Free The Third Scroll by Dana Marton Page A

brief moments when nobody cried out in need. The old bald-eyed steward of the house came with me to guard my honor, which he did, ever so sullenly, helping with absolutely nothing.
    I did not attend the funerals but heard the wailing of the women, and Onra told me when she brought water how on the other side of the creek the dead warriors had been placed into a large hole in the ground, together in battle formation, ready to fight for glory in the spirit world.
    Alongside the dead, the servants buried food enough for the journey and exact copies of their weapons carved from the sacred wood of garon trees. Gifts for Rorin, the Kadar god of war, filled the grave so he would give warm welcome to the fallen.
    I had little time to leave Warrior Hall for other than the basic necessities and knew little of the outside world save what Onra told me when she stopped in now and then. I did not mind the seclusion. Even with the steward forever at my elbow, I had more freedom than at Maiden Hall under Kumra’s ever-watchful eyes.
    The warriors treated me with respect and kindness. Most were young men who had not distinguished themselves in battle enough to be awarded the honor of their first concubine. They shared the hall with the boys who were still in training. The seasoned warriors who had families had their own huts along the fields.
    Talk at Warrior Hall centered around young women, not a man there who did not have one picked out to ask for, should Tahar be willing. I enjoyed the free-spirited exchanges and the teasing among the men, the dares and playful competitions.
    They hardly seemed the monsters I had once thought them to be. They helped me care for the sick, and I was even allowed to go as far as the foothills with two warriors and the steward, who walked uneasily and hated me for the journey, to gather the necessary herbs.
    The boys would gather around me in the evenings and listen to the tales I told the injured whose spirits still lingered between the other world and ours. Sons of warriors were taken into training at the age of eight and sent into their first battle at fourteen. The youngest at Warrior Hall still missed their mothers, although none would have admitted it. They all put up a brave front for honor.
    I indulged the boys with new tales night after night, recounting all the legends I knew, even the history of my people. The steward usually slept through this, his robust snoring providing the background music.
    “The Shahala come from nine tribes: the Roosha, the Torno, the Shelba, the Mortir, the Zetra, the Fertig, the Lormen, the Tuzgi, and the Pirta, each named after the founding father.” I recounted how they had lived on a large, faraway island inhabited by many nations.
    “But some of those nations were evil and committed such atrocious acts as to anger the spirits beyond forgiveness,” I said, and the boys listened.
    “And the spirits brought the stars down from the sky and destroyed the island. Only the Shahala escaped, for they were closest to the island’s only gate and were favored by the spirits as they did not follow the ways of evil. Thus our people came to Dahru and vowed forever to live the one right way, and shun the ways of greed, and violence, and all immoral acts.”
    I did not mention that the Shahala had come to the island before the Kadar, for it was a matter of contention between our peoples. “They swore a solemn oath to help all living creatures and destroy none, and over the centuries, among them were born some legendary healers.”
    “Like you?” one of the boys asked. They seemed much impressed by my work with the wounded.
    “Not me, but my mother. She even healed the old High Lord, the one who ruled before Batumar.”
    “Barmorid,” said another boy. They could all name every High Lord back to the beginning of Kadar history.
    I stood, but they begged me for another tale. And looking at their eager faces, I could not deny them.
    “In the beginning, there was nothing.” I