Chapter 51: Friendly Spar.

Chapter 51: Chapter 51: Friendly Spar.

Jaga’s strong .

Khobi already knew that of course, having been quite successfully restrained by the man a fair number of times, but it’s still a quite literally jarring experience for him to force an opponent to yield so little ground.

True, Khobi manages to disarm him twice, and slips through his guard a handful of times that would’ve dealt mortal wounds if their blades were sharp, but as for forcing Jaga off balance, or beating him back out of position, he’s clean out of luck.

He’s faster, sure, and infinitely more agile, but every time Jaga’s blade rises up to parry his strike, the force reverberates up Khobi’s arms and makes them ache something awful.

Once, he almost dropped his sword.

(Twice, actually, but he’s pretty sure no one saw.)

It’s like trying to chop down a mountain. It’s not that Jaga’s particularly skilful --though it’s clear he knows his way around the sharp end of a blade --it’s that his parries, when they connect, are immovable , and that his overhand strikes seem enough to shatter bones.

Khobi’s the better swordsman, there’s no question of that, but by the time Montrel butts in and declares that Jaga’s hogging all the good action, he’s the one breaking out in a heavy sweat. Sure, if they were keeping count of rounds won (he was), then he’d probably be winning (he is), but he’s been on the defensive a hell of a lot more than he would’ve liked, and it irks him that his own attacks, that would usually (and have usually) felled, maimed, or shattered through the defenses of most men, hadn’t had nearly the same impact on Jaga.

"Hey, no, get back here," Khobi growls irritably, when Jaga looks a little too much like he’s listening to Montrel. He’s not happy to just let things end there, not when his blood’s just starting to warm up again.

It’s been too long since he’s been able to fight so freely like this that he’s not going to waste a single second of it. He came here to fight, and he intends to fight.

And maybe, he’s enjoying himself, just a little.

"We’re not done here!"

Jaga pretends not to hear.

"You take the next one," he tells Montrel instead as he takes up residence against the fence and nodding towards a seething Khobi, "I need a breather."

"Must be getting old," Montrel jibes, and then calls out to Khobi, "Jeez, you still thirsty for more of that, kid? Two rounds with Jaga and I’ve had enough. Arms can’t hack that kind of punishment."

"I’m fine," Khobi grits out. He knows what Montrel means by punishment. His arms are burning already, but it’s nothing he can’t push through, nothing he hasn’t pushed through before.

It feels good, in fact, good to flex muscles he’s not been allowed to flex, and to know that when the last stroke falls, there won’t be blood on his blade, or on his hands. "But me and him still got some stuff to settle."

"So do we, kid," Montrel reminded him flatly, pushing off the fence and ambling over towards him.

His cheek is bleeding, but Gandy, sulking in the distance, looks worse. Khobi’s still glaring at Jaga though, like he’s some kind of traitor for backing out of a fight and Montrel rolls his eyes. "Relax," he snorts, "You’ll get plenty of chances to spar with him.

Shit, he’ll probably be thrilled. Usually whenever he fights someone new they crumple like little paper dolls. Never seem to want to try again, after that."

That’s not a concept Khobi’s really familiar with.

"Why?" he asks flatly, genuinely confused.

"Uh, because sparring with Jaga is the worst?" Montrel drawls, taking up position opposite him and testing the earth with a foot. "...I don’t know if you noticed, but attacking him is like punching a stone wall, and being attacked by him is like being punched by a stone wall."

Khobi had noticed, but that doesn’t make him want to fight Jaga any less. Quite the opposite in fact, but unfortunately for him, that’ll have to wait, because Montrel’s looking at him quite expectantly.

"Go on," he goads, cracking his knuckles. "Give me your best shot.""Fine." If he wants to fight, then Khobi’s not going to refuse him. He doesn’t wait for Montrel to draw his sword --which was definitely impolite, but hey, he’s never been known for his manners --and instead charges straight at him, poised to swing.

Montrel waits for him, grinning, and unarmed, and at the last second, dodges his swing and plants an elbow square in his face.Hard.

Khobi goes down like a sack of bricks to the sound of tumultuous laughter.It’s painful. And horrendously messy, and he’s pretty sure he heard something crack as he went down. Probably his brain clanking around inside his skull, it feels like he’s been kicked in the face by a horse.

He groans as he gathers himself to all fours, eyes watering, and ears ringing, and blood dripping down his chin in ugly red ribbons.

His cheekbones feel like they’ve been shattered, but when he presses a finger to them nothing feels broken."Doesn’t feel good, does it, kid?" Montrel remarks from somewhere up above.

He sounds equal parts sorry, and not."...That was a cheap move," Khobi grinds out, spitting a mouthful of blood into the dirt and blinking to clear his vision. It was a cheap move, and he wants to be furious that not only did Montrel do it on purpose (because it fucking hurts ), but that he fell for it, too, but when he’s confident enough that he can handle the full glare of the sun, he looks up, and (not for the first time) finds a hand outstretched to meet him.

"Yep, it was," Montrel admits, less sorry, "...And now we’re even."Khobi spits again, and grudgingly takes his hand.(A little less grudgingly, this time.)"Rematch," he declares hotly, wiping his nose with his sleeve and ignoring how much his face protested at the touch."You know it, kid."

...

It’s Khobi’s win this time, with a boot pressed into Montrel’s back and the tip of his blade pressed into the nape of his neck. Predictably, Montrel doesn’t take the loss with much grace, and even Khobi can’t quite suppress a snicker when he wriggles free and scrambles back to his feet.

" Okay, best of three !" Three turns to five, turns to seven, turns to lunch, and then, after food is said and done, the count starts up again.