Robert Asprin: Storm Season

"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 penned animals; the acrid bite of the stench of the swamp at low tide. All these he had suffered without comment or complaint, but this . . . Whatever bubbled in Ver tan's pot was an abomination. No such odor had ever been generated by nature or civilization-of that Jubal was certain.

"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 announced without fanfare. '

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 connected with it but the other splashed into the mud with a sound Jubal heard as a death knell.

One! There had been a time when he could hit three. The healing was going far too slowly, taking too much of his strength. At times he felt his reflexes were getting worse instead of improving. There was only one solution.

Moving quietly he crept back into the hut, listening carefully to the unchanging rhythm of the wizard's soft snores. The kettle of vile potion was bubbling vigorously, as always. The slaver carefully dipped the ladle in and lifted it to his lips. For a week now he had been sneaking extra swallows, relying on the Lizerene's growing fatigue to blind that normally watchful eye. Still, a few swallows had not made a difference.

Ignoring the smell and taste, Jubal drained the ladle, hesitated, then refilled it. He drained it a second time then he crept back into the rain to continue his practice.

"Jubal, are you there?"

The slaver rose from his pallet at the sound of his aide's voice. His counting had been correct. It was three months since Vertan's arrival.

"Don't come in," he cautioned, "I'll be out in a moment."

"Is something wrong?" his aide asked in a worried voice. "Where's Vertan?"

"I sent him away," the slaver responded, leaning heavily against the wall of the hut. He had been anticipating this moment, but now that it was here he found himself filled with dread. "Is the storyteller with you?"

"I'm here," Hakiem said for himself. "Though just the news that you are indeed alive is story enough for a dozen tellings."

"There's more," Jubal laughed bitterly, "believe me-there's more. You won't regret your trip."

"What is it?" Saliman insisted, alerted by the odd tone of the slaver's voice. "Wasn't the cure successful?"

"Oh, I can walk well enough," Jubal grimaced. "See for yourselves." With that he stepped through the doorway and into the sunlight.

Saliman and Hakiem each gasped at the sight of him; open astonishment was written large on their faces. If the slaver had any doubts of his recent decision, the confirmation was now before him. He forced himself to smile.