THE THORIAN SAGAS: 1. THE TRADER. (Completed).

Continuing what he began.

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; Kelts, 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.