“Is this truly your wish, my chief?”
Torvaagh asked uncertainly. He wondered
if it was merely grief behind this decision, or a deep wish for vengeance. Or worse, perhaps it was both.
“It is. Until I return, you will lead the clan. You are Shaman, now, since . . ." she
paused, and could not finish the thought.
"But you will also act as chief.”
“As you command,” he nodded and turned to leave. He stopped suddenly and turned back. “But who will accompany you, then, as your
shield arm and second?”
“None,” Callista replied, noting his frowning response. “The clan needs its full strength to tend to and defend the herds,
no hand can be spared. And I would not
risk any of their lives for this burden I carry.”
“But –“
“I don’t know Torvaagh!” she said, cutting off any of a number of protests or questions he intended to ask her. “ . . . I don’t know.”
Her kinsman nodded as she turned to look out over the tundra as it stretched away from the burial cairns of their people. He quietly withdrew, just as he had always done, leaving her to brood on her thoughts as she considered the fate laid out before her.
* * *
She slowly climbed the last stretch
of rocks, making her way alone toward the travertine terraces of the most
sacred place of her people’s home valley. She had sent the clan away to the
wintering grounds several days past, as autumn was turning fast this
season. They accepted her decision
without question, following Torvaagh as they moved the herds to the south. She had sent them because she knew this was a
trial she could only face by herself.
Callista did not know what she
would say to the dragon, or whether it would even come at her call. She was chief, but she did not have the
silver blade. In the end, she was
nothing, really, in comparison to the majesty of the Lord of the Vale.
She ground her teeth in frustration
and redoubled her effort, moving ever closer to what she knew she must do.
* * *
Nothing had happened. The pools remained calm and undisturbed, the steam rising gently into the still, cold air. She cursed silently to herself. If only she had her father’s blade with her.
“Severin’s Vengeance!” she cried out again in the strongest voice she had, as if she were once again commanding troops on the battlefield. “Your kin have need of you in their darkest hour. Their chief summons you to take heed!”
Her anger rising, she cursed out
loud. She could feel her hands shaking with rage as the dragon ignored her
call. As the red sight begin to overtake
her, she suddenly felt her mother’s voice come back to her from deep in her
memory. Take heed of the snow leopard,
child. See how carefully it stalks the
reindeer from its perch? Patience is its
greatest weapon. Not its fearsome bite,
nor its dreadful claws. Patience.
Exhaling slowly, Callista forced
herself back into the present. She took
a moment to clear her thoughts, and reached out to the dragon through nothing
but force of will. She tried to summon
the sensation she had felt at the moment the old wyrm had come to them at the
moot. The Touch of the Void.
Come to me,
Bheilorveilthion’durtaxsteingakila.
She felt the dragon’s presence
emerging well before she saw it burst forth from the steaming pools. It looked about, searching for the one who
had summoned it.
What is the meaning of
this? Who disturbs my restful sleep?
Callista stepped forward to the
edge of the pool, speaking with as brave a voice as she could
muster. “You are called by Callista,
Daughter of Gorragh, right born chief of Clan Armageddon, and blood kin to the Lord of the Vale!”
The dragon swung its immense head
around, lowering its gaze to the small figure standing before it. Long moments passed before the half-orc
warrior once again felt its mind inside her own.
What would you ask of me,
Callista, Daughter of Gorragh?
* * *
She could not bring herself to look
down. She clung tightly to the long
black mane that streamed along the dragon’s back. Even through the palpable heat of the fire dragons body to which she pressed, the chill air of the night sky bit
into her, making her shiver uncontrollably.
The Black Mountain is not far,
Callista, Daughter of Gorragh. Even your
frail form should endure the rest of this journey.
Gazing out into the freezing, endless dark of the moonlit night, she wasn’t so sure the wyrm had spoken the truth of it.
* * *
Callista dismounted from the
dragon’s back and moved toward the entrance of the cave.
Wait for me my brother, I will
not linger.
The dragon dipped its head in
acknowledgement.
Make haste, Small One, I do not
like the feel of this place.
Callista nodded in agreement. She had been here once before, many years
past. She had learned a lesson from
someone that day. It had not been the
first, but it had been the last.
As she moved into the darkness, her night eyes adjusted, allowing her to see as if the caverns had been lit by
brightly burning torches. She made her
way through the tunnels to the place where she and one other had once battled
her greatest foe to a standstill.
Even the night eyes of her people could not reach
the edges of the cavern she now stood in.
Memory told her it was more than two hundred feet across, and half again
as high.
She crossed the length of the stone
chamber to a cleft in the rock. She could sense a slightly shimmering haze
playing between the broken pieces of the wall. The faint scent of befouled,
polluted air wafted from the haze, taking her back more than thirteen years to
the first time it had assaulted her sense of smell.
She stepped up to the breach, reached into her belt pouch, and drew forth a small pyramid carved from polished obsidian. With this key, she stretched forth her hand into the shimmering portal and it immediately shifted into an impenetrable blackness. The door had opened.
This request would go better than when she first reached out to the dragon. The one to whom she called had told her to come to this place and simply call out, if that was what was called for.
She leaned into the blackness and once again focused her will, reaching out blindly for one very particular aura.
“Bastian,” she whispered slowly. “I need your help.”