Chapter 321: Good Influence.

Chapter 321: Chapter 321: Good Influence.

And they’re not necessarily strong ; not by a large margin, but it feels like there are heaps of them, and they fight more as a unit than he’s used to facing off against. It feels like he gets one grappled and down and then there are three up in his space, trying to cut at his arms and his ankles and work him to the ground before Rogard sweeps his blade between them and sends them scattering off again.

​At least the bolts have stopped. Nothing quite ruins a good fight like a bolt to the leg.

​"You good, Khobi?" Rogard pants, carving a wide circle to clear some space between them and the handful of remaining guards so they can back up into each other.

He’s bleeding again, but it’s difficult to tell if it’s a fresh wound or an old one worn back open.

​"You kidding?" Khobi scoffs, a bead of sweating rolling down the side of his face. It catches in a fresh wound and stings. His arms are starting to ache from throwing punches and blocking them, and he’s sure there’s going to be big ugly splotches all over his torso in the morning from the ones he had to take.

"I could do this all day."

​Rogard laughs at that; like he expected nothing less.

​That seems to piss off his father even more.

​"Something funny, Rogard?" he chimes, eyes wide and rabid as he directly addresses his son.

Distantly, Khobi’s been aware of him barking out orders and insults in turn –at Rogard, at Khobi, at his own men, it doesn’t seem to matter to him who he’s cursing, and even the words that aren’t meant for him make his skin crawl and itch and make little sparks of anger flare dark and white at the same time –and now, with only a handful of men remaining, he’s starting to sound more and more unhinged.

Rogard just sighs, and spits out a mouthful of blood with distaste.

​"Tell your men to stand down," he says flatly, expression hardening as he takes a step towards him, gesturing with the tip of his blade towards the unconscious sea of blue strewn across the courtyard, "Or we’ll make them."

​" No ," his father hisses, spit flying off his lips as he recoils behind the two guards still dutifully protecting their lord.

Although truth be told, they rather look like they’d like their lord to tell them to stand down before they suffer the same fate as their comrades.

"You don’t order me around, Rogrd. You don’t . That’s not you; not my son. You’ve been poisoned; that’s what."

It’s almost feverish, the way he swings an accusatory finger at Khobi, and then at Loac, "How many times have I told you, Rogard? Rot spreads ."

​A shadow crosses Loac’s expression.

​"...What’s that supposed to mean?" Loac leers, eyes narrowing.

​"Exactly what you think it means," Rogard’s father snaps, expression curdling as he looks down his nose at Loac.

It’s an expression that fills Khobi with revulsion, because the only person he’s ever known to look at someone with such disgust was an absolute monster.

He’s got worse things to say, too --about Khojin Frost, about Loac, about Rogard’s mother and how disappointed she would be with her son --the deranged rantings of a man who has absolutely lost it.

Because clearly he’s lost it; why else would he still be spouting off like this when he has no men left to stand between him and three of the most terrifying swordsmen in the kingdom?

​Khobi’s hands ball into fists.

Not just for Khojin Frost’s sake, but because he can see Rogard shaking, too, and it suddenly occurs to him that this might not be the first time Rogard’s father’s spouted off like this; that this isn’t the first time he’s hearing the sort of shit he’s saying.

The anger that has been steadily building within Khobi suddenly spikes, and it’s then that he suddenly realises that Loac’s no longer next to him.

​He’s stalking right up to the last remaining conscious guards.

And while Khobi can’t see the expression on his face, it must be positively petrifying because they both quake in their boots and make no move to stop him.

​And then, without a word, he drives his fist right into the side of Rogard’s father’s smug face.

​The crack of his knuckles ploughing into bone sounds like thunder .

And for a split second he just hangs there, reeling; suspended in time, and then anticlimactically, his legs just melt out from under him and he sags; out cold before he even hits the ground.

​Loac straightens up with a dissatisfied snort, and winces as he inspects his hand.

Then he knocks out the last two guards too, just for good measure.

​"What?" he demands, when he turns to find Khobi and Rogard staring at him, slack-jawed with disbelief.

And despite the coolness in his voice, there’s a storm raging behind his eyes, all dark swirling clouds and glimpses of lightning.

Khobi doesn’t think he’s ever seen him so furious. "....Was getting real sick of that shit."

​"... Loac ," Rogard whispers, eyes wide as he stares at the motionless shape of his father lying on the ground. It’s strange; he looks very small like that.

"...You’re gonna get in so much trouble for that."

​" –Should’ve done it a long time ago," he states unapologetically, shrugging like the consequences hardly matter to him, because it was something that needed to be done.

Rogard feels a sudden rush of affection for his old friend, because he’d always done that, back then; gotten in trouble for him. Because of him, too, sometimes.

But he’d never begrudged it for a moment.

​Yeah, he thinks with a small, fond smile, as Loac claps a hand down on his shoulder. The knuckles of his right hand are bleeding.

Loac’s not so bad.

​On impulse, Rogard hugs him. He’s not sure which of them is more surprised.

​"Wha –" Loac stammers, instinctively recoiling, but Rogard just wraps his arms around him more insistently and refuses to let him go.

​"...I’m sorry Loac," he whispers, eyes clenched shut and teeth gritted; anything to stop himself from crying, because he’s so done with crying, he really is.

"...For ever listening to him. I shouldn’t have . I should’ve stood by you."

And while Khobi doesn’t hear the words, he sees the way Loac’s expression softens at them.

And then after a beat the tightness in his shoulders evaporates, and he returns Rogard’s embrace; arms wrapped just as tight.

​"It’s done," he murmurs, and then adds, with a rueful chuckle, "...I’m sorry I punched your dad?"

​And that’s it. Rogard’s done for. That’s all it takes to set him bawling .