“How are your hands?” Ernst asked.
“Much better. The salve helped. Tell Ana, ‘Thanks’.”
“Nigh on thirty men now,” Ernst whispered. “Training at your place these last few days. Handy, the size of your old barn; keeps prying eyes away. I’ve got about another fifteen in my barn, running them through basic weapon drills, like you advised.”
So, forty-five fighters. “Dagger, sword and shield?”
Ernst nodded.
“Anyone good at knife-throwing?”
“My son, Lofty. Hadn’t thought of that. We’ll move onto it today.”
Not thought of knife-throwing? The most basic training for all dragon riders? Hans struggled not to let his frustration show. “How many archers?” he asked.
“Not enough. Less than a handful.” Ernst shook his head. “Seems Klaus warned them off us.”
Hans’ bread turned to dust in his mouth. “You’d think he wants to die at the hands of tharuks.”
Nodding grimly, Ernst whispered, “Him and everyone else. Too stubborn for their own good. What should we work on next?”
“Spears for the front line.”
Ernst had never faced tharuks before. He’d lived here in Lush Valley most of his life—apart from a short sojourn when he’d ventured beyond the Grande Alps, had his eyes opened, and met Ana, bringing her back to raise a family in this little haven. A haven that was about to become a death trap.
There was so much to convey: the best defensive moves against tharuks; tharuk attack strategies; their most common tusk maneuvers; how to evade their crushing techniques; the right spots to aim arrows to avoid their matted fur; but most importantly, how to protect yourself from tharuk mind-benders.
Running his hand through his unruly hair, Hans opened his mouth, then hesitated.
Bill was hunched over a bucket, his back to them, but his retching had stopped. He was as still as a marmot, head cocked. Listening. Even now, he was spying for the tharuks.
Shooting a meaningful glance in Bill’s direction, Hans still spoke quietly, hoping Bill wouldn’t realize they’d changed their topic of conversation. “Tomaaz may need a hand to harvest the carrots and the last of the potatoes. It also wouldn’t harm to kill a few chooks for smoking.”
Ernst shot a glance over his shoulder at Bill before replying. “Very well, I’ll be back later in case you think of anything else.”
No! His chance to train Ernst was slipping away, all because of that cursed spy. “Ah, wait,” called Hans. How could he give Ernst a clear message about mind-benders, without letting Bill know? “Um, Tomaaz … how’s he feeling since he got burned?”
“Sore.” His back to Bill, Ernst raised his eyebrows.
“No, I mean his emotions, his mind.” Hans emphasized the key words with his hands. “I’m wondering whether he’s bent out of shape, you know, with everything that’s gone on.”
A flash of comprehension lit Ernst’s face. “Yes, he is. Poor boy. What could help him?”
Hans sat on the bed, leaning his elbows on his knees and wringing his hands together, as if he was anxious. Sure enough, Bill sneaked a glance. “His sister’s sick. His mother’s gone and I’m stuck in here. He must be miserable.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Maybe he could think of a nice family memory. Focus on that if he can.”
Ernst gave a barely perceptible nod. “I’ll try, Hans. Like you said, it’s a difficult time for the lad. I’ll go now, and give him a hand, but I have my own farm to tend as well.”
“Thank you, and thank Ana for the bread and cheese, too.”
Bill swung around. “Food, you say. Did he bring food?” He crooked a bony finger at Ernst. “Come here. Give me some,” he whined. “I’m so hungry. Wretched belly gripe has left me hollow.”
“Give him this.” Hans ripped off a piece of flatbread. Ernst took it to Bill’s cell.
Snatching the bread, Bill stuffed half of it in his mouth and the rest in his pocket. He retreated to his mattress, chewing, his eyes faintly yellow from the remnants of swayweed in his blood.
They said that spies who’d been on swayweed for years could never completely rid themselves of its effects. Hans shuddered. Better Bill than him.
Ernst left and Hans resumed his exercises.
Bill got up and took the bread out of his pocket, ripping it in tiny pieces and placing it on the sill of his barred cell window.
A crow landed on the sill, plumage shining blue-black, and stabbed its beak at the bread. It eyed Bill as he crept closer to it, but it didn’t fly away. Bill stroked the bird’s head, crooning, as it ate the bread. Strange—Hans thought he caught his name and Tomaaz’s in Bill’s mad mutterings.
§
Tomaaz adjusted the boy’s grip. “Lunge again, but this time, aim higher.” He pointed to the boy’s opponent. “And, you, block him with the flat of your blade, not the edge.”
His burnt legs aching, he sat on a barrel and watched as the two lads, not even thirteen summers, clashed swords again. If these boys were their best hope of saving the township, then there wasn’t much hope at all. With so many people training in their barn, the air was stifling. Tomaaz pulled a dipper from a pail and drank deeply. He brushed sweat from his forehead. Because of his injuries, being on his feet tired him out.
After getting Lovina to take clear-mind yesterday, Ana had insisted on bandaging another healing poultice onto Tomaaz’s legs. Today, he’d made up a poultice himself, happy not to have Ana fussing over him. As the healer’s son, he’d applied enough poultices for Ma over the years.
The dull clash of metal rang in his ears. A couple of girls in the far corner seemed to be getting the hang of their blades. In time, they could be promising. A shame they didn’t have time.
Lofty clapped a
