Chapter 49: Training Ground.

Chapter 49: Chapter 49: Training Ground.

It feels good, to hold a sword again.

It’s just a practice sword, Montrel reminds him, but honestly, Khob couldn’t care less. It’s been a long time since he held a sword, just held it, without fear, or anger, or any of those other basal feelings clouding him. He measures it in his palm, tests its weight, and finds it to his liking.

It’s lighter than he’s used to --the ones he’d grown accustomed to in Briyagi were heavy, ugly things that turned the limbs of the strongest men to lead --a little shorter, too, but it moves well, and he knows the way a swordsman knows, that he’ll move well with it.

"Jeez, watch where you’re swinging that thing --" Montrel curses, ducking an experimental swing, "--They’re blunt as shit, but they’ll still break bones if you swing ’em hard enough."

"Really?" Khobi remarks, not without interest, juggling the blade from right to left and promptly dropping it.

(He’s never been so good with his left.)

Montrel retrieves it for him and passes it over hilt first, scowling.

"Don’t go getting any funny ideas," he warns flatly, "I know there ain’t a lot of love between you and them --" He jerks his thumb at the door, beyond which lay the wide expanses of the castle training ground, and a whole castle of soldiers that were, predictably, less than happy that the prisoner that had given them so much grief had not only been allowed to roam free among them, but armed, no less.

" --But I’d prefer if you didn’t give his Majesty any reason to lock you up again."

"Yeah, I get it," Khobi muttered flatly, sheathing his sword and feeling satisfied with its weight on his hip.

It was dull, and worn, and wouldn’t be winning him any wars, or hearts, but it was reassuring having it hang by his side, and made him feel a little less naked.

"Good," Montrel said, clapping a hand on his shoulder with a wicked grin. "So how about we see what you can actually do with that thing?"

Khobi sees what he’s getting at, and only just manages to catch himself before he grins back.

"I thought you’d never ask."

...

When the doors open, the first thing that strikes Khobi is the noise.

It’s deafening, and sounds like chaos.

It is chaos.

Everywhere he looks there are bodies and madness. He sees blades, and spears, and arrows flying loose and true, and men, hundreds of them, he thinks, all of them armoured, armed, and grinding away in sweat and dirt with single-minded focus.

Frankly, it’s a little beautiful.

Khobi’s not exactly what kind of face he’s wearing, but it must be something odd, because Montrel snickers, like he’s seen the look before.

"Yeah, that’s pretty much everyone’s reaction," he remarks, and casually claps Khobi’s shoulder to dislodge the hand that had automatically crept to the sword at his hip.

"...Don’t worry," he adds, and the reproachful look he gives him tells Khobi that it wasn’t by accident, "You’ll get used to it. Come on." He sidles past him, and doesn’t look back, but it’s clear that he expects Khobi to follow.

Khobi follows.

He follows, and the training grounds rise up to meet him. It’s a clear day, and the air smells of sweat, and horses, and war, and all around him, there’s endless movement, and the sounds of man against man, and metal on metal, and bodies hitting the ground.

He remembers this place --or rather, one much like it --his uncle had once had a magnificent army too, and they’d ground tussock into dust with their own feet from the hours they’d spent training there.

It was a scene that had always filled his young self with awe, and excitement, the sight of battle without malice or bloodshed, and men united by the desire to not only protect their kingdom, but to better themselves, and prove their worth to one another, and their king.

Even as a child, he’d always told Khnoji that one day, he’d be one of them.

(He still will be.)

(But not here.)

Here, there are only strangers. Strangers that might as well be enemies, at that.

(Some of them are, he’s sure of it.)

And some of them aren’t. Every now and then he’ll catch a glimpse of a familiar profile, or a shape he’s certain he remembers, but for every one he knows, there are more that he doesn’t, and although at first they pay him no mind, the deeper Montrel leads him, the more they start to stare, and as they stare, their movements slow, and they start to whisper.

Out of the finery he’d been coerced into, he looks more like them now, less scruffy, and less wild, but he’s tall, even by the standards of soldiers, and his red hair draws the eye.

He can hear them whisper, but pretends he doesn’t.

"You all right, kid?" Montrel asks, not looking back, so he can keep pretending. It’s all the same things, that he’s an animal, that he doesn’t belong here, that it’s a disgrace he’s allowed to roam free. None of them speak up though.

Montrel’s bigger than most of them, and his prickly disposition and somewhat volatile temperament have a reputation of their own, for being best avoided.

"They’re all talk," he continues flatly, pressing onwards, "Don’t let them fool you; you could probably knock half of ’em flat with one arm tied behind your back."

Khobi’s sure he’s right, but he’s also pretty certain Montrel isn’t meant to be saying that about his comrades. The guard sees his raised eyebrow and scoffs.

"There’s soldiers and then there’s soldiers," he snorts, gesturing out around them, definitely irritated.

"While some of us have been busting our asses doing our duty --" He spares Khobi a somewhat pointed look, " --Most of this lot’ve spent the better part of a year drinking and fucking their way through all the taverns in the city."

Khobi can’t help but think he sounds just a little bit envious. "...And they’d probably keep at it for another year if they thought they could get away with it. But, now that the Second’s coming back..."

"Second?" Khobi cuts him off, frowning.

"You know, Second Captain? Our General commander ?," Montrel explains, "One step higher than Bongo? He’s been out...west? Somewhere, anyways, for a long time now, and rumour has it he’s comin’ home."

"...So he’s the reason they’re here?" Khobi inquires, gaze sweeping around the training grounds and drinking in the dust of the wide field, and the tall, stone arches that line it.

"Yep," he replies, "He’s not nearly as soft and fluffy as Bongo, and they all know that if he finds out they’ve been slacking, there’ll be hell to pay. And he will find out. Not much gets past Drogger."

(Khobi wonders if they’re thinking about the same Bongo, because he’s pretty sure there’s nothing soft and fluffy about the one he knows.)

He also wonders where Montrel is taking him. He’s never been too keen on drills, so he’s not overly upset that that doesn’t seem to be what the soldier has in mind, but the ranks are starting to thin out now, giving way to the wide open spaces of horse corrals and archery ranges. Which is a little disappointing, even if he has no right to be.

He’s proficient as an archer, or was, at least,(his bowmanship is probably a bit rusty, Silas never seemed to like the idea of putting a projectile in his hands), and he likes horses well enough, but there’s a sword at his hip that he’s longing to draw.

And then Khobi hears them.