Chapter 56: Pretty Boy With A Sword.

Chapter 56: Chapter 56: Pretty Boy With A Sword.

Khobi doesn’t really expect Binny to follow him. The fact that servants have a duty to others before themselves is something common to all kingdoms, he’s learned. He’s sure Binny belongs out here just as much as any other man, and he’s sure Binny knows it too. Obviously, someone else, once upon a time, had thought so too, and that someone had taught him how to fight.

(He wonders who it was.)

He’s not left to wonder long, because when he returns to the sparring ring, it quickly becomes evident that Rogard’s still up on his perch, looking down. Khobi groans when he sees him, and Montrwl shakes his head sympathetically.

"This guy really needs a hobby," he mutters dryly, shading his eyes to look up at the ramparts, just to make sure he’s not seeing things. Alas, he’s not, Rogard’s still up there. Reading a book, in fact, or pretending to. Khobi’s back now, so he’s pretty sure the next time he looks up, the book will be gone.

"Yeah, apart from the art, music, poetry, dancing, riding and hunting," Mural rattles off and Montrel stares at him.

"Seriously, how does the guy find the time?"

"That’s it," Khobi growls flatly, "I’m sick of this." And, in what would later be considered a fairly ill-advised decision, leaps, in one giant bound, atop the fence. It shakes precariously, but holds steady enough as he folds his arms across his chest and takes a deep breath.

" Hey! " he shouts, before anyone can stop him. " Rogard! "

("...Oh this is not going to be good," Jaga sighs, on behalf of the surrounding guards.)

" You gonna come down here and fight me, or what ?"

Rogard makes no sign that he’s heard, even though it’s impossible he didn’t. The whole training grounds probably heard. Khobi’s got a pretty good bellow on him. It definitely turns heads. Lots of heads, in fact, but he barely notices, he’s too busy glaring up at the man coolly staring down at him, waiting for some kind of reaction.

A moment later, Rogard is gone.

("Maybe he’s scared him off?" Mural suggests hopefully.

"Maybe he’s gone to get reinforcements," Montrel mutters, less helpfully.)

They’re both wrong.

Instead, Rogard opts for a worse option.

He answers.

Khobi, from his vantage point heads above everyone else, is the first to see him. But not the only one. Heads turn, whispers start, and a crowd starts to gather around him as he saunters into the training grounds. No one stops him. No one questions him. They just step aside to let him pass.

He doesn’t stop when he reaches the ring, merely hurdles himself up and over in one graceful movement, and silence descends as he lands.

It’s eerie, the hush that falls over the training grounds. Even in the distance, men fall silent, wondering why everyone else has, and in the ring, Montrel and the rest of the guards find themselves inching back towards the fences. It’s not that Rogard Spidra is necessarily an imposing figure, more that he carries himself like one.

It helps that he’s tall, and intimidatingly handsome.

Also, that he’s armed, and blessed with the effortless arrogance of a man who’s better than his peers, and knows it.

Khobi, for one, really hates that.

"Glad you could make it," he calls out across the space between them, bounding down from his pedestal. Rogard brushes a stray lock of hair back off his face. It’s a careless gesture, but his eyes are narrowed and his tone just shy of friendly.

"Well, I couldn’t just ignore such an obvious challenge."

"Tsk," Khobi scoffs, "Like you haven’t been looking for an excuse to pick a fight."

"You got me," Rogard admits freely, holding up his hands with a bashful chuckle, "But can you blame me?" Those eyes narrow again, and he licks the smile off his lips. "When someone threatens your life, it starts to feel a little personal."

"Wasn’t personal," Khobi points out flatly, and the molten amber in Rogard’s eyes hardens.

"Call it a matter of pride, then."

Rogard draws the blade hanging at his side with an elegant flourish and strides towards the centre of the ring with his head held high and jaw set. Khobi shrugs, and mimics him as the soldiers left in the ring launch themselves over the fence and out of harm’s way.

"Fine by me."

("Shouldn’t we stop them --" Mural remarks in a low tone, as other soldiers start to crowd in, craning their necks to see what all the commotion’s about.

"Are you crazy?" Montrel snorts, jostling to get a better view, "Don’t you wanna see what happens??"

"Sometimes I wonder about your priorities," Jaga commented, "...Do you like the kid, or want to see him lose?"

"Why can’t it be both?")

The first thing that Khobi realises is that the reason Rogard exudes the aura of a dangerous man is because he is one.

The second, is that the sword he’s wielding, isn’t a practice sword.

The two realisations come in quick succession, the first because Rogard comes at him hard and fast, and with a deadly intensity that Khobi is well acquainted with, and the second, because the blow lands.

Narrowly.

It catches his left forearm. Shallow, because Khobi managed to block the worst of it, but if he’d been a second slower, caught the blade at a slightly different angle, he might’ve lost his hand.

Rogard had to know that.

He almost looks disappointed.

The third thing Khobi figures out is that Rogard is underestimating him. It doesn’t take a genius to recognise that sort of thing. The fact that he’s wearing dress clothes is one thing,the fact that he’s pandering to the gathering crowd is another.

It makes Khobi very interested to find out exactly how hard you have to hit someone with a practice sword to break bones.

As it turns out, harder than he’d thought.

He doesn’t manage to break any of Rogard’s bones, (which is unfortunate), but he does manage to rip his pretty silk shirt, ruin his hair, and give him a solid kick to the chest that sends him tumbling across the dirt like a tumbleweed in the wind. At the very least, it makes him pay attention.

It also feels pretty good, watching him stagger to his feet.

From the malevolent glint that rises in his eyes as he gathers up his sword again, he’s not a man accustomed to being pushed around. Not that he lets Khobi push him around. No, any blow that lands, Khobi works for, and hard. At first, Rogard hadn’t taken him seriously, (always a mistake) and had come too close too casually, and been sent backpedalling wildly when Khobi unleashed a flurry of attacks on him. But even caught off guard, he managed to stave Khobi off, parrying each blow, but one.

He fell for a feint, and badly, too, teetered off balance, and took a direct hit to his hip. If Khobi’s sword had’ve been sharp it would have sliced right down to the bone. As it was, the blade wasn’t sharp, but if the blow rattled Khobi’s arms in their sockets, then it can’t have been pleasant for Rogard.

It was a different fight, after that.

And unfortunately, it turns out that Rogard isn’t arrogant because he thinks he’s good. He’s arrogant because he is good.

(Actually, Khobi finds that he’s impressed. And is pretty annoyed about it.)

He’s had training, and lots of it. Probably since he was a child. It shows in the way he handles his blade, and in the way he moves, like every motion had been drilled into him until they were just another reflex. It’s not quite as innate, or as raw as instinct, but it’s the closest some men ever get. And Rogard sure comes close.

(Not quite, Khobi thinks, but close.)

It’s different, from fighting a soldier. Montrel and Jaga and Gandy and all the rest are good, but Rogard’s better. They’ve had the same training, suffered the same drills and learned the same movements. Jaga’s stronger, and he’s sure Montrel’s just as fast, but in a fight, he knows who would win. It’s in the eyes, he thinks, as he stares into Rogard’s face and sees golden eyes watching him intently, clouded by anger, and frustration, but not so much so that he stops looking . He reads his body, tracks his every movement, which in itself is unremarkable, because anyone can learn to anticipate an attack. The difference is that Rogard possesses the reflexes to respond to them. Usually.

It’s not easy to catch him off guard. His defence isn’t impenetrable, as shown by the several red stains blossoming on his fine clothes where Khobi’s caught him hard enough to draw blood, but he’s quick, and has sharp eyes. And he’s stronger than he looks, Khobi’s given as much ground as he’s gained, and when Rogard goes on attack he almost has him dancing right up against the fences, one blow transitioning seamlessly into the next.

Khobi would never admit it, but the guy’s got style.

But style means nothing if you’re rusty.

And as hard as he’s trying to hide it, Rogard’s a little rusty. Talent can mask it somewhat, but skills obtained through practice need constant sharpening. Once-oiled movements are quick to gather dust, and even strong bodies are quick to fail if not maintained.

"...When was the last time you fought?" Khobi asks suddenly, eyeing the way sweat beads on Rogard’s brow and trickles off the edge of his nose. They’re both sweating --it’s hot out, and it’s been by no means a short fight, but Rogard’s definitely breathing a lot heavier than he should be. Unlucky for him that Khobi’s a cut above the guys he’s probably used to facing.

"What does it matter to you?" Rogard bites back as Khobi fakes high and then swings a crushing blow down at his feet. Rogard sees it almost before it happens, but his block isn’t quite fast, or strong enough, or at quite the right angle to keep him on his feet.

"...Because that," Khobi pants, and the crowd gasps as Rogard goes tumbling. It’s really not been very clear who they’re rooting for to win. Crowds are sometimes funny like that. It doesn’t really matter to them who’s in the ring,just that they’re putting on a show.

And they have not been disappointed. It’s been quite the duel, the pair of them forcing each other around the ring in turn, stirring up dust and leaving flecks of blood in their wake. Every time Khobi lunges they gasp, and every time Rogard forces him back they roar in approval, growing steadily louder and more animated.

Sadly, they don’t get to see a winner.