The Thorian Sagas. 1. The Trader.

Each week that Stoker came after that, the training continued, building upon what he’d taught them; gently pushing them along. They saw steady improvement in their strength, stamina, and skill… and in their feelings of confidence within themselves… while the city slept above and beside them, not knowing of any of it.

When he could, he ran the city wall with them, even in the rare heavy rains, getting them to pause every so often as he listened, and then pointed certain things out to them to pinpoint direction, even if they were able to see nothing. He identified each of the various sounds they could hear, and told them which flowers’ aromas, or which animal scent was carried to them on the damp evening air.

After such rains, the wastelands soon became riots of greenery; bursting with life from the many different blooms, and even cacti.

They'd never noticed so many things before, especially at night, and then began to take note of what they’d heard and smelled when they began to see, during the day, what they had always been inattentive to, until Stoker had drawn their attention to it.

The dead brush that blew around when it became too dry, threw ‘runners’ out, underground and sent up shoots to grow and bloom; attracting many different animals that they had known little about.

He mentioned how, of an evening when it was cold, as it usually was in the dry air of the semi-desert, that larger animals, as well as smaller ones often settled down next to the city wall where the sun had beaten all day. They took advantage of its relative warmth and safety, excavating hollows in the warm sand to sleep in.

They learned that there were others; a small people, who wandered those wastelands too, and took advantage of those excavations to rest in, after dragging thorn bushes around them for protection from the many Frexes, and other animals that usually hunted at night.

The only year-round vegetation that thrived at any time of year, was under the northern part of the wall which saw no scorching sun.

Many animals took refuge in those shrubs and trees during the day where it was moist and cool.

Noises, that before, had kept them off the walls; the agonized screams of some animal meeting its bloody end, were terrifying to them when they couldn’t identify them, but Stoker just smiled and told them what he heard, of the unfolding story of the end of life, yet the beginning of another.

He identified each such noise for them; A hunting Frex, or a small pack of them, and the noises they made to show where they were, relative to each other as they hunted; a deer of some kind (they did not know that there were any deer) scampering off after hearing those other hunters; a large feline sliding like a shadow through the night; a badger, slinking silently back to his burrow with some stolen morsel.

They had not known that there was such an abundance of life in the wastelands, though they saw the massive influx of many and various, multicolored birds into the city of an evening, as well as coming in and out during the day, always loaded with insects, or with crops filled with seeds from somewhere as they raised their broods. There was a corresponding departure of thousands of silent-winging bats from the city of an evening. They had even seen them coming back just before first light, when they were on the wall at that time too.

Stoker did not seem to need any more than a few-hours sleep, and he always slept lightly… the faintest sound, waking him up as he analyzed it in a millisecond, ready to leap to his feet and grab the nearest weapon. They soon learned to leave him with his own sword. They felt safer that way.

He taught them the value of stationing more lookouts on their walls to give early warning of trouble coming at them, and never to believe what they first saw; their eyes could deceive; sometimes not even see what was obvious.

Success in battle came from seeing not only what was obvious, but also, sensing what was not there, that should be.

What did the birds and other animals tell them, or not tell them?

Fortunately, no one in the city knew what they were doing, and especially not the Council who would never have been pried from their own beds until a late breakfast awaited them.

Each time Stoker came, one or more of them challenged him as the others looked on, learning.

Each time, they failed, of course, but they were learning steadily, and all of them could see improvement. They began to see success within their reach, and getting closer, instead of constant and obvious defeat. They grew more violent with each other in practice, but always in the knowledge that it was necessary, and that it was benefitting all of them. They learned to fight with padded quarterstaffs, and to move quickly when a more painful smaller stick was used for them to parry, before it stung their legs or bodies.

After almost a year; on completion of all that Stoker could easily teach them, he presented them with an unexpected surprise, just after he’d arrived.

He’d turned loose a wild pig in that room with them, from the back of his cart, to see how they would react to such a startling challenge.

It was only a young pig, but it had tusks that could still do a lot of damage.

He was curious to see how their training with him would help them now.

He’d stood in the back of his cart with his dog and had watched how quickly they’d assessed the threat to them and had then dealt with it.

They’d soon sensed the pig’s anger, and it surprised them. They had expected to sense its fear, but it had none.

Would they run from it, or would they stand their ground together, as he had trained them to do?

It was second nature to him, having to deal with this threat most evenings when he was in Saltash, and when wild pigs invaded their fields after breaking down their fences, but it was all new to them... that sudden, adrenalin-pumping moment, knowing you were up against an enemy that would not retreat from you.

He was pleased at their response, seeing them soon get over that first, horrified surprise, snatch up their weapons, soon dispatching that pig.

Its squeals of rage and pain did not attract anyone else to see what they were doing… rather, those noises, if heard, kept them away.

There had been some moments of tension and disbelief after that, that such a thing had happened, and that Stoker had done this to them. They'd never expected this.

Then, nervous laughter began, as they looked at that carcass, and the blood, spreading around the floor, and saw what they had achieved. The laughter soon grew, but they remained nervously attentive for some time after that, waiting for the next surprise.

That was what he’d wanted to see.

They had succeeded in a challenge they could never have expected.

Stoker knew that they would never easily trust him again after that, but they would not easily be taken off guard either. It had been a good lesson for them.

If he’d had time, the next steps following that, would be to secretly take them out of the city at night in groups of five and let them see how they would take on a Frex, as he had to do… many of them… each time he came to their city. But time was against him.

That evening they sat around the fire and ate of that same pig, enjoying the fruits of their own success, which would taste all the better because of it.

Their first kill.

He was proud of them and let them see it.

No one had been injured by it. They had worked as a team, but it had been a young tusker, not like the old boars that the men had to face.

“Why did you do that, Stoker? Turn this pig loose?”

They really did not need to ask, but they wanted to hear what he had to say.

“To see how you responded to such an unexpected surprise. I wanted to see if I had trained, ‘warriors,’ worthy of that name.”

They waited for his judgment.

“And…?”

“You responded well. As I hoped you would. I doubt there is much that you would not be able to take on now, if you had to.”

He looked around at their faces.

“Now, ask yourselves how you felt at that very first moment of surprise, how your feelings changed, and then how you feel now.”

He nodded. They did not need to say anything.

“Everyone feels that flash of terror, the first time. It is how you deal with it and move on from there that distinguishes a warrior from anyone else.”

He pointed out what he had seen.

“No one fell back. You all advanced, intent on protecting each other. You became a team.”

He had achieved what he had set out to do.

They thought about what he had said as they continued to slow-roast that pig over several hours; cleaning off their weapons as a warrior should in preparation for the next time; sluiced the bloody mess from the floor, and then re-sharpened them.

Each time after this, that moment of terror would be shorter, if it occurred at all. Soon, it would become second nature to them, as it was with him, as they leapt into action.

Soon, there would be no fear at all; only anger. And they would respond as a united entity.

They sat around the fire later that night, eating the hot meat, wiping their greasy hands on towels provided for that purpose. Their first real success against an opponent; their first blood-quickening kill. They began to think as Stoker thought, each time he rested anywhere, knowing that it could all change in an instant.

Where were the entrances and exits? Where were their other, heavier weapons? It was already second nature to them.