Block, cut, block behind. Turn and duck. Cut at the legs. Move. Move. Move! Overand over he practiced a death-dance he had learned as a gladiator. The pain wasa distant ache now, an ache he could ignore. He had something else on his mindnow.
Turn, cut. Move. Block, turn, block, cut! Finally he stopped, the raindropscollecting 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 hehad a mere fraction of his old speed. He made to test his suspicions; he stoopedand 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 limbconnected with it but the other splashed into the mud with a sound Jubal heardas a death knell.
One! There had been a time when he could hit three. The healing was going fartoo slowly, taking too much of his strength. At times he felt his reflexes weregetting worse instead of improving. There was only one solution.
Moving quietly he crept back into the hut, listening carefully to the unchangingrhythm of the wizard's soft snores. The kettle of vile potion was bubblingvigorously, as always. The slaver carefully dipped the ladle in and lifted it tohis lips. For a week now he had been sneaking extra swallows, relying on theLizerene's growing fatigue to blind that normally watchful eye. Still, a fewswallows had not made a difference.
Ignoring the smell and taste, Jubal drained the ladle, hesitated, then refilledit. He drained it a second time then he crept back into the rain to continue hispractice.
* * *"Jubal, are you there?"
The slaver rose from his pallet at the sound of his aide's voice. His counting