“Whatcha mean, ‘after a fashion?’ Either he’s fit ter fight
or he ain’t.”
“Sentinel Heiler is an exceptional mage,” Sister Belmont said, “but
he hasn’t much stamina. Most mages in the Third Guard are like my archers.” A
smirk reached her face. “Heiler is a ballista.”
“Aha,” said Big Olrec. “Takes time ter prime, but when he
lands a hit ... summot’s gonna die.”
“You have it.” Toying with one of the feathers in his hair,
Olrec stewed on this information for a while. Sister Belmont watched him. She
chewed on an idea of her own for a moment before she said, “... You could train him.”
Olrec blinked. “What?”
The young priestess’s eyes were sparkling. “Yes! Of course!
You’ve trained so many of us! With a
pedigree like yours, there’s no possible way
Her Majesty could say no! Just the trip back to Callistora would teach His Highness
more than our training grounds ever could!”
It was almost terrifying to see Naya Belmont so excited. Big
Olrec hadn’t seen her in years, yet he knew without conscious thought that the
expression on her face, to say nothing of the tone of her voice, was supremely
foreign.
“And what if I ain’t goin’
back ter Callistora?” Olrec asked slowly. “What’f I came back here ter tender me resignation, so ter speak?”
The excitement sloughed off Sister Belmont’s face in half a
blink. “You—of course. Yes, you would more than deserve to retire. After
... after so long.” She bowed. “I’m sorry.”
Big Olrec snorted. “Silence that squabbling, girl! Ye should
know better! I’ll die with hammers in me hands! Do I look like a mewling
cripple?”
* * *
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