[originally published December 21, 2013]
“Why can’t you be like other druids and run around with a snow leopard, or something?” Callista muttered as Torvaagh crept up beside her. “It would have made scouting this a lot easier.
The warrior’s younger kinsman shot her a wounded look. “Why couldn’t you have been a ranger instead of a hulking brute in a tin can? Now that would have made this easier!”
As the two sat grumbling at each other from their perch above the gulley, the pack of ogres assembled below began to move out. If only I HAD brought my suit of plate, she thought to herself, watching them go, I’d have have taken a lesser beating than I’m about to get . . .
“Forget stealth, cousin,” she said, looking back at Torvaagh. “There’s nothing for it, now. Time to fight!”
Before Torvaagh could give the signal, Callista Armageddon sprung up and
slid down the side of the gulley toward their foes. He sighed.
He had no idea how she had managed to live to within only a few years of
becoming an elder of the clan. Of
course, they hadn’t won this fight yet, so…
* * * *
The
ogres closed on her, looking to catch her in the middle of their
onslaught. Ducking under the lead blow
of the larger of the pair, Callista spun toward its flank and brought
Stonesplitter in a slicing arc toward the back of the creature’s knee. She felt the impossibly sharp blade land
satisfyingly as it sheared through tendon and into bone. As it went down to one knee, the ogre howled
in pain and fury, and then surprise, as the half-orc warrior kicked it in the
rump, pushing it forward into the oncoming attack of its compatriot.
Before the second ogre could pull up on its overhanded attack, its
massive cudgel came down squarely on the head of its downed ally. Black blood spurted everywhere as the
greatclub flattened the ogrish skull with a sickening crunch.
Callista was on the remaining foe before it could regain its
bearings. She cast her shield aside and
chopped at the ogre with both hands on her favorite weapon. Stonesplitter did its work, as large pieces
of the ogre’s club came away each time the beast tried to block Callista’s
incoming attacks.
“Enough play!” bellowed a voice from behind her foe, and black gore
sprayed in all directions as a large, gleaming blade hacked into the space
between the creature’s neck and shoulder.
As
the creature screamed in agony, Callista moved in with as powerful a swing as
she could muster, sending the ogre’s head sailing from its shoulders. Her father stood grimly behind where the last
ogre had collapsed in a heap.
“Callista!” he shouted. “You were to draw them to us, not attack them
alone!”
“I
only saved these two for myself,” she replied.
“The others were already near your position.”
“This is unacceptable. One day
you will lead this clan, and on that day you will be responsible for every life
under your charge. That is what it means
to lead. You were given a task, and you
did not follow it. You could have
died. Other members of the clan could
have died. These are not the actions of
a leader!”
Gorragh Yeti-Bane was working himself into another rage. Callista could see his knuckles whiten as his
grip on Sivim’ii’kith slowly tightened.
“Gorragh!” the shaman admonished him from across the clearing. “The battle is won. There is no need to start another.” As she approached, Dazulka placed a calming
hand on her mate’s massive arm. “You should see to the others. Gorstak has asked for you at the entrance of
the gulley. It seems there are riders
approaching.”
The
shaman turned to Callista. “I will deal with our young warrior, myself.”
* * * *
“Hail, Gorragh Yeti-Bane,” the lead rider called out when he spied the
half-orcs gathered at the entrance to the gulley. He lowered his lance, dismounted, and removed
his identity-concealing helmet.
“And hail to you, Rikkard,” the aging chieftain replied, offering his
hand in friendship to the approaching knight. “What brings you to our tribal
lands so close to winter?”
“Well, wouldn’t you know? A
murderous gang of mountain ogres has been terrorizing the countryside, and the
Baron of Ironspur himself put out a bounty on them,” he began, looking over the
assembly gathered before him. He grinned
broadly. “It seems, however, that we are too late. Or at least, judging by the
black blood spattered all over yourself and your clan, that is.”
A
mighty roar went up from the assembled orc-kin in response, drawing an even
wider grin from the young knight.
Gorragh clapped the human on the shoulder. “You and your men-at-arms should join
us. Tonight we feast before we move the
herds to the wintering grounds. It is
the last feast of the year, and I have brought out an untapped keg just for the
event.”
A
wistful look passed over Rikkard’s face as he considered this news. “The valley
stout?” he almost whispered.
“Exactly!” the chief replied, and
another roar of approval went up from the half-orcs.
“Well, we’re not due back any time soon. . . “ Rikkard turned back to his mounted soldiers
and announced. “This is your lucky night, boys.
Tonight you have the honor of drinking the home brew of Clan
Armageddon. There isn’t a lustier stout to be found anywhere in the bloodstone lands!”
The
orcs roared yet again, while the men-at-arms glanced at each other
curiously. How good could it really be,
they wondered. Rikkard smiled to himself
as he remounted his warhorse. If
everything went according to plane, he’d be lucky to see the sun tomorrow
before noontide . . .