04

The sound thrummed, rushing like the beat of her heart. It swelled, then roared. Tens of thousands of voices united into a deafening bellow.

The sound moved her. Moved in her.

The din pressed through the buzzing fog of war. It pierced the rasping caw of her own breath in her helmet. In the arena, the shouts rattled marble, stone, and steel, they crescendoed slowly coalescing into a name.

Her name.

Each clangorous syllable vibrated her bowels as she stood in the stained sand. She faced the thundering crowd. Sweat slid down the small of her back beneath dull armor.
Chest heaving, she could feel the cuirass and pauldron straps digging into her flesh. Her skin burned where underclothes had chafed. The sun baked bright red through the high canopy that shaded the booming mob. Cool chain-mail clinked against her smooth brown legs.

They shouted and shouted her name. Again and again. Haltingly, she lifted the shattered sword she clenched into the air. The gathered thousands began to scream fevered satisfaction, throwing their caps and tearing at their clothes. The rusty half broken blade, still clutched in her clang-numbed fist, twinkled. Blood oozed from the sword hilt over her torn knuckles, down along her forearm.

The air crackled with victory.

The old woman floated up from the arena sand, gently rising from inky depths to the surface of a coal black lake. As she ascended closer to the plane separating worlds, she watched her reflection. Heavy armor fell away, her hair lost it’s tint, and powerful limbs became soft and scarred. The luminous mirth-filled eyes sagged and dulled. The chanted name faded, echoing into the dimming tunnel of time. A name she had all but forgotten.

The swordmarm could hear a reedy voice threading the healing chants of the naturalist Wildpriests. To her dismay, she also began to smell the man. Bright acidic sweat, pungent healing herbs, the brown earthy potpourri of the healer called Barnaby.

“Didn’t figure you for one of those ‘herb witches,’” she said, her eyes still closed. Her voice croaked through lips sticky with disuse. Barnaby stopped his mantra, and the old woman felt him stoop over her, followed by a waft of his musk. Keeping her eyes shut, she mentally prodded her body.

“She lives!” Barnaby exclaimed. He leaned across her, and dipped a hank of cloth in a bowl of water, wrung it out, and then dabbed at her brow. The old woman was swaddled tightly in clean sheets. Her wrinkled face had dozens of healer’s glyphs painted on it, each in a variety of brilliant hues. The barbarian had been washed, and cared for. Barnaby had done the job well.

“Death and I don’t agree on many things,” she said. The white haired warrior inhaled slowly and deeply, watching the light dapple through her eyelids. She hesitantly tested the odor of the air. Eyebrows scrunched a bit, she asked, “I take it you have stopped making piss soup?”

“Ah, yes. I have completed the latest batches. I’ve been grinding more pigment as you rested,” Barnaby said, “how are you feeling? Aside from your infection, you appear to have taken a hell of a beating. Did the brownies do that to you?” With a long finger he indicated the deep purple splotches under the baggy flesh of her eyes, and the crooked mash that comprised her nose.

“Barnaby, right?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Barnaby, if you are gesturing at me, I am concerned, I must remind a master healer like yourself, that; when a woman’s eyes are closed, she can’t see what you are pointing at.” The old lady smirked.

She could hear the blush in his voice. “I meant your face. You’ve taken quite a wallop—”

“Got romantic with a stone,” she interrupted. “How long have I been out?”

“Oh, for a number of days. You were rather delirious for most of it, and…well…I got some of the stronger carvers to help me tie you up.” Barnaby said, with a little cough.

The warrior woman snapped her eyes open. The young man sat above her. His dark eyes watched passively from sallow sockets. His jaw and scalp bore a tad more ginger scruff. The eyebrows remained hairless; perhaps that was permanent? The crooked nose angled a little, freshly broken. There were bruises on his arms and hands, abrasions on his pate, and a puffy upper lip bore a thin dark red line marking a split.

“Oh,” the woman said. “Oh, Barn—-”

“I will of course,” Barnaby interrupted, with a laugh, “be adding that to the bill.”

“Yes. Of course.”

With his impossibly long neck, Barnaby tilted his head over a knobbed shoulder to take in her face. Then, he cleared his throat, and asked “If you don’t mind me asking…how old are you? You are by far the oldest barbarian I have ever heard of!” The healer dimpled his hairless brows as he raised them.

“I would reconsider such questions, Barnaby.” A smile creased her face and bagged her eyes, “You may have seen my lady goodies; but a barbarian this old must have lived long enough to punish many a rudeness.”

“Ah, yes. Apologies,” he flustered, his finger tips rose to a healing laceration near his temple.

“Barnaby,” the swordmarm said.

“Yes?”

“Let me up.”

“Yes! Of Course!”

Morning sun twinkled in the dew grass. The woman sat pink skinned and clean for the first time in…months? Dressed in her freshly washed clothes, she stretched her spine and shook and punched neglected muscles. Beside her, leaned the great sword, each ring terminating the hilt and crossguard gleamed.
Relaxing on a small bench that sat near the entrance of Barnaby’s shack, the ancient warrior looked at her worn hands. Her spotted wrists ached where she had been bound. Gently, she massaged the bruises, careful not to rub off the painted glyphs in bright yellow, red, and green. She had similar marks on, or near, every healing wound, and knew to let them flake away on their own.

Leaning back against the painted stone of the Healer’s shack, the white haired woman watched the early morning ritual of the village. Burly men moved about their marquee tents, shaking loose condensation, adjusting, and preparing wood for the day’s shaping. Children harassed chickens and sheep, or played with the calves of the long legged far-walkers.

A small drama unfolded as an ornery dark haired boy slung a stone at a young goat. The furry beast headbutted the youth in the stomach. The brat wheezed crying on the ground as he wailed for his mother. The swordmarm laughed.

She turned when Barnaby clattered the cabin door open on it’s twine hinges as he backed out. In each hand he carried a wooden bowl filled with berries, and fresh curd. Clamped in his mouth, was a rough crusted mound of bread.

Barnaby joined her on the little bench and handed her a bowl. The fresh bread made a lovely crunch as he broke it in two. The elderly barbarian took the half handed to her, her cheeks bunched into a smile of thanks.

After eating quietly for a moment Barnaby asked over a mouthful of curd, “So. Have you got a name?”

The swordmarm plucked a berry from the mound in her bowl and popped it in her mouth. For a moment, she chewed, and thought of the thundering mob in her dream. The memory of that long ago horde roaring her name raised the fine hair on her arms.

She deflated. Looking down, she noticed her matted braids dangling in her bowl, and shrugged them behind her shoulder.

Finally, she nodded.

“Claymore. Granny…Claymore these days.” She turned to Barnaby and gave him a big wrinkled smile. Berry chunks stained her teeth, as she saluted, “Well met!”

Barnaby laughed. They shook hands. “I’m glad to know you.”

“I’m sure you know me way better by now than I know you,” she said.

“Ah, yes. You definitely talk in your sleep,” shrugged Barnaby. “But I’m actually more curious about this.” With a slender finger he pointed at the shiny burn she wore on her right hand like a glove. The scar traveled the length of her arm, crested her shoulder, and curled into a point just below her ear. It was creased with painful looking cracks where the skin had become thick and tough. “I have healed many burns, but I have never seen anything like that one.”

Granny Claymore scooped a bit of curd onto her bread and chomped it. She worked her molars thoughtfully before speaking.

“You leave your offerings for the spirits of the forest, and pray to the Seeds when you perform your healing?” Barnaby shrugged and nodded. “Warriors, like healers, have their own patron spirits and gods. Many offer their victories to the dusty old god of the mountain, or they pray to the gloomy spirit of steel. Some receive their gifts from fickle sprites in lakes.” Granny curled her lip and spat from between her teeth. “Mountains burn, steel melts, water boils…in the end, Barnaby…all bow before the goddess of fire.”

The old woman curled the fingers of her burnt hand slowly. The stale pain was ever-present.

“The lesser gods bestow easy blessings. The Laughing Goddess gives life…and takes it. But nothing she bestows is easy,” she said, grinning.

Barnaby considered this. His brow rose. Where there should have been hair his skin dimpled with the expression. He made to respond, then paused.

“Half of the village will be very pleased to know you survived,” he said, changing the subject. Confused, Granny Claymore cocked her head. “There’s a running bet at the ale house—” he began.

“Ale house!” The old woman cried. She dropped her bowl of curds on the bench, where it tipped and fell over. She snatched her sword off the shack wall, and began to walk away. Over her shoulder she shouted, “Get off your ass, Barn. You have to lead me to the booze.”

She pulled a small string of coins from her bosom and shook them. “First round is on me.”

“Where the hell were you hiding those,” Barnaby said, wide-eyed. He set his bowl on the bench and rose to follow.

“If there’s a leg wrestling mat, I might win enough to actually pay you!” Granny Claymore yelled back to him.

“Thank the Seeds,” he said, unable to conceal a sarcastic grin.