by John Dalmas
He'd rushed things, overridden her uncertainty and scruples, taken advantage of her vulnerability and despair. Perhaps-hopefully-it had been for the best, but… He'd back off now, apologize honestly, let her evaluate and adjust. When she felt ready…
To a degree they'd lied to her, had exaggerated the hopelessness and danger. In part to keep her from harm, for in fact she could well be killed trying. Given Keltorus' hatred of the Sisterhood, she'd almost surely have been killed, brutally, if she'd continued alone to Ferny Cove. But their primary motive had been to convince her to stay and marry. The odds, he judged, would have been no worse than even-probably better-if he'd sent a squad riding with her to Oz, there to smuggle her to the gate. Volunteers wearing wadmal like tribesmen. He could have. He still could.
But he wasn't going to. Certainly not now.
He turned his attention from his thoughts to the lovely woman sleeping at his back. Listened to her quiet breathing, then carefully turned his head and looked at her. Her aura remained somewhat shrunken, though the colors had cleared a bit, pulsing lightly in dream. Apparently a healing dream. Resilient! She'd had to be to get through this past-what? Sixteen months. Looking at her, he felt love and compassion. And commitment.
In the morning he'd tell Mariil what had happened tonight. No one healed the spirit more skillfully than Mariil, and she admired Varia as much as he.
I love you, Varia, he thought to her, and I'll make you happy. I swear it. I won't try to make you forget your Curtis, but I'll do all I can to make you happy with me.
Her aura didn't react to his thought; she was too deep in dream, perhaps of Curtis Macurdy. He wondered what the Farside farmer was doing, after more than a year. How ironic-reasonable but ironic-if the man had settled down on his farm with a new wife. Had he known, really, what a remarkable-what an admirable woman he'd married?
PART 3: The Lion Grows Claws 17: Sword, Spear, and Bow
" ^ "
After work, three days later, Hauser sent Macurdy to Arbel's workshop. Seemingly casual, the shaman stood up when the slave came in. "What is my mood?" he asked.
Macurdy's attention focused. "By your eyes, you seem relaxed. By your aura-you're hiding something. Not unpleasant, but-" Macurdy shrugged.
"Fine. Of course, you've been concealing something from me recently, too. Nothing discreditable, but you've been doing something and not saying anything about it."
"Yes sir. Almost every day recently, I've been visited about noon by a tomttu and a great raven. We've exchanged stories and information about our worlds."
The shaman's eyebrows arched. "Ah! You've been privileged! I've never met a tomttu myself. Nor exchanged as much as a greeting with a great raven; they are highly respected, you know. The popular belief is, they're the spirits of shamans awarded a lifetime of freedom from cares and human limitations. It's said that even goshawks don't molest them." Arbel chuckled. "We shamans tell our people to put meat scraps out when a great raven is in the district. Looking to our own future, you see. Though seemingly they prefer to scavenge for themselves.
"But I believe they're gone now. Right?"
Macurdy nodded. "Maikel left to winter in the Diamond Mountains with his family. Blue Wing went east to sheep country; more scavenging there."
Arbel laughed. "Well. I have news that may or may not please you. Please you, I trust. But first, light my fireplace."
Macurdy went to it, knelt, and with a pass of a hand, caused the kindling to burst into flame.
"Good. And your reading of auras is developing nicely-a rare and useful skill. With use, it should improve without further instruction. Anything else you've noticed?"
"In the way of magic? I saw through the tomttu's invisibility spell. I heard him laugh, and when I looked, there he was."
"Hmh! Very good. You can expect similar surprises from time to time. In many respects you have proven an excellent student, but as a healer…"
Macurdy recalled the sick and injured farm animals that Arbel had had him try to heal. In a few there'd been healing or marked improvement, but usually not. And twice he'd been assigned to heal humans-once a severe rash and once a wry neck, examples of things that, according to Arbel, were readily healed by magic. When the patients returned the next day unrelieved, Arbel had taken them into his workshop one at a time, for ten or fifteen minutes each, and banished their conditions then and there.
"It seems clear to me," Arbel continued, "that being a shaman is not your destiny, but neither is the slave crew. So we will try something else and see what happens. You will continue at your present work, living with Charles so that he may continue to help you with our language. You use it well enough now for ordinary purposes, but I see in you-possibilities I cannot identify. So I want you truly fluent. And instead of my working with you in the evenings, you will train with our militia, in the skills of war."
The shaman raised an eyebrow. "I see that pleases you. Good. It was no little trouble to get approval for this; you are, after all, a slave. Sergeant Friisok spoke for you, or I would certainly have failed. It was he who captured you when you came through the world gate. He said you showed presence of mind, toughness, boldness, and measured judgement. And Captain Isherhohm, in turn, values the sergeant's judgement."
Arbel paused, his gaze calm. "Wolf Springs is a proud district. And as we are not satisfied with an ordinary shaman here, neither are we satisfied with an ordinary militia. Captain Isherhohm demands diligence and strict obedience, and our militia is the best of any in Oz, including Oztown itself. But from your aura, I have no doubt you will excel in this training, and who knows what good may come of it."
The district militia were infantry, and consisted of three categories: novices, youths, and veterans. The novices, who trained four evenings a week, included all able-bodied fourteen-year-old boys, and worked primarily on weapons skills. Youths aged fifteen to twenty trained twice a week on weapons skills, and twice on fighting drills and tactics. Veterans trained only once a week.
The novices already had four months training when Macurdy joined them. Emphasis was on the spear and sword, as most had been practicing with the bow from age four, as play, and were skilled with it. Among them, Macurdy was a giant in strength, and the story of how he'd almost killed a guard, the day he was captured, was already known around the district-thanks to the man's family, which had asked approval to kill or at least maim the new slave. But their brother had a reputation as a sadistic idiot, and good slaves were valuable, and when the father hinted that he and his sons might take matters into their own hands, the headman had threatened floggings and ruinous fines.
As a novice, Macurdy quickly demonstrated excellent weapons talent. His coordination and quickness to learn were outstanding. Within weeks he showed more skill than any other novice with spear and sword. And with the shield, which was worn slung on the back, and used only in sword drill.
From the beginning he could draw the heaviest bow, and after only a month, his accuracy approached ordinary for novices. While he matched almost any of the veterans in the number of practice arrows shot successfully into a target area in a given time-timed by a small sand glass. When the target area was at extreme ranges, he was almost unmatched.
At the end of four weeks, he was promoted to the youth level. However, on two additional evenings he was required to continue his weapons training under a hard-bitten, partially disabled sergeant whose usual job was to coach and browbeat those who needed extra sessions.
By late winter-the end of Two-Month-Macurdy showed substantially higher skill with both spear and sword than anyone else at the youth level, and his accuracy with the bow was quite good. As for tactics, he'd already seen improvements that could be made, but diplomatically kept them to himself. His reaction time and concentration became notorious, yet no one showed resentment, for there was no vanity or arrogance in him, only good nature.
Arbel had given Hauser the use of a large, heavy-bladed knife to cut branches of shrubs and trees whose leaves or
buds, flowers or inner bark, had medicinal value. At Macurdy's request, Hauser loaned it to him in the evenings, and Macurdy practiced throwing it at a log shed for ten or fifteen minutes in the dark. Always, as Hauser told Arbel, returning it razor sharp. Although the knife was not at all balanced for throwing, Macurdy was soon able to stick it reliably and deeply into an area the size of a man's torso, at distances out to twenty feet.
While at his lunchtime in the forest, he almost always spent a few minutes throwing the axe at some large-boled tree. And like any Ozian woodcutter or Hoosier logger, carried a file and stone to remove nicks and dullness. By winter's end, he could reliably sink this unorthodox weapon deeply into the wood at the height of a man's chest.
He felt good about it all. It wasn't the sort of thing he'd been brought up to, certainly not by his mother. The Macurdies didn't much hold with violence, except in games. Or self defense, and the need was rare, given the Macurdy reputation for size, strength, and quickness.
But this wasn't Washington County.
In fact, he found himself exhilarated by his emerging skills. He had no doubt at all that when summer came, he'd leave Wolf Springs. Run away, travel eastward to the Kingdom of the Silver Mountain, and take Varia away from Idri or whoever had her. He was a warrior now, and if someone tried to stop him, too bad for them.
Once they were back on Farside, there'd be time enough for peace. Peace and love and children. But first, he told himself, he'd have to bring it about. Earn it.
With the last new moon at hand before the spring equinox, Captain Isherhohm took him aside. "Macurdy," he said (as a slave, it was all the name Macurdy had there), "we're sending you to Oztown. It's where the Chief has his house and farm. He also has a company of Heroes; a hundred, more or less. Only the best from the districts are chosen for it, and Wolf Springs already has more than any other in its ranks."
Macurdy's brows rose. He'd heard the Heroes talked about, but hadn't thought a slave could be chosen. And they were cavalry. Though trained to ride to battle, then dismount and fight, they were also trained to fight in the saddle. This was an opportunity to expand and improve his warrior skills.
"Both Friisok and myself were Heroes in our youth," Isherhohm went on. "You serve for six years, then usually return to your village. Heroes have no other duties than to train, and to serve the chief as his personal troops. You can bring credit to Wolf Springs, and when you return, you'll be a free man. Given a good farm with oxen and good saddle horses, and slave girls to father children on. If you bring home a spear maiden, it'll be a large farm, with slaves enough, you won't have to lift a hand in labor."
He paused. "Captain," Macurdy said, "I thank you. I'm indebted to you for all you've taught me." And to repay you, he added silently, I'm going to run away before the summer's over. Probably make you look bad, and kill the chance of any slave being chosen in the future. But if there's some way I can make it up to you later, I will.
He couldn't even imagine what that way might be, but his intention was honest. If it was possible, he would.
After a day's ride, Macurdy arrived at Oztown, escorted there by Friisok. There were perhaps twenty Hero candidates loitering outside the split plank building that housed and officed the company's officers: Captain Palkio, the commander; his aide; and the two platoon commanders. The captain tested each candidate, requiring a demonstration of spear forms and sword forms, followed by sparring with one of the Heroes assigned that day for the purpose. Macurdy was passed without hesitation, despite Palkio's eyebrows rising at a slave being sent. It seemed to Macurdy that the Ozmen were pretty sensible about their slaves. Property was property. You took decent care of it, and used it to good advantage.
All but one of the candidates passed. Macurdy was assigned to 2nd Platoon, whose recruits fell in behind their corporal, and marched to the longhouse that would be their home.
18: House of Heroes
" ^ "
When the recruits arrived at the 2nd Platoon long house, the platoon was absent, except for the corporal who'd guided them, and three men who'd helped test them. There Corporal Jeremid talked to them about their new life. They would, he said, become not only the best fighting men in the tribe, but the best in the world. And they had the toughest sergeant in the world; he'd beaten a man to death with his bare fists once, for backflashing him.
In the Rude Lands, most months are divided into four weeks of seven days each, with freedays at the end so that each month begins with the new moon. (Twelve-Month and One-Month are trimmed and patched so that One-Month begins on the New Moon nearest the Winter Solstice. The system lacks elegance, but suits their needs.) On six days of the standard week, the Heroes trained to improve their weapons and tactical skills, and the novices learned horsemanship.
Most Ozian farmers owned no more than a single horse-some plowed with their milk cow-and few new Heroes were satisfactory horsemen. So each morning of their rookie month, the novices were taken out to ride across rough pastures and through forest. At no more than a trot to begin with, later at a canter and eventually a gallop. When they could gallop breakneck through forested hills without losing control, they were ready to hunt.
Jeremid's eyes glistened in the telling. Hunting, he said, was the high point of training. They'd ride behind hounds, pursuing whatever game they put up-fox, wolf, bear, the great and small cats-with the Heroes hurtling after them. Most deaths or cripplings in training were from hunting accidents: a neck or head broken by a low branch, a horse failing to clear a blowdown, even a jaguar brought to bay and charging. Heroes were forbidden to use a bow against large prey, he went on; it was considered cowardly. The spear was the kill weapon, with only one man wielding it.
The training days, he told them, started at sunup and continued till dusk. During the week, drinking was forbidden, except for a large mug of ale served nightly with supper. But after supper on Six-Day, the slave girls were brought in. Slave girls selected for Heroes, good-looking girls who considered it a privilege. So the corporal said. It was a party for the girls as well as the Heroes, and it gave them favored status, sparing them the more disagreeable jobs between parties. And on Six-Day night, there was all a man could drink, spirits as well as ale. Seven-Day was given to recovering.
As the corporal described it, Macurdy decided he'd have to sneak out. He'd be true to Varia in spite of all.
Meanwhile it was One-Day. He had five days to come up with a strategy.
He found it easy, adjusting to a Hero's workday life. You just did it. Riding was the aspect he'd felt concern over. He'd ridden horses all his life, both in the saddle, and bareback on work horses. But back home, riding had pretty much amounted to plodding. Now and then, mainly as adolescents, they'd raced on a road or in a pasture, hopefully when no one's pa or ma or sister was watching, but that was about it. So the notion of galloping headlong through forest and brush was sobering.
All the new trainees were skilled with weapons, though probably few at throwing the ax, or even the knife. (Hauser and Arbel had given him the knife he'd learned on, as a parting gift.) But here they learned additional techniques, with spear, sword, and shield, techniques well beyond those taught to militia. And from the first, the infantry tactics they drilled included tactics more refined than he'd learned before. Thus Macurdy discovered he hadn't been as skilled as he'd thought.
On the other hand, the horsemanship training wasn't as hair-raising as he'd expected. Most of the other new Heroes were no more skilled in the saddle than he, and the training was pitched accordingly.
By the end of his first week, he'd improved a lot-and had his strategy for avoiding the Six-Day evening orgy. It was simple enough: Heroes had access to the several Oztown shamans, which gave him somewhere to go. So he told his platoon sergeant his back was seizing up on him. Sergeant Zassfel scowled but gave his approval, and Macurdy left. On the premise that it was best to go to the top, he'd already learned which shaman was regarded as most powerful. When he got there, though, he said nothing about
his back. His hope was to be accepted as a student on Six-Day evenings.
He told the shaman an edited version of his history with Arbel, but this man was no Arbel. He was haughty and unimpressed, and sent Macurdy on his way. Bumpkin soldiers and rural shamans were beneath his interest. So Macurdy found a decrepit, abandoned outbuilding not too far from the longhouses, and spent the rest of the night there.
At early dawn he awoke from cold, not for the first time, and went to the 2nd Platoon longhouse. The place buzzed with snoring, and smelled of vomit and rut. By dawnlight and the glow from the fireplaces, he saw the bodies of Heroes and slavegirls, most of them naked, lying singly or more or less entwined on low beds, floor and tables. In some obscure corner, two of them had re-engaged, grunting and moaning, the sound stimulating Macurdy sexually. Yes, he thought, it's a good thing I wasn't here last evening. I'd have never held out.
Next Six-Day, not having come up with a better strategy, he again used that ancient military complaint, the bad back. Zassfel eyed him skeptically. "Again? If this keeps up, I'm sending you back to the slave crew. Heroes don't have bad backs."
The man's aura reflected irritation and hostility, but not suspicion. "Yes, sergeant. I never had it before, and I'd just as soon never have it again. If this time doesn't take care of it for good, I'll tell you so you can get rid of me."
Zassfel, who was larger than Macurdy, jutted his jaw. "All right. This one time. Jeremid says you're the best of the new men, otherwise I wouldn't put up with it. Now get out of my sight!"
Macurdy got. He tried a different shaman, but the man's aura showed little psionic talent; he might or might not be a competent herbalist. This time Macurdy spent the night in a hayloft, which risked discovery by someone at morning chores but was a lot better sleeping.