Gazing into the depths of the fire, Callista knew she had
already had too much to drink. As soon
as the fire was lit at sunset, she had started in on the stout. If she kept up this pace, she would be
useless for anything before next noontide.
On the other hand, tomorrow would only be more of the same as yesterday
– it was always about the herds. At least
today they had fought and destroyed the small band of ogres that had been
preying on their reindeer. She figured
she could drink as much as she wanted to tonight.
Tomorrow they would mount their horses and begin the
drive to the wintering grounds far from the Grommon’Kash. They would skirt the mountains southward
until they reached the pass known as Gramble’s Climb, and then make their way
to the shores of the Moonsea that lay beyond.
They would have to reach the pass before the first snowfall, or it would
be closed to them until spring. Life
would be very hard for them if they did not make the pass in time, and the
herds would be in great danger of starvation, as well as predation by the
beasts – and worse – of the mountains and tundra. If they did make the coast, however, they
would be safe until the spring thaws came.
And in the spring, when her clan went north again, she
would instead make way to the ruins of Hulburg down the coast and hire a
trawler to take her on to Thentia, and from there, book passage to
Mulmaster. She knew she would be able to
find work there with the Sea Blades, or perhaps she might even go further on to
Hillsfar to rejoin the Red Plumes, if she had to. In any event, there would be no more
reindeer.
“A copper for your thoughts,” she heard from behind
her. Sir Rikkard, whom men – but
especially women – called the Fair, had come up behind her while she was lost
in reflection.
“Bloody reindeer,” she grumbled. The human knight laughed merrily, as he often
did.
“Well, you can keep the change then,” he said, then took
a great swig of stout from his tall mug.
“It was never clear to me why you quit the field and came back to your
clan. I have never figured you for a
shepherd, or whatever it is you call a caribou herder.”
“I was one of the mercenaries hired to go in and loot the
Wailing Tower in ’76,” she explained, expecting the meaning to be
self-evident. “After that I needed a
break from the soldier’s life. A long
break. Anyway, the historians named that
year the Year of the Bent Blade. They
should have called it the Year of the Gods Damned Fools.” (1)
“Ah yes, that expedition was near Hillsfar, wasn’t it?”
the knight said, slowly stroking his neatly bearded chin. “A dirty
business. They think we northerners are
barbarians, but I would not trade all the tundra in Vaasa for one acre of
cursed land on the Moonsea.”
Callista’s eyebrows raised in surprise, and she grinned
at him wolfishly. “Since when has it
been ‘we northerners’, Sir Rikkard the Fair? I have never figured you for a
northerner, or whatever it is you call someone who was born in a well-furnished
castle in Kinnery.”
“You are a cruel creature, Callista Armageddon,” he
replied with feigned sorrow, placing his hand over his heart, as if mortally
wounded. “Heedlessly cruel. Is it my
fault that I was born between great walls of stone. Instead, I say, what of the great walls of
stone around your own heart, that would let you treat one so roughly? We do not choose where we enter the world,
but are we not all children of the same mother earth? All of us northern kin, in the end?” The young knight stepped back and raised his
clear voice in song, as the gathering went suddenly quiet:
O universal mother, who dost keep
From everlasting thy foundations
deep,
Eldest of things, Great Earth, I
sing of thee!
All shapes that have their dwelling
in the sea,
All things that fly, or on the
ground divine
Live, move, and there are
nourished-these are thine;
These from thy wealth dost sustain;
from thee
Fair babes are born, and fruits on
every tree
Hang ripe and large, revered Divinity! (2)
Scattered applause met the end of the young man’s
song. Scattered applause, and Callista
Armageddon’s fist across his jawline.
The half-orc warrior skulked off into the night amid hoots and howls of
laughter. As Rikkard stood rubbing his
jaw, with all eyes on him, someone was thoughtful enough to supply a bit of
advice.
“You’re supposed to go after her and wrestle her to the
ground, young pup!” came the shout, in a heavily orcish accent, amid much
laughter.
“If you think you’re up to it, that is!” Another roaring
voice helpfully added. Amid a renewed
outburst of harsh laughter, Rikkard the Fair followed his quarry out into the
moonlit darkness, wondering if he would survive the encounter, or the night.
(1) From http://forgottenrealms.wikia.com/wiki/1376_DR
(2) From Hymn to Earth the Mother of All, Homer
(7th century B.C.)