The second-hand shop told me when it was. I should have thought these bastards would have some qualms about buying novice robes and staves, but the truth was they did not. Since this war erupted, since the elves returned with words of peace, some time had passed. The city subsidized those who wanted to start as healers or priests. Yet even though they had free level-one courses, even though they had equipment, only three out of ten reached level five, and even fewer stood out as guild leaders. Most ended up like the ones I was looking for. They bought for one silver coin equipment that the city hall had paid around fifty silvers for. How their missions had gone—I knew that. I had fared better, but I certainly knew.
The first I found on his way back to school. He was of no use to me—he would only go to learn more things. He had probably been assigned to a group that went on some simple mission. He had earned nothing. All the time, he had been harassed about whether he knew how to heal or not. They forced him to heal the animals they hunted, then killed them and demanded he resurrect them. This child was stupid. He would learn more, but never the important things. His self-esteem would never return.
The second I found on a corner. The traffickers in this area had sold him something. He was in a realm from which he would not return. They did not want witnesses, so for his coins they gave him the most devastating thing—that which would take him where life was less hard. These had probably been beaten, raped along the way. Even if I healed them, they had nothing left to do in this world.
Four of them I saw determinedly advancing through the plaza. They went with their wooden staves, without cloth armor or anything. They only walked with fury, stomping hard. These were certainly elite. They had probably been assigned to guilds where they were insulted, despised, had their share of the reward taken away. They were going to demand their rights from the guild leaders for having healed and protected their people. I passed them by—I would find them dead or drugged on the docks tomorrow.
The one I was interested in I saw in a bar. He was drinking with resolution—the firm determination of someone seeking an answer, someone to tell him everything would be all right. He wore no robes or weapons. Just sitting, he drank his hope, his dreams, the limits he could not surpass. He had likely been overwhelmed. He healed everyone except many, and yet he was beaten, humiliated. He knew he could not ask for justice. He did not have the strength, the influence, or the knowledge to achieve it. He ruminated, knowing he had chosen poorly—a profession with no future, no power to defend himself, only to be the bitch of whatever guild he joined. He was precisely the type I needed.
I arrived at his side and said nothing. There was no point—it was very difficult to pull someone out of their brooding without consequences. I wanted his first impression of me to be useful. So I stood up and shouted:
"Mercenaries feel so brave against priests, don't they? Why don't you come against me? Come on—unless your beards itch beneath your skirts!"
I would have liked to see his face, but I would not have time. Some brutes had stood up looking for a fight. These types did not require culture; they did not want to think—they only sought to satisfy their anger. I only whispered so he could hear: "Would you like to be a priest capable of this?"
Immediately, I activated a shield. Everyone's smiles widened. They knew I was a priest. They knew a shield only resisted as much damage as its magic could sustain, even if it resisted much damage, the maximum activation time was limited. Some struck, amused that they could do so without being charged for the furniture. They were so brutish they did not notice the shield's effect. Now, with a calm I did not entirely feel, I said: "Staves are not only for invoking—you can also use them to attack."
I struck the two closest, and they collapsed without a sound. The amusing thing was that the others believed my blow had indeed been so devastating, when the Repel effect caused the damage they inflicted to rebound—not as directed blows, but their whole bodies suffered damage. It was limited to the user's power, but at least it returned two out of every ten points of damage. Just as my shield was about to fall, I activated my second spell. I called it Fortitude.
Layers and layers of thin, solid magic covered me. Slightly less confident, two more approached. The grimace on their lips told me they felt the effects of the damage they had tried to inflict on me. Before they could warn anyone, I knocked them out. Of the troublemakers, most had left. Only two remained. One looked indecisive. I hit him with an easy Sleep—his body seemed to become boneless, and he fell to the ground. The other had not wasted time. He lunged at me, his two-handed sword striking my chest. Everyone expected to see blood and intestines, but his sword slid over the magic surface, breaking one of the twenty-four layers of magical protection. His expression was priceless. Then I shouted:
"Citizens of Stormhammer, take note: priests are not a laughing matter. We are warriors like everyone else. We will fight alongside you and against you if you underestimate us. Stop attacking me—you don't understand what's happening, brute. Now, leave! Howl!"
Of course, everyone fled. Everyone except him—the priest I had come for, the one who had come to the tavern seeking answers. I came to give them to him. He just looked at me. I asked, "Do you want to learn?" I paid the bill and left the establishment. I did not need to turn around—I knew he was following me. One more for the ranks of priests leaving the sacred branch to join the new branch of discipline.