A Cliff-top Duel
II
Lessons of Duty
(Shard II)
(Shard II)
She could hear his heavy footsteps as he made his way to the front door. Behind the creaking and another pop, she could hear him secure the lock and then walk away. She sat on her bed and stared at the sword upon her pillow for a moment. The smells of tolsen weed and cooked food wafted in all the more, making her feel a strange sense of comfort and longing.
Ghelta pushed herself off of the bed and onto the wooden floor with almost no sound at all. She looked around the room quickly and stepped toward the doorway to peer past at the front door beyond. Feeling secure that Papa Ylethus was actually gone, she returned to her bed and began reaching under the wooden frame.
In a few short moments, she grasped onto a small and well-hidden wooden box she had stolen from a visiting courtier’s luggage a few months previous. She lifted it from a small separation she made between the bed’s frame and one of the wooden slats holding up the straw mattress. With some flexing of her small arms, she raised it up and set it down on her bed.
With one more look around her and a silent moment to hear that the house remained silent, she lifted herself back up onto her bed and pulled the box towards herself. Her small fingers ran over the exotic wood covered in rich lacquer. She reached for the metal clasp at the front of the box and opened the lid slowly.
Within the box were several dolls she had made out of scrap linen, straw, and numerous baubles she had stolen over her short life. She tugged on one of her long and crimson braids and began to chew on it idly as she lifted each of the dolls from the box and placed them in a row beside her pillow.
Ghelta had seen many of the young girls of the city collecting dolls as they grew up. She enjoyed playing out little dramas with the dolls when Papa Ylethus was away for long stretches of time. The first doll she had was a wooden figurine of a goddess she stole from Grandmaster Toulam who watched over her once when Papa Ylethus was on a campaign for several months. She had dressed the goddess, whose name she didn’t know, in a small dress she had made from scraps of her swaddling clothes.
The other dolls were a mismatch of found objects with only the vaguest hint of a humanoid form. Some of the dolls had names while others would change names as she willed it for each of the dramas she thought up while being stuck in the house alone. She pretended that she was one of the skaldten she had seen when Ylethus took her to the leiggenskappf to hear tales from distant lands. It was her job to recite the epic tales of heroes and villains.
She always enjoyed those times Papa Ylethus let her go to the Hall of Heroes to hear the stories of the traveling skadlts. Being in the presence of the joys, and sorrows of warriors filled her heart with purpose. She did her best to remember the tales told and keep them going with her dolls. More than any of the tales she recited regularly, she tried her hands at making new tales that only she and her imaginary family would ever hear.
There was a juvenile pain that crept through her as she surveyed her makeshift family of dolls on her bed now that she’d brought them all out. Somewhere out in the city, there were numerous young girls getting gifts from their parents. Those children with loving mothers and fathers related to them by blood who cared and gave their all to their children. Those young girls getting new dolls to play with for the next year.
It was envy that began to boil up from within her for a brief moment. Those other children didn’t understand hardship like she had seen. Those other children were loved by those that brought them into this cruel world of pain and murder. Those other children received gifts that they wanted and would soon discard once new gifts presented themselves the next year. It was children like Ghelta who would pick up the pieces of the forgotten toys and dolls to make her own out of. It was children like Ghelta who lived in their shadows and made a life out of the detritus they threw away.
Ghelta caught herself as her face grew red and she stared up at her pillow beyond the dolls she had lined up. There the gift that Papa Ylethus had given her sat alone and abandoned. As she reached a hand toward the scabbard her eyes swelled with tears. As her hand seized upon the leather and lifted it to her lap she began to sob openly.
She knew how much it meant to him to give her this gift and knowing it at this moment made all of her envy drain away. The metalwork of the scabbard was a work of art that a skilled smith had spent months working on. Papa Ylethus had said how long it took for him to pay off the commission for this one-of-a-kind gift.
It may not be what she had wanted or expected, but even as a small child she could understand the importance of what she held in her hands. She held the scabbard close to her chest and finished her sobs. As hard as she sometimes thought her life was, she knew she was blessed. Many children died in this cruel world and others suffered as slaves to be trafficked by corrupt lords.
She may be an orphan, but she had a guardian that worked tirelessly to protect and keep her safe. Papa Ylethus may not be of her same blood, but he knew her soul far better than even her dead parents might have ever known her. She may not have full meals growing up like other children, but her stomach was always filled at the end of the day. She had a roof over her head and the chance to face the next day with hope rather than fear.
Ghelta looked down at the scabbard in her hands and realized at this moment that what she held wasn’t just a sheathed sword but a tool to ensure that her future would be filled with hope and not fear. She realized that it was by this tool in her hands that she could protect not only herself but others and put the villains of the world to justice. In her hands she held the ability to tell more than any drama or story could ever tell; she could live her own epic tale of heroism and adventure.
As cool tears continued to stream down her face, Ghelta pushed herself from the bed and dropped her feet to the floor below. She held the scabbard in her hands and turned to stare back at her doll family on her bed. She tucked in her threadbare shirt-tail around her tiny waist and pulled the leather belt around her. She notched the buckle to the very last hole in the belt and tied it tightly around her, letting the sheathed sword fall to her hip.
Her tears began to stop as she felt the weight of the sword around her, like the weight of duty that a warrior must have to their tribe. There was something about the sword that made her feel like a grown-up as it dangled beside her exposed leg. She reached down with her left hand to feel the warm leather bindings on the hilt in her hand.
Papa Ylethus had told her often that a warrior’s chosen weapons must be consecrated with blood the first time they are drawn. In the blood is the oath to the spirit of the weapon that it will only be used for honorable means. By tasting the wielder’s blood, the blade and the warrior become one entity, with one will, and one celestial purpose. She didn’t remember all of the other things he had spoken about warriors and weapons, but this she remembered well.
With a flick of a leather snap, which held her guard in place, Ghelta grabbed the hilt of her blade and drew it forth. The klaive lifted quietly and easily as it slid on the fur inside the scabbard. She lifted the heavy weapon up to her face and stared at herself in the polished metal of the blade. Inside the weapon, she could see her wild, crimson hair and ice-blue eyes staring back at her. She held the blade with her left hand and wiped away the tears from her pale cheeks with the other.
Ghelta held up the blade still and once her cheeks felt dry enough, she held her right hand with her palm upturned in front of her. She lowered the blade towards her hand and with a wince, she drew the edge of the blade against her palm. Tears of pain rushed forth, but she blinked them away with her renewed focus. She finished dragging the blade across and raised it up as she clenched her sore hand into a fist.
Once the blood began to flow from her wound, she spread the blood across the flat of the blade with her hand. Once anointed with her blood, she lifted up the blade to her forehead and closed her eyes. She remembered that Papa Ylethus had said that every great blade must have a name. All the ancient hero's blades had names that skaldts remembered throughout the centuries. Even if only the wielder of the blade knew the name, every one must have something to attach its spirit to.
Ghelta opened her eyes and spoke softly to the blade she held against her small head. “I name you, Scythana.” She remembered the name from when Papa Ylethus had spoken to the robed man earlier. The name seemed important to Papa Ylethus and sounded pretty. This would be the blade’s name and she would keep that name to herself.
She lowered her blade and stared up at the row of dolls lined up against her pillow. Thoughts began to bubble up in her imagination that the dolls were her family and she was a warrior who had to protect them from some ancient monster like in the stories she had heard. She swung the klaive in her hand and lowered it towards the door of the bedroom. She could feel the weight of the blade in her hand and the power that flowed into her from it. She was a warrior now.
“—That is why we of the Vhulkhovyr caste must always be ready to lay down our lives.” Ylethus continued his speech as he reeled back from Ghelta’s earlier attack. He allowed the momentum she had imparted to his great sword to pull him down into an upturned swing.
Ghelta swiveled her klaive in her hand and pointed the tip upward. She caught her reflection in the worn and notched blade. She remembered the day that Ylethus had given it to her as a gift. She smiled as she caught her same crimson hair and ice-blue eyes in the reflection. The moment seemed to stretch on, but she soon saw Ylethus’ sword crashing down on her. She ducked into a backward roll avoiding the strike and not needing to parry.
“Well, I take that to mean you understand this lesson.” Ylethus lifted the heavy sword up from the ground and leveled it across his body. He took several deep breaths and shook out the strain from his arms. “Now onto the next one.”
Ghelta caught herself in mid-roll and sprung back to her feet. She flourished her klaive in front of her, trailing it from side to side like a snake about to strike. She analyzed Ylethus’ stance and prepared herself for his next thrust. Her smile turned into the grin of a predator who had the upper hand on their prey.
“Yeah. Sure. Keep the lessons coming.”
Ghelta pushed herself off of the bed and onto the wooden floor with almost no sound at all. She looked around the room quickly and stepped toward the doorway to peer past at the front door beyond. Feeling secure that Papa Ylethus was actually gone, she returned to her bed and began reaching under the wooden frame.
In a few short moments, she grasped onto a small and well-hidden wooden box she had stolen from a visiting courtier’s luggage a few months previous. She lifted it from a small separation she made between the bed’s frame and one of the wooden slats holding up the straw mattress. With some flexing of her small arms, she raised it up and set it down on her bed.
With one more look around her and a silent moment to hear that the house remained silent, she lifted herself back up onto her bed and pulled the box towards herself. Her small fingers ran over the exotic wood covered in rich lacquer. She reached for the metal clasp at the front of the box and opened the lid slowly.
Within the box were several dolls she had made out of scrap linen, straw, and numerous baubles she had stolen over her short life. She tugged on one of her long and crimson braids and began to chew on it idly as she lifted each of the dolls from the box and placed them in a row beside her pillow.
Ghelta had seen many of the young girls of the city collecting dolls as they grew up. She enjoyed playing out little dramas with the dolls when Papa Ylethus was away for long stretches of time. The first doll she had was a wooden figurine of a goddess she stole from Grandmaster Toulam who watched over her once when Papa Ylethus was on a campaign for several months. She had dressed the goddess, whose name she didn’t know, in a small dress she had made from scraps of her swaddling clothes.
The other dolls were a mismatch of found objects with only the vaguest hint of a humanoid form. Some of the dolls had names while others would change names as she willed it for each of the dramas she thought up while being stuck in the house alone. She pretended that she was one of the skaldten she had seen when Ylethus took her to the leiggenskappf to hear tales from distant lands. It was her job to recite the epic tales of heroes and villains.
She always enjoyed those times Papa Ylethus let her go to the Hall of Heroes to hear the stories of the traveling skadlts. Being in the presence of the joys, and sorrows of warriors filled her heart with purpose. She did her best to remember the tales told and keep them going with her dolls. More than any of the tales she recited regularly, she tried her hands at making new tales that only she and her imaginary family would ever hear.
There was a juvenile pain that crept through her as she surveyed her makeshift family of dolls on her bed now that she’d brought them all out. Somewhere out in the city, there were numerous young girls getting gifts from their parents. Those children with loving mothers and fathers related to them by blood who cared and gave their all to their children. Those young girls getting new dolls to play with for the next year.
It was envy that began to boil up from within her for a brief moment. Those other children didn’t understand hardship like she had seen. Those other children were loved by those that brought them into this cruel world of pain and murder. Those other children received gifts that they wanted and would soon discard once new gifts presented themselves the next year. It was children like Ghelta who would pick up the pieces of the forgotten toys and dolls to make her own out of. It was children like Ghelta who lived in their shadows and made a life out of the detritus they threw away.
Ghelta caught herself as her face grew red and she stared up at her pillow beyond the dolls she had lined up. There the gift that Papa Ylethus had given her sat alone and abandoned. As she reached a hand toward the scabbard her eyes swelled with tears. As her hand seized upon the leather and lifted it to her lap she began to sob openly.
She knew how much it meant to him to give her this gift and knowing it at this moment made all of her envy drain away. The metalwork of the scabbard was a work of art that a skilled smith had spent months working on. Papa Ylethus had said how long it took for him to pay off the commission for this one-of-a-kind gift.
It may not be what she had wanted or expected, but even as a small child she could understand the importance of what she held in her hands. She held the scabbard close to her chest and finished her sobs. As hard as she sometimes thought her life was, she knew she was blessed. Many children died in this cruel world and others suffered as slaves to be trafficked by corrupt lords.
She may be an orphan, but she had a guardian that worked tirelessly to protect and keep her safe. Papa Ylethus may not be of her same blood, but he knew her soul far better than even her dead parents might have ever known her. She may not have full meals growing up like other children, but her stomach was always filled at the end of the day. She had a roof over her head and the chance to face the next day with hope rather than fear.
Ghelta looked down at the scabbard in her hands and realized at this moment that what she held wasn’t just a sheathed sword but a tool to ensure that her future would be filled with hope and not fear. She realized that it was by this tool in her hands that she could protect not only herself but others and put the villains of the world to justice. In her hands she held the ability to tell more than any drama or story could ever tell; she could live her own epic tale of heroism and adventure.
As cool tears continued to stream down her face, Ghelta pushed herself from the bed and dropped her feet to the floor below. She held the scabbard in her hands and turned to stare back at her doll family on her bed. She tucked in her threadbare shirt-tail around her tiny waist and pulled the leather belt around her. She notched the buckle to the very last hole in the belt and tied it tightly around her, letting the sheathed sword fall to her hip.
Her tears began to stop as she felt the weight of the sword around her, like the weight of duty that a warrior must have to their tribe. There was something about the sword that made her feel like a grown-up as it dangled beside her exposed leg. She reached down with her left hand to feel the warm leather bindings on the hilt in her hand.
Papa Ylethus had told her often that a warrior’s chosen weapons must be consecrated with blood the first time they are drawn. In the blood is the oath to the spirit of the weapon that it will only be used for honorable means. By tasting the wielder’s blood, the blade and the warrior become one entity, with one will, and one celestial purpose. She didn’t remember all of the other things he had spoken about warriors and weapons, but this she remembered well.
With a flick of a leather snap, which held her guard in place, Ghelta grabbed the hilt of her blade and drew it forth. The klaive lifted quietly and easily as it slid on the fur inside the scabbard. She lifted the heavy weapon up to her face and stared at herself in the polished metal of the blade. Inside the weapon, she could see her wild, crimson hair and ice-blue eyes staring back at her. She held the blade with her left hand and wiped away the tears from her pale cheeks with the other.
Ghelta held up the blade still and once her cheeks felt dry enough, she held her right hand with her palm upturned in front of her. She lowered the blade towards her hand and with a wince, she drew the edge of the blade against her palm. Tears of pain rushed forth, but she blinked them away with her renewed focus. She finished dragging the blade across and raised it up as she clenched her sore hand into a fist.
Once the blood began to flow from her wound, she spread the blood across the flat of the blade with her hand. Once anointed with her blood, she lifted up the blade to her forehead and closed her eyes. She remembered that Papa Ylethus had said that every great blade must have a name. All the ancient hero's blades had names that skaldts remembered throughout the centuries. Even if only the wielder of the blade knew the name, every one must have something to attach its spirit to.
Ghelta opened her eyes and spoke softly to the blade she held against her small head. “I name you, Scythana.” She remembered the name from when Papa Ylethus had spoken to the robed man earlier. The name seemed important to Papa Ylethus and sounded pretty. This would be the blade’s name and she would keep that name to herself.
She lowered her blade and stared up at the row of dolls lined up against her pillow. Thoughts began to bubble up in her imagination that the dolls were her family and she was a warrior who had to protect them from some ancient monster like in the stories she had heard. She swung the klaive in her hand and lowered it towards the door of the bedroom. She could feel the weight of the blade in her hand and the power that flowed into her from it. She was a warrior now.
* * *
“—That is why we of the Vhulkhovyr caste must always be ready to lay down our lives.” Ylethus continued his speech as he reeled back from Ghelta’s earlier attack. He allowed the momentum she had imparted to his great sword to pull him down into an upturned swing.
Ghelta swiveled her klaive in her hand and pointed the tip upward. She caught her reflection in the worn and notched blade. She remembered the day that Ylethus had given it to her as a gift. She smiled as she caught her same crimson hair and ice-blue eyes in the reflection. The moment seemed to stretch on, but she soon saw Ylethus’ sword crashing down on her. She ducked into a backward roll avoiding the strike and not needing to parry.
“Well, I take that to mean you understand this lesson.” Ylethus lifted the heavy sword up from the ground and leveled it across his body. He took several deep breaths and shook out the strain from his arms. “Now onto the next one.”
Ghelta caught herself in mid-roll and sprung back to her feet. She flourished her klaive in front of her, trailing it from side to side like a snake about to strike. She analyzed Ylethus’ stance and prepared herself for his next thrust. Her smile turned into the grin of a predator who had the upper hand on their prey.
“Yeah. Sure. Keep the lessons coming.”
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