Chapter 57: General Commander.

Chapter 57: Chapter 57: General Commander.

Montrel sees them first, and knows with utmost certainty, that they are about to be in a world of trouble.

Because there, standing in the ring with Bongo at his side, is Drogger Noog, and he does not look amused.

And the thing about the Second Captain, General Commander, was that he had not gotten to where he was by virtue of wealth, or birth, but by loyalty, dedication and discipline, and by being terrifying when angered.

"What’s going on here?"

It’s a voice Khobi’s not heard before, and for some reason it makes him stop.

And it’s not just him.

It makes everything stop.

Him, the crowd, even Rogard. Sword raised mid-swing, he just simply freezes, and the crowd with him. Men who had been only moments before shouting and cheering and jostling for position amongst their fellows suddenly still, and fall quiet, and an unsettling silence descends upon them all.

At its epicentre stands one man, with a face like thunder, a Captain, returned home after months on the road, to find his training ground in utter chaos.

No one has an answer for Drogger.

Even Bongo doesn’t know what to say. It’s fairly obvious what’s going on, infighting is not uncommon, particularly when the Captains’ backs are turned. And, as long as it’s a fair fight, and they shake hands when it’s all said and done, they allow it to happen. Because sometimes men need that. He and Drogger both know that sometimes the easiest way to resolve differences is to just have it out with one another.

But a spectacle on this scale is unheard of.

Honestly, he’s just as stunned as Drogger.

That is, until he sees who’s standing in the ring.

Of course , it’s Khobi.

Bongo closes his eyes in silent despair.

Drogger’s surprise fades just as fast, but for a different reason.

" The Rogard Spidra" he remarks flatly, and when Bongo opens his eyes he’s already striding towards the centre of the ring with storm clouds rising around him. He almost wants to close them again. Rogard really should have known better. "...I might’ve known. You’ve got some real nerve showing up here again, you know that?"

Rogard doesn’t even have the decency to look remorseful, and definitely doesn’t have the good sense to back down when Drogger locks eyes with him. He searches his face for a moment with piercing grey eyes, considers what he finds, and then drops back a step, irritated.

"You’ve gotten sloppy," he declares, folding his arms,equal parts condescending and disappointed. "But that’s what years without training will do."

Rogard’s obviously forgotten everything he’s ever known about Drogger Noog, or else has a death wish, because he does the one thing rookie soldiers learn very quickly is the fastest way to a shallow grave.

He talks back.

"I could still beat you."

There’s a beat of silence, and a synchronised intake of breath from the crowd as a vein ticks dangerously in Drogger’s forehead. And then, in the blink of an eye, Rogard finds himself on his backside in the dirt,stunned, and wondering how on earth he got there. He must’ve been the only one to not see the kick coming,fast and hard, and right at his ankles, and he looks a right sight now, gazing up at Drogger’s solid form, mutinous and crumpled.

"You watch who you’re speaking to," Drogger tells him sternly, voice full of the sort of authority that can command an army, or lead a nation. It’s the voice of a man who expects to be heard, and obeyed. Someone who will not be questioned, especially by brats who think that because they’re talented, and their daddy’s rich, they don’t have to work as hard as those less talented,less wealthy.

Khobi’s the only one stupid enough to laugh.

It makes Drogger turn, and centre his sharp gaze on him. He’s almost a whole foot shorter than Khobi but there’s always been something larger than life about Drogger that dwarves even giants. He’s a man used to the company of powerful men, and carries himself as one of them.

"Who are you?" he asks flatly, voice suspicious now in the face of a stranger on his home turf.

" --This is Khobi Frost," Bongo interjects hurriedly, before Khobi has the chance to further the bad impression he’s already building, "He’s --"

"--Gurdet’s project, right," Drogger deadpans, looking Khobi up and down, "I remember now. Scargga born, Briyagi-raised. Khnoji Frost blood, right?"

"Yeah, what’s it to you?" Khobi growls, and the vein in Drogger’s forehead pounds. He purses his lips, considers, and narrows his eyes.

"Just once, for your uncle’s sake, I’ll let that slide," he says,voice low and terrifyingly calm as he adds, "But if I were you, I’d show some respect."

It’s a warning, and when Bongo catches Khobi glancing his way, he tries to convey, in as simple facial expression as possible, that he should heed it. And for whatever reason, Khobi decides to listen, and holds his tongue. Drogger notes his silence, and nods approvingly.

"Good," he says firmly, then asks, "Who taught you how to fight?"

Khobi sends another glance Bongo’s way. Bongo urges him to answer with a short nod.

"...Khnoji," he answers, honest and not without pride. He’s taken Bongo’s advice to keep his tongue in check, but it’s obvious he’s ready and willing to defend his uncle’s honour if need be. He doesn’t need to worry. Khnoji Frost has a reputation for a reason.

"I thought so," Drogger states. "You fight like him."

Khobi’s not to know, but he means it as a compliment.

Bongo’s not the only one sighing with relief as Drogger stands down, satisfied that the root cause of the mayhem has been dealt to, but it’s relief short-lived, because now, (and he’s not the only one who’s realised it), Drogger’s got a much bigger problem to address. He can see the men growing restless, growing nervous --the ones closest are trying to back away from the ring, as though that might save them from whatever comes next.

It’s a misguided venture, of course. As much as they try to hide it with last-ditch efforts at the training grounds, there’s no hiding laziness and months of neglect from the practiced eye.

And unfortunately, when it comes to practiced eyes, Drogger’s got two of them.

"...As for the rest of you," he calls out, unsmiling, his voice projecting out and casting an ominous shadow over the training grounds. It strikes fear into those nearest, and chills all those who can’t see him but can feel his presence taking hold. He’s not impressed, and it shows, and every soldier present knows that they are going to pay for their transgressions when he adds, "I can see that Bongo’s been soft on you."

The atmosphere is unmistakably grim, as with a bellow, he deals out their sentence.

"Drills at sunrise, all of you!"

There’s a collective groan and a vein in Drogger’s forehead twitches.

" Starting now, then."

Everyone scatters.

(No one dares complain again.)

Bongo’s fairly sure there are a couple of his men who hesitate,who linger at the ring just a heartbeat longer than the rest of them before fanning out into the training grounds. The only people that don’t move are the two men who had started it all, Rogard, still on the ground, and Khobi rooted beside him.

"Drills," Drogger repeats, louder and more insistent this time, for all those who hadn’t made themselves scarce fast enough. " All of you ," he emphasises sternly, fixing his gaze squarely on the pair of them. They both stare back blankly, like they don’t comprehend what’s being asked of them, but they get the message when he jerks his head towards the rest of the fleeing flock and barks, " Get in line. "

Again, Khobi defers to Bongo for judgement, like he’s not really sure why he’s being included. Bongo’s not all that sure either, but Drogger knows what he’s doing, so he nods, so Khobi knows it’s fine to follow. For once, (and Bongo’s not exactly sure why), he does as he’s bid. He sheaths his sword and is gone an instant later, leaping the fence and clearing it by a mile, off into the distance, towards the soldiers who are calling out his name.

Rogard’s slower to exit. He levers himself off the ground and makes a petulant show of brushing the dust off his finery before making to retrieve his sword. Drogger gets a hand on it first, lying miserable in the dirt, and holds it out of reach in a gloved hand when Rogard makes to snatch it from him.

"That’s mine," he declares darkly, arm extended expectantly. Drogger’s eyes narrow as he tests the weight of the weapon and eyes the sharp edge with distaste.

"See to it that you get yourself proper gear," he orders flatly, and holds it out to him, offering no resistance when Rogard all but snatches it from his grasp. "We use blunt swords here for a reason."

Rogard sheaths his sword, but says nothing, head hung and shoulders hunched as he storms past them in the opposite direction of the rest of the men --away from the training grounds. Drogger’s familiar enough with children to know a sulk when he sees it, and he’s sure that although he’s hanging his head, under that mop of blonde, his eyes will be burning.

Drogger has no time for sulking.

He doesn’t watch him go, just lets him storm off and lets his words trail after him, " Drills start at sunrise, Rogard ."

Rogard doesn’t look back.

"He should know better," Drogger mutters, sounding genuinely angry. Bongo’s not all that sure if it’s directed at Rogard, or at himself, but he’s right. Men fight here all the time. It’s part of their training, after all, but sharpened blades are reserved for enemies, or men who are willing to gamble on their skill with their lives. Mistakes with blunt weapons broke bones. Mistakes with real blades were worse.

"You’re right," Bongo shrugs, looking back at the shrinking figure of Rogard Spidra and finding himself reminded of the last time this happened, of the last time he stalked away from the training grounds and never looked back. "He’s changed, hasn’t he?"

"No," Drogger mutters under his breath as he hurdles the fence, "He’s still just the same spoiled brat he used to be."