khobi at all.

​Firstly, duelling was supposed to be about earning your place. About showing a little respect for your opponent and the work he’d put into bettering himself, and fighting a fair fight.

​And secondly...any man who believed that what Rogard had accomplished the day before was nothing but pure dumb luck, had already lost.

​His opponent comes to regret his lack of focus. He loses; swiftly, and without dignity, but gets to keep his life because Silas isn’t here, and Gurdet hasn’t demanded that failure be paid for in blood, and Khobi is done with senseless killing.

​What he does lose, is the tips of two of his fingers. And that was his own fault; not Khobi’s, for panicking and trying to use them to stop his blade an instant before he yielded.

In fact, he was lucky he didn’t lose his entire hand, but he doesn’t see it that way, and has to be escorted away; cradling his hand and howling his head off and cursing Khobi to the ends of the earth.

​A couple of the nearby soldiers; the ones who had already sent their defeated opponents on their way, even roll their eyes at such an embarrassing display.

One of them --one wearing the same colours, even spits at the ground in disgust once he’s gone, and immediately turns to Khobi with a hand laid over his chest.

​"Allow me to apologise for him, My Lord," the soldier states emphatically, taking him by surprise by dipping into a short bow. "Please do not let his actions affect your opinion of the rest of us."

Khobi blinks, and notices that a number of the nearby soldiers appear to be dressed in the same garb and wearing the same sigil. Clearly they fight for the same king as the man he’s just embarrassed, but they seem genuinely appalled by his behaviour.

​For some reason, that comes as a great relief to Khobi.

​He’s been waiting his whole life to fight a good, honest fight upon a stage as grand as this; it would have been disappointing to have to keep waiting.

​"I hope I get to fight you next," Khobi tells him, as the guards start their second pass; matching up those who have successfully made it through their first fight of the day.

​For many, it was a very short one.

​The soldier looks at him, and after a long moment, recognition blossoms in his eyes as he realises just who exactly he’s been speaking to. It heartens Khobi that he doesn’t look afraid.

​"Likewise."