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