[Originally published October 27, 2013]
When word came, Callista was in her
pavilion, sharpening the blade of her enchanted waraxe, Stonesplitter.
Once she heard the messenger's report, she bowed her head briefly, rose, and left immediately for the
shaman’s tent.
Gorragh Yeti Bane, chief of Clan
Armageddon, was dead.
* * *
Callista had only ever seen her
mother weep once before. It was the day
her father had left with her to find the
abode of Bastian the Sword Saint, who was to be her instructor. Although the shaman had seen many perilous
adventures, and lived daily with the unrelenting hardship of the howling
tundra, the thought of possibly losing her only child had reduced her to tears.
Only now, the loss was certain. Her lifemate had left her for the Happy
Hunting Grounds, going before her to prepare a place for them in eternity.
When Callista entered their tent,
the chief had been placed on a cot in the center of the dwelling, near the
hearth. Dazulka White Tusk was hunched
over the body of the aged half-orc, whispering prayers to the spirits of earth
and sky as she wept, begging them to guide her love to his final resting place.
Callista approached her mother and
put her hands on her shoulders. The
shaman stiffened, then sagged once more.
In a moment, she composed herself.
She rose and turned to face her daughter, who stood nearly as tall as
her father had, and nearly as broad.
Embracing, mother and daughter
silently left the tent as the acolytes entered, ready to prepare the body for
interment in the ancient cairns of their people.
* * *
“Torvaagh said they were separated
in the middle of the yeti hunt when a sudden windstorm raised the snow into a
bliding flurry,” she looked down at the ground as she spoke. “The young one is
devastated, and will receive no visitors.
He believes it is his fault that the chief fell.”
Callista contemplated this for a
moment.
“I will speak with him later. He is valiant and loyal. None would ever believe he knowingly left his
beloved master when battle was nigh.”
The shaman bowed her head silently.
“It is only right for the chief to
go to him and bring him back to us.”
Nodding in agreement, Callista
suddenly realized what her mother had said to her.
“But,” she stammered. “But I am not,
. . “
“But you are,” she said in
return. “You are our chief, now.”
“But I am not ready!”
“So many times since you have come
back to us you have reminded me that you are a free knight of Vaasa, and an
elder of the clan,” the shaman replied. “You are those things, and so much
more, Callista. When you first returned
as a warrior from your time with Bastian, you had the respect of your
tribe. When you chose to lead the
wanderer’s life, how many of the other young ones followed you out of love? You are their chief. You were born to lead them.”
The shaman reached into one of the
many magical folds of her sash and drew out a long bundle wrapped in snow white
yeti hide. She handed it to Callista
with both hands, and the young warrior took the bundle from her mother
carefully.
“This is yours now,” she said. “It
is the symbol of our tribe, and has been wielded by the chiefs of the
Armageddons beyond memory. Take it. Take it and lead your people into the
future.”
As she began to unwrap the bundle,
the hilt and pommel of her father’s, of her, greatsword came into view. The alien markings seemed to glow softly in
the red firelight, and as she removed the last of the covering yeti hide, the
full length of the weapon was exposed to her sight. She watched as the liquid runes crawled
randomly up and down the length of the weapon, as they always did, sometimes in
sudden spurts, sometimes at a crawl, and never by the same path twice.
She held the silvery sword before
her with both hands, testing its balance.
In her youth, Gorragh had let his child touch the weapon many times,
though no one else had had the honor of doing so. None but her father had ever actually held it
since the day he had inherited it from his own father, however. Until now.
* * *
Walking out into the cold night,
Callista grasped the weapon tightly. She
leapt in a spinning arc, the blade flashing in the pale light of the full
moon. Landing in a crouch, the half-orc
warrior proceeded to put the weapon through its paces, shadow fighting all her
enemies past, as well as those she imagined into the future.
When she had run out of breath at
last, she stopped. The blade was warm to
the touch, despite the chill of the night air. The weapon felt alive in her
hands, and a slight tug at the edge her consciousness conjured a single word in
her mind.
She stood regarding the blade in her
hands, and considered what she felt. A
dark smile crossed her lips as she gave voice in full agreement with the word-
“Vengeance.”