Built upon dwarven ruins, Riverbend welcomed them with a refreshing gust of cooler wind carrying the scent of fish and the river, over which an ancient bridge loomed. Gra’sha and her unit set up camp by the water, in a spot where the bank was gentle and the shallows allowed the ovibos to be watered without fear of the current sweeping it away. The same applied to the goblin children, now taking advantage of the still-warm afternoon to splash a bit in the water.

  She took only Sha’dru into the town itself, leaving the camp under the care of Mal’gor, who did not fail to complain upon receiving this task but ultimately had no choice and stayed to maintain order. She promised they would return for the night after handling important matters.

  On-site, she spoke briefly with the commander of the local guard, telling him where they were from, explaining where her warriors had set up camp, and letting him know that they had encountered no threats on the trail but would remain vigilant on the return journey and remove any bandits or scavengers they might come across. The commander gratefully received the news of how Wolf Rock was committing forces to keep the route between the two settlements safe and asked them to let him know when they were returning, in case any transport wanted to avail itself of their company, to which Gra’sha agreed, and they parted on good terms.

  A few minutes later, they stood in front of a familiar bathhouse to which Gra’sha had led them.

  "Are these the important matters you told Mal’gor about?" asked Sha’dru, raising her eyebrows slightly.

  "This and looking around the market. I finally collected my pay." She bared her small fangs in a smile at her friend, after which they took a long and, in their opinion, well-deserved bath.

  With hair still damp, laughing somewhat, they strolled through the market.

  "I like these buildings, but you have to stoop to enter many of them; these dwarves must have been short," Gra’sha noted, looking at the entrance to a passing jeweler's shop.

  "Gra’sha, the local dwarves have departed from these lands, but not from this world; some occasionally reach here from their distant settlements with human traders," she explained to the younger warrior, to which the latter first widened her eyes and then blushed slightly.

  "I-I know that! I just said it like that!" she protested, but she was stung by a sense of disappointment when she realized that the shield she had bought a few months ago was not an ancient artifact of a long-lost race, but merely a product from afar.

  Sha’dru only nudged her shoulder in a friendly manner, then pointed to an open stall with smoked fish and said, "You have to try this, come on."

  They sat on a bench, and the girl ordered them portions of smoked eel, served with round flatbreads that doubled as plates. Gra’sha quickly focused on the delicate, fatty meat with a woody aroma, and for a moment it took her breath away.

  "By the ancestors, this is the best fish I've ever eaten," she threw with her mouth full to the vendor.

  "Eel is our specialty; we smoke it over cherry wood. You see, warrior, my family has a special method; you won't eat anything like it anywhere else," he elaborated on his product with pride in his voice.

  Gra’sha was inclined to believe him but did not continue the conversation, savoring every bite. Finally, the vendor offered them a bowl in which they washed their hands after the meal.

  With full bellies, they moved on among the stalls. Gra’sha spotted an interesting piece of weaponry at one of them. The vendor had a whole cross-section of goods here; the common theme was their origin—no item looked local. An oblong iron rod, covered along its entire length except for the handle with small spikes, slightly but noticeably thickened in volume so that it was somewhat wider at the tip than at the base. Ogres especially delighted in axes and clubs, and local orcs did not shun maces or hammers, but this kind of blunt weapon was definitely not from here. An average orc would have to fight with it two-handed, but the girl was convinced that with her brawn, she could wield it in her right hand. With the eyes of her imagination, she saw how such a piece of iron could crack the scavenger's carapace she had fought the previous night, and in a clash with a blade, the spikes would catch the cuts. Sha’dru pulled her out of these deliberations.

  "Something caught your eye?"

  "That iron rod over there, blocked by those wicker baskets."

  "Hmm, I see. Leave the negotiations to me," stated Sha’dru and winked at her.

  A quarter of an hour later, after long debates about a beautifully decorated tunic from the east, she finally bought an iron rug beater for her father's bedding for a quarter ounce of silver, giving absolutely no credence to the idea that anyone would fight with this object, and the vendor had apparently had this rod in stock long enough to give in.

  Gra’sha wanted to settle up, but her older friend insisted that it was a gift on the occasion of her new assignment. So she thanked her from the heart. She slung the weapon over her shoulder and, not wanting to draw attention to herself, put off any potential swinging of it until later. Evening was slowly approaching. So they decided to return to camp.

  On the way back, Gra’sha, led by a hunch, stared at the backwaters to the west of the camp and, to her own surprise, noted that a concentration of spiritual energy loomed there. Without thinking much, she decided to check it out. When they were halfway to the camp, she stopped, explaining that she wanted to look around and would return shortly. After a brief persuasion, Sha’dru gave in and only stipulated upon parting that her commander not wander in this wilderness too long. Gra’sha veered into the forest surrounding the backwaters.

  Led by unusual perception and intuition, she walked through the thicket with a dry foot, seeking out tufts of grass, logs, or stones arranging themselves into an intricate but nonetheless existing path, at the end of which she found a large structure, neither hut nor tent. A figure stood in front of it, as if waiting for her for some time.

  A very mature, tall woman dressed in a simple tunic had a glint in her eye that she sometimes saw in Sha’dru when she made some particularly perverse, funny, yet biting remark. Her long black hair was gathered with a simple ribbon on her left shoulder, and although part of it was already grey, it shone healthily in the setting light.

  "The locals call me the wise woman of the backwaters, but you can call me Sar’swa," she said, then with a gesture of her hand invited her deep into the tent and, not waiting for an answer, entered inside herself.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  After a short moment, Gra’sha decided to follow her. She looked around well; dried plants and animal bones hung everywhere, and on the side on a shelf stood rows of stoneware vessels, the contents of which she did not dare guess, but from some came herbal scents, both familiar and foreign. Almost everything here emanated spiritual energy, and most of all the hostess herself, who indicated a place to sit with her gaze. A narrow bench at a long table covered with herbalist equipment left them little room; they sat almost touching knees. Apparently, the shamaness did not have many guests, or at least not ones with whom she would sit at this table.

  "There is not much room for comfort in my workshop," she explained, without a shadow of remorse in her voice, then added, "Will you drink something?"

  "Thank you, I am not thirsty," replied Gra’sha in a polite tone, ineptly masking a somewhat uncertain timbre of voice.

  "Oh, you little hungry lynx, you certainly are, just not for drink. I see how you look greedily at my essence. However, I am afraid I am not ready to share it, not today and not in the near future," said the shamaness in a decisive tone.

  "I didn't intend to..." she began to explain, somewhat thrown off balance, but the shamaness interrupted her.

  "I know, I saw our meeting in dreams; if I thought otherwise, I would not have let you across my threshold," she explained somewhat more gently, then added, "I am not judging your nature, I am merely making sure we have this one matter clearly stated."

  "We do," Gra’sha nodded. "You called it essence; do you see it too?"

  "Indeed, but like most practitioners, I can only draw it from the surroundings for my spells and rituals. You, on the other hand, well, you nourish your body and spirit with it. It happens. Probably no one taught you this, and at some point, you realized yourself that you can do it, right?"

  "Yes, in my first battle," she agreed, still somewhat uncertain but excited.

  "Have you ever wondered where tales come from like the one about the Boar of the Western Woods, twice the size of a normal one, which no hunter could overcome, so that to this day when someone hunts a large piece, they say it must be his descendant?"

  Gra’sha remained silent, so the woman continued.

  "I know you are from the Wolf Rock stronghold. Where do you think your chieftain's wolves get such size? In their veins flows the blood of an ancestor who left such a mark on the collective memory that the mountain in whose shadow you live was named after him."

  The shamaness felt a gaze of death flit across her back, and for a brief moment, all confidence vanished from her face. It was Gra’sha who, for one heartbeat, tensed to strike, but instead decided to ask.

  "You know a lot about me and my clan. Do you belong to the Circle of Shamans?"

  "I practice shamanism, but I have never belonged to the Circle. We do not look at research on essence in the same way. They do not have an ally in me, but you can have one," the woman announced decisively, regaining her composure, to which Gra’sha's face brightened slightly; she heard no falsehood in the woman's words and noted how her heart beat faster for a moment from fear.

  "I haven't thought about it, but I see where you are heading. Were all these creatures like me, growing in power from this essence?"

  "Exactly so. You wouldn't be the first orc in our history that I know of with that ability, though the first in my lifetime."

  They were both silent for some time; Gra’sha considered her words. This explanation convinced her. In legends, tales, and even regional stories, there is no shortage of examples of animals or beasts that significantly outgrew the traits natural to their brethren, giving rise to one story or another.

  "So spell practitioners call it essence; I always thought of it as spiritual energy," she noted finally, skipping the main topic and looking around the room again. This time noticing books here and there. She wondered if any of them treated on this subject. Which wouldn't change much, because Gra’sha didn't read in any language.

  "That is correct, and you have plenty of it in you. More than I have seen in anyone or anything ever," stated the shamaness. "Moreover, it is different, dense, concentrated. An unusual sight."

  The woman's gaze was somewhat uncomfortable; until now, it was she who had peeked at the essence of others, now she felt somewhat bashful thinking about how the shamaness saw what and how it swelled in her body. She cleared her throat, and the shamaness looked away and stood up, took a vessel from the shelf, and poured them some mead into cups, spiced in a way pleasant to the nose. As Gra’sha soon found out, for the tongue as well. After a few sips, they resumed the conversation, and Sar’swa was careful not to look at the girl too long.

  "I saw much about you in my visions; rituals showed me that you would appear, but they never revealed your name to me."

  "I am Gra’sha. What else did the seeress's dreams show you, Revered Sar’swa?"

  "Listen, I work alone, nothing connects me to the Circle of Shamans. I research essence and its applications and influence on the reality that surrounds us. I deeply believe it is part of nature like water in a river or scent in the air. That is why you see it in almost everything, even if in inanimate objects it occurs in negligible quantities. I offer you a fair exchange, knowledge for knowledge. Tell me about your gift from your perspective, and I will always serve you with advice."

  It crossed her mind that Sha’dru would probably dissuade her from this arrangement, but this was the first time Gra’sha had met someone who knew something more about her abilities. She finished the contents of the cup to the bottom and replied, "What do you want to know?"

  The shamaness was interested in details: in what circumstances she could consume essence, how much she could take at once, how she felt then, what changes occurred in her. Gra’sha answered quite curtly at first, but with time, the woman's openness and sincere interest, and even fascination, made her become more effusive in her explanations. From time to time, the shamaness would throw in a statement like:

  "Fascinating! That would explain why there are no tales of a powerful, let's say, sheep, even if the gift appeared in one; how many opportunities does it have to take part in a battle where it kills an enemy?"

  or

  "This hunger is natural; most of us need water and food, you have a third element you must take care of in your diet."

  or

  "Regeneration! Looking no further, trolls have this property developed to a somewhat significant level. I see no reason why essence shouldn't strengthen you in this direction; is it not a force of nature?"

  Finally, after an hour of conversation mainly about essence but also recent events in Gra’sha's life, the shamaness seemed satisfied. She promised to think the matter over and compare what she had learned with her own findings to date. They agreed that Gra’sha would visit her when she was in the area again. In the meantime, she recommended restraint in sharing any information about this gift, because not every orc has the nature of a researcher like her.

  "And if I have to move for any reason, I will leave a message with the commander of the Riverbend guard. They know me there," she assured, and upon parting, pressed a demijohn of mead into her hands for her and the merry bunch in her camp with greetings from the local wise woman in thanks for guarding the roads.

  She returned to camp making swings and moulinets with the new weapon, now in one hand, now in the other. Despite the weight, she operated it without difficulty and no slower than a sword. A bit of movement helped her think. Such confidences were not easy for Gra’sha, but the prospect that someone could explain more about the gift to her was somewhat tempting. Even now, the mere fact that the shamaness assured her that it occurs in nature, though rarely, was on some level comforting to her. Nothing she said seemed strange, at most fascinating. She felt pleasantly warm at heart that Sha’dru had bestowed upon her no less trust and understanding, and she was no researcher of shamanic paths.

  When she arrived at the spot, she explained to everyone that they had set up camp near a local wise woman and she had paid her respects. That night for dinner, everyone treated themselves to delicious mead, and only someone with very good hearing or a nosy person could overhear Sha’dru nagging her commander—be that as it may—about being careless, gullible, and that she would certainly never go there alone again. Gra’sha revealed everything to her and accepted the reprimand with somewhat feigned remorse, knowing it stemmed from the care her friend had for her.