![]() ![]() He was dipping into metaphor, he realized, to get away from the moment. The woman was tough as new leather and harsh as the lime that cured it, thin as a reed and sharp as needle. The old Suwwardi paced before the short line of avenger trainees, staring at each one in turn. "Eyes forward!" Llora barked, interrupting Sanwell's one-sided conversation with Rica. "Rendall is in the capital proper-he's a flyer, he's not cut out for fighting." "I'm worried about my brother," Sanwell said. The sound churned Sanwell's stomach almost as much as Rica's stiff non-acknowledgement. The warning bells of Kroog rang out across the city. "I think I had something sour last night." Rica stood unwavering at his side, as stoic as if he was carved from the red brick of Kroog itself. Sanwell's face burned with embarrassment. He had nothing to cough up but water and nerves the attack had come before breakfast. He spat the last of his sick out onto the hot stone plaza and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. The cadets' instructor was red-faced and stern, dressed in a crisp and clean uniform despite the early hour and hurried muster. "Pilot Sanwell, you will tighten up your constitution," Llora shouted. His stomach lurched, and he retched on the hot brick between his boots. Sanwell, at attention, swayed, lightheaded. The morning sun hung low and hot in the sky, burning away the rest of the night's blood-warm rain. ![]() The five student pilots and their instructor stood in front of the canvas-covered supplies, facing a rank of old, refurbished avengers. Piles of ammunition, spare parts, and other material stood in hasty stacks. Stompers and other autonomous units waited in ready ranks, crowding the plaza. Technicians and artificers sprinted back and forth hauling anti-armor bolts, powerstones, and avenger swords. The orniary's main yard was abuzz with activity.
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