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Vol.5, Ch.2, P.3

“Phew…”

One circuit around the lake, and back out of the waters I emerged. The bracing swim had left my lungs breathless. Yet with warm weather and a smiling sun, I felt all the better for it. Pleased, I wiped my face and turned back to the bank.

“Haa, haa…!” And there I found Sig, panting as he himself waded out of the waters, kicking and splashing wildly as he went. His had been a swim slower by a moment, yet that was astounding in and of itself: it’d been but a few days since he’d gained his gills, and already was he nigh as fast a fish as I. “Bugger! Bloody close, too!” he grumbled hoarsely. “Oi, Rolf! Rematch! Now!”

I shook my head. “Not so fast,” answered I, whilst planting my bottom upon the bank. “First, a break. No use working ourselves dead.”

“Work?” he said, knitting his brows. “This ain’t work, ya wappet! Come on!”

Nay, Sig, I’m quite sure it is.

Such was ever the crack in his otherwise solid sense of discipline: oft did he baulk the basics of training, or even common sense, for that matter. One might say that was precisely a strength of his, to dispense with convention and cut his own path, wheresoever that might lead. Though he went about it a bit too blindly, by my measure.

Albeit… I’m hardly one to talk. Ever as I looked up at the wild swordsman, I began to recall my own recklessness back in my Order days. Engaging in spars I was certain to lose, sticking to my regimen in spite of the welts and wounds riddling my body—indeed had I been as wayward myself after my own fashion, I’ll admit.

‘…Your roots seem much the same…’ had been what Lise said once about Sig and I. It very well sounded like hogwash to me then. We’re as chalk and cheese, I’d thought. Now, however, I wasn’t so sure she’d been off the mark as I’d imagined.

“Right!” barked Sig. “Break’s over! Up with ya!”

Why? I inly said back to him. It’d not been ten seconds. Ten bloody seconds. “Same at the roots”, indeed.

“Tch! Wot?” Sig snapped, squinting at me in my silence. “That a grudge wot I sniffs on ya?”

“…Would that snout of yours weren’t so keen,” I muttered in concession.

In truth, a break of ten seconds had been all that Sig required. Finding him no longer breathless, my thoughts turned at once to our last major battle at Tallien and Ström—one that first had us hike for four days straight through mountainous trails and troughs, that forced upon us many an hour of hard horse riding, that pitted us against uncounted knights in manor and fortress both. A gruelling gauntlet, to say the least, that. Yet one detail there was in it all, subtle as it was striking: not once had I espied any fatigue on Sig’s face throughout that entire ordeal.

‘…Aye, mercen’ry work’s a piece o’ piss compared to this…! Aha hahah…!’

One could spend a century studying and honing the sword, and it would seem only a scratch on the surface, as it were. For my part, I felt myself ungrown of any nail yet to scratch with. But when it came to pure stamina, well, that was where I’d thought myself adequate, or excellent, even. Oh, how wrong was I, for it was during the aftermath of all that battling when Sig had made the above remark, and with what but a smirk as delighted as it was undaunted. And there was I, listening on whilst my soles and sinews complained.

This would not do, I’d thought then. No, not at all. And so over these past six months had I been especially toughening myself up. Albeit, with Sig ever keeping me company—competitive company, much to my chagrin—I’d yet to catch up to him, if even by a mite.

“Oi, ya scamps!” Sig yelled towards the lake. “Wot Emma says ’bout delvin’ too deep, ah!? Nearer the bank now, or it’s a spanky-wanky for ya!”

“Uh oh! Spanky-wanky! Away, away!” came cries and giggles in return. It being a rather balmy day, Arno and his friends, too, had come along to the lake for a refreshing splash. Emma was with them, as well, watching over their flailing and frolicking from the banks farther down. But bouncy and mischievous as the children were, it was proving a heaping handful for my neighbour just to keep them all in sight.

Speaking of, it was then that I spotted Emma waving a hand my way. “…olf! They’re here…!” her distant voice seemed to say. Her other hand pointed another way, and following it, I found two young fellows walking nigh from yonder. One was tall and rather skinny; the other looked just the opposite: short, but stocky and wide at the shoulders. Common between them, however, was the mien of their faces, being rugged and rustic, but honest and unassuming all the same.

“C-Commandant!” one of them greeted me upon arrival. “Ah, I mean, er… R-Rolf, ser! An’ Sig! Ser!”

“G-go nice an’ easy on us, pray!” the other begged, bowing over and again.

Sons of Men they were; Tomas the gaunt and Dan the girthful. It was they who had shielded Hevo’s two children back at Balasthea, and from what but a whole contubernium of knights of the 3rd. And as well were they once soldiers of Balasthea, making them my former subordinates. As for why they were there in that fortress on the fateful day of the 3rd’s assault, well, from what I’d gathered, it seemed a mere coincidence, for by then had they made of themselves a duo of daily labourers, and had only gone back to Balasthea for a spot of menial work.

More recently, however, they’d shown a keen interest in enlisting in the Nafílim army. Thus I had much a mind to recommend them to the defences of Balasthea, seeing as how they ought be full-familiar with the fortress. But in the end, the two declined the offer and stuck to their wishes, and even expressed a desire to move to Hensen just for that very purpose.

‘…Might as well, ’ey…? I-if they be kind to ’ave us, that is… Aye, we’d be reight glad fer it…’

So they’d said. And who was I to turn them down? After all, they’d taken up arms against the 3rd to save the lives of Nafílim children, coming out of it scarce in one piece. That alone was token enough of their mettle and determination both, I reckoned, and as good a résumé a Man could have.

Fain to help them along such as I could, I had promised them what else but a bit of sword practice, one appointed on this very day.

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