A shaman's duty

Blinking back his surprise, Kazimierz clambered to his feet and bowed to his mentor in acceptance. To earn a surname was a mark of distinction, though the precise status gained depended heavily on what you did to get it. Marzena Brightaxe had earned hers through her flashy weapons style and nearly compulsive attention to her equipment-if she wasn’t intending to creep about, there was no piece of metal on her person that you couldn’t use for a mirror, and when combined with the oddly graceful spinning cuts that were a staple of her repertoire she was dazzling in the Durotar sun. Limbsunder’s namesake show of force has already been mentioned, and rumor had it Kazimierz’s adoptive father had become known as Ironfang after a particularly close-quarter and savage battle.

The Farseer beckoned him to walk with her, and they left the still coolness of the healer’s pavilion. Some distance outside, three bodies were laid out neatly: the remains of Marzena’s squad. Shrikha watched Kazimierz’s reaction carefully, but there was little to gauge-the shaman merely gazed wordlessly upon the corpses.

“I have taught you what you must do, Bloodhand. You were there when these warriors died…their souls still cling to you. There is none better suited,” Shrikha said, more softly than her usual rough-edged tone. “Give them the final honors.”

Kazimierz knelt beside the nearest of the fallen, picking up the strange charm of bone and feathers that the troll had carried with him. It still glowed lambently in his mind’s eye, a whisper and an echo of the warrior whose soul it had been entwined with. He called on the words he had been taught, speaking slowly and carefully in a tongue that had been ancient long before the demons came to Draenor.

The earth reclaims your body; let your spirit rise beyond it.

The fire of your heart is quenched; let your soul burn anew and unbound.

The water of life has left your veins; let your spirit flow unhindered.

The air of your breath is stilled; let the winds carry you to the Nether.

The ties of duty are broken; by your honor dwell amongst the Ancestors forevermore.

As he whispered, a ghostly glow rose in thin tearing sheets from the body, glittering at the edges of his sight. The weary presence of the warrior’s spirit brightened, then lifted entirely as the luminance faded away, but it did not fade from the shaman’s memory. The span of the troll’s life flickered and danced at the edges of memory, and Kazimierz knew the very essence of the one called Viljami. Once more, then a third time he repeated the ritual, and the deep echoes of two orcs joined the troll. Finally done with his task, he stood gazing into the dying glitter of spiritflame, overcome by the intensity of the remnants within him.

Shrikha gently patted his shoulder, her features approving and sympathetic. “You have done well, young one. They will find their way to the Twisting Nether, and the Ancestors will welcome them.”

Kazimierz responded with only a shallow nod, which the Farseer seemed to accept as sufficient. “They will fade from your soul, with time,” she continued, looking blankly into the distance. “It will not be so…overwhelming, eventually. But they will be with you forever, a shadow of their spirits.”

The farseer seemed almost hollow now, no more bluster or authority in her tone or stance. “It is the burden we bear, Kazimierz, to remember the dead in a way no one else is able. It is why we must be of stronger will than any other in the Horde, to remain able and ready to serve even with the weight of the fallen upon our shoulders.”

She left without further words, leaving Kazimierz to stare into the empty desert.

It was hours later when Kazimierz returned, still subdued. The others had awoken as well, and they were celebrating their victory with drink and food. The scent of spice-laden boar was tempting, but he had no desire for the rough companionship of the warriors. The young shaman walked instead towards the sheer valley wall where Shrikha’s hut stood, seeking answers.

The Farseer was sitting alone, meditating in the tiny stone room that she called home. She rose calmly at Kazimierz’s approach, turning to face him.

“You seem more at ease now. The spirits rest more lightly upon you?” she asked, beckoning for him to sit.

Kazimierz complied, nodding uncertainly. “It…was too much, at first. I could not separate myself from them. Will it always be so hard?” he asked haltingly.

Shrikha shook her head. “You will learn to stay aloof, at least well enough to function afterwards. It is similar in many ways to the hard-headedness required to deal with the greater spirits-a learned skill, not something you must be born with.”

Kazimierz sighed with relief, visibly relaxing. “It is good…I feared for my future, if this is what I must deal with,” he said, then paused for a moment, considering his next words. The Farseer raised an eyebrow.

“Speak, Bloodhand. You have grown into your role; you understand what I have tried to prepare you for. I have no further need of harshness.”

“The last fight, which you lauded my deeds? I cannot remember it, not coherently-only flashes of images, and the glorious rage…” Kazimierz trailed off.

“It fits with my own visions, then. I believe you caught the attention of a fury spirit, called it to you unconsciously. It is a gift, or great fortune, that you were able to do so while so inexperienced-I doubt you would have survived without its strength behind your own. Do not fear corruption, child. They are natural enough, though they take a dear toll on the body.”

“But…I have called spirits before, and always I have recalled my actions. Are you certain?” he pressed, the dark suspicion building in his mind. “I have talked with the old veterans...this bloodlust sounds too similar to their tales of the blood of Mannoroth.”

The Farseer’s eyes narrowed, but she responded in an even tone. “That one is dead and burned, Kazimierz. We are free from his influence forever. Do not forget this!” she admonished, then sighed. “If you had been possessed, you would have four more ghosts to deal with. Demonic bloodlust is…indiscriminate.”

“But then why-“ Kazimierz began, and the grey-haired Farseer interrupted him.

“You were almost lost to the mere echoes of three mortals sharing space in your soul, boy! Fury spirits are very rare, and very strong. It is no real surprise that you couldn’t hold on to your senses,” she snapped. “Enough of this. If you feel guilt, let it go; you fought fiercely and honorably.”

Sighing deeply, Kazimierz nodded. “I have another question, Farseer, if I am permitted to ask,” he said, and Shrikha nodded her assent. “The humans channeled some strange power against us; searing bolts of light, mostly. It felt…strange, neither the smooth rightness of the spirits nor the bloody pain of demons. Do you know what it might be?”

Shrikha pursed her lips irritably. “Yes. The humans called it the ‘Holy Light”, and their champions draw upon its power to heal and harm, much as we do the spirits. As to their source…I am not sure. It is not from this world, nor from Draenor-the Draenai brought the tradition of Light-worship with them when they arrived so long ago,” she said, eyes distant in recollection. “I do not trust the Light, nor the ones who wield it-it demands worship, not respect, so much like the Legion’s cults. Like shamanism, the Light can be used to heal or harm, but it is typically more focused-I have seen their paladins shield themselves or another all but totally against harm, yet to the others in need around them goes nothing. It is a power which should be respected, but held at arm’s length-I have seen many such alien powers and their followers, and they seem ever unstable.” She snorted scornfully, twirling a stick between her fingers in an unconscious gesture Kazimierz had not witnessed before. “I have heard word that the Lich-King, vile perversion that he is, was found and resurrected by one of these ‘paladins’. Do not become tangled in their affairs!”

Kazimierz bowed his head. “I thank you for your wisdom, Farseer. It is good to know what I face. If it is not impertinent, may I ask your opinion on our new allies?”

“They are…difficult to read,” Shrikha responded after a brief contemplation. “I have watched over them for some time now, and they do seem to be distinct from the scourge-they clashed bitterly over the ruins of Lordaeron’s capitol until the Forsaken drove them further east. But their intentions…I am unsure. There are rumors and whispers of terrible things in their ‘Undercity’, foul perversions of life stitched from dozens of corpses, concoctions of poison and disease. Yet these are only rumor-I have heard nothing substantial, and the rumormongers may simply be afraid of them.

“We need them, I think. We are still weak from the battles before Hyjal, and after the betrayals of the Second War, we have never regained sufficient numbers to challenge our foes directly. Even if the unsavory rumors are true, we must accept them as allies,” she pontificated, then laughed with a tinge of bitterness. “Besides, if our cries of redemption are to be believed, who are we to deny the opportunity to them? Our situations were not so different…we merely have the advantage of still living and breathing after our escape.”

Kazimierz took this in slowly, watching the smoke from the small cooking fire escape up the chimney.

That…is true, he thought, mulling over the Farseer’s words. Maybe they sought us out for that reason, knowing our history…

His mind worked over all the information Shrikha had shared, and Kazimierz was too deep in thought to realize the imprint of the dead warriors no longer troubled him.