The Lion of Farside by John Dalmas

“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.

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