[0riginally published January 27, 2013]
The young woman took up the sword
uncertainly, only knowing she should not hold it by its blade.
She lunged at her instructor wildly, swinging the weapon in sweeping
arcs as if she were reaping wheat. The weaponsmaster neatly sidestepped the
whirling mess and knocked his attacker down into the dirt.
"You fight like an orc," he noted disapprovingly. "But
perhaps you are not an orc. There is some bit of humanity in there? If so, I
will help you pull it out so you can learn to fight properly."
"Now, get up, orc."
In all her thirteen years, Callista had never hated anything, or anyone,
so much as she hated Bastian the Sword-Saint. She was sure this was some
punishment for not heeding her parents' commands, or for not attending to her
duty with the herds, or for letting Snort run wild in the kitchens, or for one
of the many, many other misdeeds she had to answer for.
"You will never know the slashing dance of the rapier, I think. You
are far too clunky. No discipline! Only the cudgel will suit you, or, in the
case of a large miracle, perhaps the battleaxe. Will you be a battleaxe some
day, orc?" He laughed heartily at his own jest, continuing to beat his new
student into a bruised and exhausted lump over the course of the next two
hours.
"We have had enough training for our first day, yes?" he asked
casually.
Callista Armageddon ground her teeth and glared at her new master with
murderous intent. She tightened her grip on the sword with both hands and
stalked after the slightly built opponent before her. She could feel her sight
going red with hatred as she imagined hacking him into pieces small enough to
feed her pet razorboar.
"Ah, there it is, the famed Armageddon temper. Good, good. We will
take that temper and temper it," more self-regarding laughter followed.
"You will learn to make that rage into a weapon as strong as any enchanted
blade of old. Just as your father
did."
Callista stopped up short. "You know nothing of my father,
human."
"Nonsense!" he replied. "I have known your father longer
than you have known him yourself."
"And I am no human. Perhaps
you are blind as well as slow?"
The half-orc was not sure what to make of those comments.
"Of course, he was an excellent student, your father. Even better
than I, when we studied together under old Shagrash so long ago. Much better
than you will ever be, I fear. But we will proceed nonetheless, as I have given
my word."
"You talk too much," she snarled, and advanced again.
"Aha! And you talk too much
like a grunting hog, little orc. But we will correct that, as well! Oh, yes. We
will make a great time of it." He moved to meet her head on, and again she
lay sprawling on the ground, looking up at the bright blue sky.
The weaponsmaster sheathed his blade, and stood regarding his prone
opponent. He thoughtfully stroked his chin with one hand, while resting his
elbow in the palm of the other, and made a face that betrayed pure dismay.
"No, not hopeless, not totally, I think, but five, perhaps six
years if we are lucky with the gods." She would come to hate this, too,
the endless cycle of beatings and taunts and mugging.
Bastian turned and made his way to the simple hut he called home, and
shut the door behind him, leaving the half-orc girl alone to sort out the rest.
Six years? Callista groaned as the weight of her predicament settled
down on her where she lay. She clambered onto all fours, then slowly stood up.
Her body hurt worse than she could ever remember, and she didn't know where she
was supposed to go or what she was supposed to do. She picked out a small hut
next to the weaponsmaster's and went to look in. It was empty save for a
straw-filled bedroll, a small table and stool, and several stacks of firewood.
She gathered an armful of wood, and went to the hearth to begin making a little
fire.
Had he really said six years? No, not six years. She was sure she would
kill the fool well before that, in his sleep if she had to. She grinned
maliciously at the thought.
She would soon find out just how wrong she was, and about just how many
things.
* * *
The greatest challenge of all had been tempering her hatred, just as her
master had said. The bright, raging fire inside her was a forge, and she was
the weapon upon which it had been wrought. At first, the rage had only blinded
her, and hindered her when they fought. Very slowly, over time, she had learned
to direct it, and to focus it as it welled up inside her.
Now seventeen, she had grown to full height, and lean orcish muscle had
filled out over her long, human frame. She believed herself ready to leave her
master and to go out into the world and carve her mark on it with steel.
But Bastian had one last lesson for her.