Storm Season

Saliman frowned but did not protest further. "What else?"

"A sword," Jubal stated, his eyes suddenly fierce. "The finest sword you can find. Not the prettiest, mind you: the best steel with the keenest edge. There will some who will be less than happy at the news of my recovery and I want to be prepared to deal with them."

"That's enough for today," Vertan a

Like a drowning man encountering a log, the healer grabbed the goat tethered nearby and clung to it while the animal bleated and struggled to free itself. The slaver averted his eyes, nauseated by the now-familiar ritual.

The first day he had watched intently and what he had seen was now branded into his memory. Though he had always loathed magic and its practitioners he now admitted a grudging admiration of the little wizard who labored over him. He would rather face a hundred swords than subject himself to what the Lizerene endured voluntarily.

Vertan drew the poison from Jubal's legs as promised, but what the ex-gladiator had not realized was that the wizard drew it into his own body. He had seen Vertan's hands after the first session: swollen and misshapen; dripping pus from deep-cracked skin-caricatures of hands in the flickering candlelight. The poison was then transferred to one of the goats whose body would then undertake to heal the invading infection. Over a dozen of the herd now had swellings or sores from taking part in the treatments. Jubal was astounded, frightened by the volume of poison in his ravaged legs. While several animals now coped with his infection, thereby lessening its power, it had all passed through Vertan. Rather than being a

"A few... more days... will complete this phase of the treatment," Vertan said weakly, releasing the goat. "Then the real trial begins."

Jubal gagged at the smell wafting from Vertan's kettle. He had known odors before which others found revolting: the rotting smell of blood and entrails which the wind carried from the chamel house to his estate; the stink of unwashed bodies, alive or dead; the clinging aroma of the excretions of pe

"Drink," Vertan ordered, thrusting a ladle into the slaver's hands. "Two swallows, no more."

The contents of the ladle were still bubbling; they had the appearance and texture of vomit- but Jubal drank. The first swallow was surprisingly cool on his tongue but the second had the warmth and pulse of something alive. Jubal took it down with the same detached resolve he had used to kill his first helpless, crippled opponent and handed the ladle back to the wizard.

With a satisfied nod, the Lizerene tossed the utensil back into the kettle, then extended his hands, palms down, until they were each a few inches above Jubal's knees. "Brace yourself, swordsman," he ordered. "You're about to begin learning about pain."

Something moved under the skin of the slaver's right knee, sending a quick stab of agony along his leg. Another piece moved, grating against the first. Then the movement began in his left knee. Despite his resolve an animal howl of pain escaped Jubal's lips, a wordless note that rose and sank as the pieces of his shattered kneecaps shifted and realigned themselves. The world had faded from knowledge when Vertan's voice came to him through the red mists.

"Now move your legs. Move them? You must flex your knees."

With a giant effort Jubal bent his right knee, sliding his foot along the dirt floor. The pain was beyond sound now, though his mouth strained with silent screams.

"More. You must bend it completely. More, swordsman! Do you want to be a cripple? More? The other knee-more! Move it!"

Spittle ran down from the corner of the slaver's mouth; he soiled himself from the agony but he kept moving, bending first one knee then the other. Right knee straighten. Left knee- straighten. Right knee...

He was disoriented in time and space. His entire world had been reduced to the effort of repeating the simple exercise.

"Where's that will you bragged about," the torturer taunted. "More! Bend those knees completely. Move!"

* * *

He was growing used to the taste of Vertan's vile potion. It still disgusted him, but the repeated doses had made the nausea familiar and therefore acceptable.

"Today you stand," the wizard a

Jubal hesitated, a piece of roast goat-meat halfway to his lips. As promised he was now eating five meals for every one the Lizerene ate. "Am I ready?"

"No," Vertan admitted. "But there's more involved here than your knees.. Your muscles, "especially -yow-leg muscles, must be worked if you are to keep any strength in them. Waving your feet in the air isn't enough for your legs; they must bear weight again-and the sooner the better."

"Very well," the slaver agreed, finishing the last of the meat and wiping his hands on his sleeves. "Let's do it now-before I've got to relieve myself again." That function, too, had increased five-fold.

Seizing the wall with one hand, Jubal drew his feet under him then pushed with his legs. Standing up had once seemed so simple; nothing he ever thought about. Now sweat popped out on his brow and his vision blurred. He kept pushing; by now agony was as familiar as the Lizerene's face. Slowly, his hands scrabbling against the walls, he rose until his weight was on his feet.

"There," he stated through clenched teeth, wishing he could stop the waving motion of the floor and walls around him. "As you said, nothing is impossible if the will is strong enough."

"Good," Vertan said with a malicious laugh, "then you won't mind walking back and forth a bit."

"Walking?" Jubal clutched at the wall, a wave of dizziness washed over him. "You said nothing about walking!"

"Of course," the wizard shrugged. "If I had, would you have attempted to stand? Now, walk-or don't you remember how?"

The thunderstorm raged, giving added texture to the night. Jubal practiced alone without Ver-tan's supervision. This was not unusual now that his mobility was returning. He slept and woke according to the demands of his healing body and was often left to exercise by himself.

The rain had driven the goats away from the hut; they sought and usually found better shelter, so even his normal audience was absent. Still, the slaver practiced, heedless of the sucking mud at his feet. He held a stout branch in one hand-a branch the length of a sword.

Block, cut, block behind. Turn and duck. Cut at the legs. Move. Move. Move! Over and over he practiced a death-dance he had learned as a gladiator. The pain was a distant ache now, an ache he could ignore. He had something else on his mind now.

Turn, cut. Move. Block, turn, block, cut! Finally he stopped, the raindrops collecting in the wrinkles of his forehead.

Slow-all of it. Slow.

To the untrained eye his swordwork might seem smooth and expert, but he knew he had a mere fraction of his old speed. He made to test his suspicions; he stooped and picked up two clods of dirt with his left hand and tossed them into the air. He swung at them with his improvised weapon. One clod splattered as the limb co