They fled from him like frightened rabbits.
Running with a calm demeanor, his mind completely focused on what he had to do, Tarrin raced through the streets of Dala Yar Arak, the massive spires of the Imperial Palace before him, getting closer with every step. His focus, his attention, the very core of his being was focused utterly on those golden domes, and his anger fueled him, pushed him, coaxed him along. He was still completely furious, but his rage had become a tight, razor's edge of purpose, giving him the strength and determination to succeed. Human mind and Were fury were joined to a common purpose, a purpose that had a name, a purpose that he could see before him.
He had a pretty good idea of what was waiting for him. He knew what challenges stood between him and the Book of Ages. He knew that Shiika would free herself from the rubble, and she would come to face him. He wanted it, he yearned for it, but he wanted to face her after he had gotten the book, so there would be no possible hangups between him and her. When he had the book, her life was forfeit. He wanted to find it on his own, so he wouldn't have to bargain her life for it. He knew she was telling the truth when she said she freed his friends and family. He just knew. So they were not a stumbling block before him. They were out in the city somewhere, hopefully nowhere near the Imperial Palace. Hopefully they were out of danger.
Turning a corner, almost negligently smashing the back of his paw into the flank of a horse pulling a cart, killing the beast to keep it from getting in his way, he continued to run along the streets, as the citizens scattered before him in terror. He had already literally trampled a few of the slower or less aware pedestrians underfoot. He did not weave through traffic, he did not go around obstacles. Anything too large to go through was jumped over. He did not deviate a finger from his path, no matter who or what he had to run over. He would have gone over the rooftops, but the human part of him knew that they would expect that, and he would be easily spotted without buildings to shelter his approach. He knew that they knew he was coming. They would be waiting for him.
And it did not frighten him.
The massive gates of the Imperial Palace loomed before him at the very end of the wide avenue, some half a longspan distant. He was nearly there. He already had a plan, a very clever plan to remove most of the advantages that his opponents would enjoy. It was risky, a terrible gamble, but it was worth it if it worked the way he hoped that it would. He didn't know if he had the power to do it, but he would try. And if he failed, then he could always rely on his Were instincts and advantages to get him through. They almost never failed him.
He could see them now. Many figures, all wearing armor, the Imperial Guard, standing at the massive bronze gates leading into the Imperial Palace, all of them armed. How many were human and how many were not was the question. A question that he hoped would be answered before he set foot on the Palace grounds. Jumping over a stopped cart, putting his foot on the head of the horse drawing it and using it as a stepping stone back to the ground, he moved closer and closer to his goal, knowing that where one goal was complete, another would replace it. Reach the Palace. Subdue the guards and gain entry. Cross the grounds and get into the Palace itself. Find the book while keeping the internal guards and nasties off his back. Find the book.
Find the book.
After that was done, move to a place where Shiika would come to him, and then pay her back for what she did to him.
It was a simple plan, but it had many parts. And the first major obstacle loomed before him, a pair of massive bronze gates nearly sixty spans high, their polished bars showing him the force with which he had to contend.
Suddenly, Tarrin skidded to a stop, just as they began to point at him. He was about two hundred spans from the gate. He was close enough.
It was time to see just how powerful he really was.
Closing his eyes, raising his head to the sky, feeling the sun on his face, Tarrin opened himself to the Weave. He did it utterly, without constraint, without limitations, seeking out its power and attempting to join with it as he had never done before. The Weave seemed to shudder momentarily, then its power roared into him like a tidal wave, an inferno of sweet power that both caused his soul to soar and threatened to incinerate him in the span of a heartbeat. His body exploded into the radiance of Magelight, the visible sign that a Sorcerer had made contact with High Sorcery, the telltale signal to those within that the distant invader was about to unleash a magical attack.
He felt about to explode. Never had he tried this before, never without being nearly mindlessly out of control. The pain and the ecstacy merged into a riot of conflicting sensations within him, and the air shimmered with heat around his body. He stared into the face of his Goddess, and found the power staring back at him to be beyond mortal comprehension. He opened his eyes, eyes that blazed with a blinding white light, then he felt that he had taken all the power he could withstand. If he did not use it, and use it right now, it would Consume him.
The first weave was a weave of Air, with token flows from the other Spheres to grant his weaving the power of High Sorcery. It formed around his paw, a sudden bluish glow eclipsing the Magelight around him. And with a backhanded swipe of his paw, he unleashed it. A crescent of bluish magical power, a scythe of pure Air formed before him, racing away with the arc of his paw, moving faster than any human could run, moving so quickly that nobody had the time to duck. It expanded as it moved away from him, growing to fill the entire street by the time it reached the front gates of the Imperial Palace, at a level chest high to a man. It struck those majestic gates, and then it simply passed through.
Anything the weave struck was sliced apart with utter neatness and precision, a perfect cut that split apart anything it hit. Everyone standing between him and the gates, the men standing at the gate, they all died in the blink of an eye. Tarrin's weave slashed them apart at the chest, so quickly and neatly that the halves of their bodies remained, looking as if nothing had happened, until blood erupted from the perfect lines of the cut, which caused the upper halves to slide aside as the bodies lost their rigidity and sank to the ground. Two of those bodies did not fall, two of them did not get sliced apart, though the power of the weave knocked them to the ground as if it were a solid thing. The weave continued on after them, extending almost all the way to the majestic palace building itself, killing everything in its path, slashing apart statues, horses, anything it struck, mowing down everyone before him like a scythe mowed wheat.
By the time the weave dissipated, it was nearly three hundred spans wide, and its leading edge was just as lethally sharp as it had been when it left his paw. The two lone survivors looked back in horror.
Nearly two hundred of the Imperial guards and servants lay in pieces all over the lawn of the Palace.
Gathering his energy, focusing through the drain of using weaves of such magnitude, Tarrin created the second. It was not an attack, it was a Ward, a ward of almost pure Divine power. A Ward designed to disrupt any magic that attempted to pass through it, a Ward that was attached to him, not to the space around him, forming a moving barrier that would defeat the spells of those Wizards that Shiika had bragged about. Tarrin charged the Ward with almost everything inside him, giving it a duration that would make it effective until nearly sunset, granting it a potency that would allow it to turn aside even the most powerful enchantments the Wizards tried to use against him.
The glow of Magelight wavered around him, dimming so dramatically that it nearly winked out. But then it suddenly flared back to life, expanding around him as the power of the Weave sought to replace what he had expended, flooding back into him almost as quickly as he had used it. The wispy aura grew brighter and brighter, intensifying around him. Tarrin advanced several steps as the two survivors regained their feet, touching the rends in the fronts of their armor from his attack, then drawing their black-bladed swords. Cambions. Tarrin continued forward, reaching behind his right shoulder with his right paw and drawing the long Eastern weapon with a deliberate slowness, his expression one of utter ruthlessness. There was no pain now, no joy, no nothing. Only his towering fury, and the focus of necessity that laid before him. His braid danced in the power of Magelight, drifting and bobbing as if the tendrils of power were fingers picking it up from his back, and he stopped and raised his free paw towards the gates, which were now only twenty longspans before him.
A weave of solid Air formed before him, only Air, and he released it with a push of his paw. The air formed into a solid mass before him, a battering ram of intense power, that struck the slashed gates with tremendous force. The slashed gates, and the walls flanking it that were also cut by the first weave, shuddered under that impact, and the walls gave way. With the sound of breaking stone and the loud squealing of metal, the gates and the walls to which they were anchored gave way, and collapsed in a large cloud of dust.
The two Cambions coughed and choked on the heavy dust raised by the magical attack, giving ground to get out of the dusty air. Both looked up in fright as the cloudless sky began to broil, churn, as clouds formed from nothing and compressed, expanded, seethed above them, growing outward in a spiralling pattern. Brief pulses of lightning formed in the growing clouds, illuminating them as the ground began to darken with the hiding of the sun. Their attention was brought back down to earth as a shimmering white glow appeared inside the dusty cloud created by the collapse of the gates, growing more and more distinct.
And then it suddenly went out.
The Were-cat emerged from the cloud of dust moving at a steady, relentless pace, holding a very long, narrow, gently curved sword in one paw. He stopped suddenly, standing on a large rock, part of the debris from the wall, looking down at the two Cambions with eyes that promised their doom. He raised that black sword to the sky.
The two Cambions staggered back when a bolt of lightning ripped from the clouds above, striking the tip of that black metal sword, dancing around the Were-cat's body and strobing across the stones around him. A loud thunderclap boomed from the lightning strike. The Were-cat brought the sword down sharply, and to their horror, lightning spilled from the clouds like rain, striking, dancing, streaking through the sky, blasting holes into the grass, incinerating men where they stood, and arcing from golden dome to golden dome as the lightning attacked the Imperial Palace as if some hand were guiding it. The two Cambions protected their eyes from the blinding light of the lightning, shuffling backwards with swords raised, terrified at what they were seeing.
The Were-cat was somehow controlling the weather!
And then it ended. The carnage on the field was ghastly; the Were-cat had somehow directed the lighting to strike any living thing that moved on the grounds, and the smoking bodies of the dead littered the field around the Palace, many of which had just streamed from the Palace itself to answer the strange attack on the compound. The Were-cat seemed to sag afterwards, but the sword stopped falling towards the ground and held firm, then raised back up. He looked down at them scornfully, that expressionless mask showing emotion, the emotions of anger and hate. He took the long weapon in both paws and dropped down from the rock, standing there like an angel of death, and then he lunged to the attack, an attack so sudden, so fast, they barely comprehended that they were about to meet the God of Death in person.
And his face was Tarrin's.
He didn't have time to feel proud.
He had managed to weave together a storm, to take his power and use it to alter the weather itself, something that his instructors in the Tower had said was possible, but was among the most difficult things Sorcerers could accomplish. It was supposedly possible when powerful Sorcerers with affinity for Air and Water were linked into a circle of seven. But he had done it alone, formed a storm out of dry air, a storm that had granted him its power to strike at his enemies.
The funny thing was, he had no idea how he did it. He rarely understood half the things he did with his power. He really only knew three or four powerful weaves by heart, weaves he used over and over again in different ways. But this one, this one was brand new, and he thought he may be able to do it again. If it didn't kill him. It had gone beyond draining him. He had to literally directly channel the energy flowing into him into the stunningly complicated weave he created, for it required so much energy that not even he could hold enough to form it. He had no idea how he did that. It wasn't supposed to be possible. A Sorcerer couldn't move magic unless the potential was within his body, there to push at the magical energy where he was forming the weave. But he had done it.
It had nearly killed him.
Doing that had taken all the reserves he had left. He had utterly exhausted his magical endurance, and was forced to let go of the Weave. To try again would kill him, for he would no longer have the energy to resist or control the power he accumulated. His anger fueled him, replenished him, gave him the strength to fight on, to reach the goal, to win the game. But the storm remained, a lasting effect of his weaving, and its lightning and the rain that would soon fall would help him in other ways. To frighten his enemies if nothing else.
The doors to the Palace were closing. If they barred them, he would be slowed down gaining entry to the Palace, and time was everything. Shiika would free herself any time now, and he absolutely had to reach the book before she did.
With a snarl, Tarrin raised his sword and charged the two Cambions with blinding speed. They were confused, frightened, demoralized by Tarrin's display of magical might, and it was exactly what he hoped would happen. The chisel tip of his weapon leading, Tarrin homed in on the closer of the two, who managed to bring up his own weapon to defend himself. But a subtle twist of his blade knocked the Demon's weapon aside, and Tarrin slashed him as he ran by, literally at full speed, the weapon coming around and striking the second one before it could even respond, comprehend what had just occurred.
He left them at a full sprint towards the front doors of the Palace, doors that were beginning to close, not even bothering to look back. He had felt the blade bite. It had done what he hoped it would do.
Behind him, one Cambion head slowly tottered, then fell away from its body as it leaned backwards, then fell over. The other Cambion stood stock still, then crumpled to the ground with a wound that reached halfway into his body, carved through his left side.
But they were forgotten.
Tarrin raced across the carefully manicured lawns of the Palace, rushing towards those closing doors. They had looked out, they could see him coming, and they were hastening to close them and bar them as fast as they could. Sword held low in one paw, he got closer and closer as those huge metal doors swung inexorably together, and the rational part of him realized that they were going to close before he arrived. It would come down to whether he could reach them before they managed to bar them, bar them to where he would be forced to either find another way in, or risk using Sorcery to batter them down. Looking up, he saw an intricate circle of stained glass over the doors, an impressive design that was the seal of Yar Arak, a sun behind a scimitar. It was nearly thirty spans off the steps of the Palace.
It was his way in.
The men within the grand, luxuriously appointed entry chamber of the Palace worked feverishly. They had plans for such emergencies, but none of them had ever dreamed that they would be depended upon to protect the Palace from an actual assault. And from a single man! A man that could call lightning from the sky and kill entire companies with magic! They'd seen the Emperor's magicians use their magic, but never- never -with such power!
The heavy steel bar slammed home on the back side of the doors, sealing the invader out. The alarm bells within the palace were ringing, and the entrances would all be sealed before he could reach them. To get in, he'd have to scale a perfectly smooth wall to reach one of the high windows, a climb of nearly sixty spans. And do it with men on the grounds shooting at him with bows.
The bar was in place. The twenty men in the entrance hall all sighed in relief, reaching down and picking up weapons tossed aside to wrestle with the doors.
They all jumped in surprise when a loud crash erupted in the hall, and the sound caused them to look up just in time to see the invader come flying through the stained glass window over the door. In a sparkling kaleidascope of colors, colors scillinting off the glass shards illuminated by the sun behind him, the invader entered the Imperial Palace. He landed lightly among the tinkering and bouncing glass, his back to them, a tall, lethal looking figure holding a sword that was longer than some men were tall. The strange tail attached to his backside slashed only once, then he turned his head and looked at them through the corner of his eye. He turned around slowly, and they all knew fear. Not from his size, his inhuman appearance, but from the glowing green eyes and the expression of utter emotionless upon his face. This was a man who was not afraid to kill. He raised his sword slightly, and those eyes narrowed visibly, a snarl forming at the corner of his mouth.
The men rushed him desperately, attacking him in soundless unison. They all seemed to know that the only way to survive was to either take the invader down right there, or escape. And the only way to escape was past the invader. They fought with passion, with the strength that came with the knowledge that one's life depended upon his performance. They charged with desperate fervor.
They were mown like wheat by a scythe. Their weapons found him, pierced flesh, but they did nothing but irritate this strange invader. He slashed at them with that wicked sword, shearing men apart stroke by stroke, attacking with a strength that was more appropriate for a Troll than someone his size. What started as a sudden charge turned into a terrifying rout, as men tried desperately to get by the unstoppable invader and flee down the hallways of the Palace. Strangely enough, the creature let them go. But the slowest of them, the last, was grabbed by the back of his head and yanked back, claws digging into scalp and face, and the invader leaned down to the eye level of the smallish man he had captured.
"Where are the Empress' rooms?" he demanded in a cold tone. "Where would she keep something important to her?"
"I-I-go that way," he stammered, pointing towards the only hallway leading out of the foyer. "The West Wing!"
Absently, the invader broke the neck of his captive by picking him up off the ground by the head and shaking him sharply, just as country mothers wrung the necks of chickens destined for the stewpot. He tossed the body aside, then started into the cavernous hallways of the Imperial Palace.
He was at a serious disadvantage.
Fighting what became running skirmishes in the massive hallways of the Palace, Tarrin wandered more or less aimlessly towards the west. He had no idea where he was going, and he had to find that book before Shiika reached it. But she knew where to go, and he did not. He tried tracking her scent, but he couldn't find it anywhere he looked. It was as if she didn't even come into that part of the Palace. Judging by the size of the place, that wasn't entirely surprising. There were no Demon smells at all, just the smells of humans, the humans that maintained the cavernous place. He had no idea where to go, no idea of where to even start looking to track the Demoness' trail back to the book. If she even had been to where the book had been recently. She could have locked it away centuries ago, and he would have no way to find it by scent if she did so.
Finding the book on his own was an impossible task given the time he had, he knew that now. He knew that he had to find someone that knew where the book was, force him to take him to it. He doubted that any of the servants would know that. But one of the cambisi, Shiika's trusted servants, would.
So his mission was changed slightly. They had to be in here somewhere, he just had to find one of them.
He had to end this, and soon. His endurance was starting to be tested, and with it dimmed his strength. Weaving together the storm had taken all he had. If not for his anger, he would be nearly catatonic, laying out on the grounds. The only thing that kept him going was his rage, his anger, his need to do what he had to do. He had surpassed his normal limits long ago, and he had no idea what he was running on now.
Moving through the passages, Tarrin engaged the occasional guard or servant, killing anyone who crossed his path. Moments passed, scores of moments, and his searching for one of Shiika's Demonic children became more and more desperate, even as he grew more and more tired. Rage was starting to wane, replaced by fear, uncertainty, worry that he was going to fail. Shiika had to be free by now, she had to be coming, and he was running out of time. If she got to the book first, she could escape with it, and deny him his chance to pay her back for what she did to him. That was the only thing that kept him going now, the thought of facing that evil witch and knowing he had bested her, to decide whether she would live or die. It was the only thought he entertained for a good while, as he wandered along strangely decorated hallways, hallways that seemed eerily long, eerily empty.
Time. He was running out of time! More and more of it passed, until what felt like nearly an hour, beyond that, and he had accomplished nothing! He still roamed the halls like a wandering ghost, and often he came across a body he had killed, his own scent. He was running in circles! Shiika had to be free by now! She had to be free, and she had to be coming to get the book! He was going to fail! He could not fail!
He was out of time!
A man wearing a yellow robe moved out from a corner and pointed at him, chanting in the discordant language of Wizard magic, and a black ray of utter lightlessness erupted from his hand, rushing at Tarrin. It struck his invisible Ward against magic and faltered, fizzling out more than a span before reaching him. Tarrin turned on that figure instantly, covering the distance between them in five ground-eating strides, bulling the man to the ground and holding a paw over his neck. "Where are the cambisi?" he snapped at the man, his eyes flaring suddenly in renewed anger. This Wizard was one of hers, but Wizards were smart fellows, and he may know something helpful. "Where are the Empress' private rooms? Where would she put something she didn't want found?"
"I am not in her Majesty's graces," the man said fearfully. "I am but a humble servant."
"Wrong answer," he hissed, venting his frustration on the man by breaking his neck in his powerful grip.
My, look what dragged in the cat, came a strange mental voice, lightly amused.
Tarrin turned and found himself facing the brunette female, the one that had rammed him. She held her black-bladed sword lightly in her hand, and her wings shivered in anticipation in the wide hallway. She gave him a light, almost amused look. I'm impressed you got this far. You must be very tired, with all the fireworks I saw outside. And all the blood all over you.
"Not tired enough for you," Tarrin snarled, raising his sword.
At first, she just stood there, but then her eyes widened in shock, and she took a step back from him in surprise. He had the feeling that she had probably just tried to use some kind of magic, and it had failed. She raised her sword as he rushed in on her, and that first parried blow told her who was going to win this fight. She may be a Demon, but she did not have his inhuman strength. Without her magic, she was just was weak as a human, with only her Demonic invulnerability to protect her. A protection she did not enjoy against Tarrin's otherworldly sword. In seconds, he had her sword out wide, had her scrambling backwards, desperately evading his sword. She had to know it was deadly to her for her to act that way. He pressed her even harder, sweeping the sword back and forth like it was made of paper, knocking her out of position, then slashed her across her sword arm. She cried out aloud in pain, her arm shuddering from the slash to her upper arm, dropping her sword from momentarily nerveless fingers. Black blood flowed from the wound, and she grabbed at her arm with her free hand out of reflex, backing away from him with very real terror in her eyes.
He grabbed her by the neck and hauled her off her feet, slamming her into a nearby wall, then he placed the chisel tip of his sword right between her breasts, pressing on the leather bustier she wore to keep her wings free. Her eyes were wide and her chin quivered, holding onto his wrist with one hand as the other hung nervelessly at her side. "I'm only going to say this once," Tarrin hissed at her. "Take me to the book, or I'll pin you to this wall!"
I-I'll do anything! she replied desperately. Anything for my life!
Tarrin yanked her off the wall, spinning her around and grabbing her by the joint of her wing, then stuck the point of his sword in her back. "March," he growled at her. "And if you call up any of your brothers and sisters, they'll be the first to see you die."
She nodded fervently, holding her injured arm, cradling it as the fingers on that wounded arm began to twitch. She quickly and fearfully led him along passageways, down two flights of steps, and entering stone-walled halls that had to be underground. The air was cool, strangely dank, and the smells of the Demons' scents became strong there. This was where they stayed. There were other smells, even stranger ones, scents of the Hellhounds and even other, more exotic smells. Smells he didn't think he wanted identified. He led the Demon female before him, his every sense alive and scanning, searching for any enemies, any ambushes, anything out of place. But there were none. The passageways were empty, only the distant sounds with some unidentifiable source reaching them in the way of echos. The female led him down yet another staircase, to an unlit passage that ran off from the staircase, its upper corners decorated with cobwebs. There's a door at the end of the passage, she called mentally. It's the only door on this level. Mother keeps the book there. I'm not supposed to know about it. She keeps it a secret, even from us. Now let me go!
"Not until I have it in my paws," he hissed in reply.
She tensed up. No! It's guarded! It will kill me! I showed you where it is, so let me go!
"Guarded by what?"
A Demon, she replied. A creature from the Lower Worlds, who owes my mother a favor. It will appear to attack anyone who enters the room!
"You're not supposed to know about it, but you know about its guard?" he asked in a grim tone. "Are you lying to me, Demon?"
"No!" she finally said aloud, in a surprisingly sweet voice. "We all know about the guard to keep us from looking into places she didn't want us to look, but she never told us where the book is!"
He was uncertain. Was she lying? Had his idea to use one of them to lead him to the book led him into a trap?
When he was confused, he knew who to ask. The one who always made things clear.
"Goddess, is she telling the truth?" he asked suddenly.
She is, on both counts, the Goddess immediately replied. The Demon in his paw suddenly gasped, looking at the ceiling in confusion. Be very careful, my kitten! What lies beyond that door will make Shiika look like the one you hold in your hand! Shiika is powerful, but among the elite of Demonkind, she is considered a being of minor ability!
Tarrin looked at the door, fear rising inside him. What was beyond that door was something he was better off not seeing. But he had no choice. The Book of Ages was behind that door, and he had to get it. He just had to.
He had no choice.
Don't kill her, my kitten, the voice of the Goddess chimed when he pulled the sword from the Demon's back, readying to drive it through her. There is no need. She will not harm you now. I will not command you as your Goddess, I will ask you as a friend. Leave her be.
Bowing his head, he let go of her. Even a request from the Goddess was a command to him. He would never disobey her, no matter how much she gave him the opportunity. He couldn't. His anger burned to spit the wench, to make Shiika pay for humiliating him, for attacking him, but he would obey his Goddess. Not even his anger was stronger than his obedience. The female wasted no time in scrambling past him, running for the stairs, fleeing from him. But he let her go.
He turned to the door, taking a deep breath. That door represented everything. Everything he had gone through to get to that point, the pain, the loss of Faalken, the fear and hate and sadness and worry. They were about to end. Beyond that door was his goal, his end, the last obstacle. The end of the Questing Game stood beyond that door. But there was one more challenge to face, one more battle to fight. And from the sound of it, it would be the fight of his life. A fight for his life, where absolutely everything hung in the balance.
The game would end, one way or another. Either he would succeed and gain the book, or he would die at the hands of the monster that defended it. One way or another, it was about to end.
He knew fear. He had faced Shiika, and he had lost. This Demon was supposedly even more powerful than she was. But his fear was not as strong as his sense of duty, his obedience. He had lost Faalken to this mad quest, and he would not dishonor the memory of his treasured friend. The Goddess had tasked him to find that book, and he would find it, he would take it. No matter what. And that meant no matter what.
Duty was honor, and the cost of that honor was blood.
Honor and Blood.
The fear retreated, replaced by a terrible resolve. He raised his bloodstained sword, feeling it in his grip, trusting in it. It was bane to Demonkind, it would give him the only weapon he would possess against whatever laid beyond that door. He was beyond pain, beyond weariness. There was only his duty now, and it supplanted his anger. This wasn't about Shiika anymore. This was about making the Goddess proud of him, of doing her bidding, of winning the game for her. This was about duty.
This was about a beautiful little girl named Janette, whose very future hinged on whether or not he succeeded. A beautiful little girl, with a heart of gold, who had saved his life. A little girl to whom he owed everything.
Now it was time to repay that debt.
Bloodied, battered, exhausted, emotionally drained by what he had done, Tarrin faced that door without fear. The Goddess was with him.
They would face this together.
He padded up to the door. It was simple, unassuming, a simple wooden door with a rusty chain holding it shut. But it was cold to the touch, like the cold of a Wraith. Hooking the chain with his claws, he broke the rusted obstacle easily, twisting it apart, and then he pushed the door open carefully and slowly, exposing the chamber beyond.
It was very large. Very large. Nearly a hundred spans long, and it looked to be almost perfectly circular. There was a single light in the room, coming from the ceiling, surprisingly bright to his dark-attuned eyes, making him blink to adjust them to the increased light from inside the room. It was devoid of decoration, of furniture, save a small dais in the exact center of the room, a dais that supported a simple iron stand, upon which rested a large book. A very unassuming book, with a black leather binding and a simple metal lock keeping it closed. The light above shone down direcly upon the dais, bookstand, and book, as if to showcase them to any who entered.
He had finally reached the Book of Ages.
Trying not to let his impatience get the best of him, he looked into the room without stepping inside. It was empty, only the circular walls of grayish stone, the light that seemed to come from the top of a domed ceiling, and the dais and its stand and the book on top of it. There was no indication that there was a guardian lurking within the chamber, not a scent, not a rustle of air, not a whisper of sound. The chamber was empty. There it was, the Book of Ages, and it looked like there was nothing between him and it but fifty spans of empty air.
He knew that that was far from reality.
There was no sense in standing outside and waiting. There was no way around this. He would have to face this Demon sooner or later, and the longer he waited, the more of a chance that fear would gnaw into his resolve. Gripping his sword tightly, Tarrin lifted his foot and sent it over the threshold, then set it down onto the stone of the chamber.
Nothing happened.
Stepping completely into the chamber, his every sense keenly aware of the slightest change to his surroundings, Tarrin began to slowly and carefully walk towards the book. He was ready, even expecting, an attack. There was no telling if it knew he was there, or he simply hadn't gotten close enough to the book to trigger a response.
His ears twitched. There was a sound now… very faint, very far. Like the hum of a gnat's wings. He stood up and turned his head this way and that, trying to track the source of that sound, and it became louder and louder. The faint hum turned into a rhythmic buzzing sound as it approached, the sound of large chitinous wings beating at the air.
No! Not now!
Sarraya's form simply wavered into view just as the Faerie passed by him, her wings buzzing in his ears. She flew quickly and arrow-straight towards the podium, towards the book, unaware of the danger into which she had just placed herself.
"Sarraya, NO! " he screamed suddenly, raising his sword, lunging after her.
The room darkened when Sarraya reached the midpoint, and the shadows seemed to coalesce, to gather into a form immediately in front of the dais holding the book. She pulled up into a hover and watched in shock as the shadows melded, merged, and solid form replaced the immaterial darkness, a form that caused Sarraya to scream in terror.
Tarrin was absolutely awestruck. How horrifying!
It was nearly fifteen spans tall, twice as tall as Tarrin, formed more or less like a humanoid. It was unclothed, covered with patchy, manged fur of a rust color. Its body was thin, but it was most certainly powerful, for its wiry body was defined and sleek. It had four arms, two small ones sprouting directly from its chest, ending in clawed hands. The other set, where they should be, ended in clawed pincers that looked like tusks attached to flesh, the claws as long as he was tall, the insides of them covered with sharp ridges and spines to injure trapped prey. The tips of those pincer-tusks nearly dragged the ground, so long were its arms and its pincers. Its head was that of a dog, a frothing maw with glowing red eyes above, and goat's horns atop its canine skull.
It roared, a sound of utter darkness, of pure evil, and Sarraya turned and tried to flee from it mindlessly. Tarrin rushed forward to protect his tiny friend, ready to face this monster, to distract it so she could get away, but he could run fast enough.
With a raised pincer-arm, the Demon smashed Sarraya like a bug, sending her tiny body catapulting to the side, all the way to the wall. Her multicolored wings shattered when she slammed into the wall back first, bouncing off of it and falling limply to the floor, surrounded by tiny fragments of what had once been her beautiful wings as they drifted to the ground in sparkling spirals.
She did not move.
"No! NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!! " Tarrin shrieked, his eyes igniting from within with the unholy greenish aura that marked his fury. Not again! He would not lose another friend! He would not! Abandoning rational thought, abandoning fear, abandoning care, Tarrin threw himself into his rage, raised his bestial half to its highest state, a state where the need to destroy overrode even the instinct to survive. Tarrin raised his weapon and literally leaped at the horrifying monster before him, unafraid of it, unconcerned that he was overmatched. There was nothing but the need to destroy.
The creature met his charge without concern, but that nonchalance evaporated when it raised one of its pincer-arms to catch the airborne Were-cat, and got the bottom claw of its pincer sliced off as the Were-cat got within reach. Tarrin literally landed on top of its extended arm, leaping from it with madness in his eyes, flying right into the monster's face with his sword held high over his head. He brought the weapon down in a savage overhanded chop, a chop that would split the monster's head clean in half-
– -but it simply wasn't there anymore.
Tarrin turned a full somersault as the momentum of his attack carried him into a spin, landing on the ground in confusion. The Cat did not understand. It was there one instant, and the next it was simply gone. His nose detected the enemy behind him, and Tarrin dove forward and rolled to his feet facing behind him, but there was nothing there. He could feel it, it was in the room.
A shadow behind warned him. He ducked instinctively as something whooshed over his head, but the Were-cat cried out when the long pincer claws of the monster's undamaged hand appeared on either side of him, and then closed. The power in that crushing grip instantly sent fire through him, cracked his ribs, crushed the air from his lungs, but the Cat had the presence of mind to react. Spinning the sword in his paw so the blade faced the other way, he twisted and stabbed blindly behind him, hitting nothing, but then tried again and felt the tip hit something, something that gave to its deadly edge. The beast bellowed in pain and the grip eased reflexively, allowing him to twist aside and duck under the pincer, sacrificing his shirt to it in the bargain.
Backing up, panting to recover from the pain, the Were-cat brandished his sword and squared off against the massive monster. They had proved to each other that they could hurt one another, but the monster seemed rather unimpressed. Its canine maw almost curled up in a smile as it looked down on its foe. It pointed at him with one of its smaller hands, and the Were-cat felt something strike the Ward protecting him from magical assault, turning even this monster's magic aside. That caused it to turn its head sideways, as if intrigued, and then its eyes began to glow with a bright red light as it motioned again.
Something smothered the Ward, flowed over it, surrounded it, and then attacked it like a pack of wolves hounding a wounded fawn. The Were-cat staggered under the attack, felt it penetrate the Ward, eat into it like acid, and then disrupt it. The Ward dissolved like smoke around him.
Despite his fury, the Cat knew it was now in trouble. That was confirmed when the creature made a flicking motion with its finger, and Tarrin felt gravity turn over, pulling him up towards the ceiling rather than down to the floor. The Cat was agile and lithe, twisting in midair to land easily on the sloped ceiling, looking down at the amused creature with burning eyes. In a quick move, he lunged directly over the monster just as the magic causing the reversal faded, and gravity reasserted itself properly. Tarrin did not turn over again, he fell headfirst towards the monster with the tip of his sword leading.
And it simply vanished once again.
Twisting in midair, he barely managed to land on his feet. How did it do that?
All thought ended when something smashed him from behind, sending him sprawling to the floor. Shaking his head fuzzily, Tarrin got back to his hands and knees, then rolled aside as a huge clawed foot sought to crush him into the floor. He twisted on the floor inhumanly and took a swipe at that leg, but it was simply gone.
It was toying with him!
He was struck again on the side, sent careening across the floor, and he lost his grip on the sword in the tumble. He heard it clang several times as it bounced along the floor, then skid to a stop somewhere behind him and to his right. Even the Cat understood that death would be the result if he could not recover the sword. A sudden red glow behind him sent him scrambling forward, as a raging cone of fire scorched the floor where he had been, a cone that moved to follow him for a terrifying second before exhausting itself mere fingers from reaching his tail. He snapped to his feet and whirled around, and found himself cut off from his weapon. It lay behind the massive Demon, who had placed itself squarely in the path to reclaim it, a ball of fire formed around the hand of the arm protruding from its chest. It gave him an evil, toothy smile, crooking a finger at him with its other human-like hand, taunting him.
Separated from his weapon, the Were-cat's enraged mind allowed the rational part of it analyze the situation. It quickly concluded that he stood no chance against this monster so long as it could disappear like it did, and turn gravity over and throw fire at him. He had no choice. He had to fight magic with magic. Despite the fact that his body was too exhausted to survive.
He never got a chance to try. A sudden strange force emanated from the creature, striking him like a cudgel to the head, sending him flying to his back with stars dancing before his eyes and a buzzing in his ears. He swam in a grey mist for what seemed like an eternity, and then felt something lock around his middle, pick him up off the floor. The pain in that sudden intense grip shocked him back to his senses, and he found himself in the Demon's clutches, held off the floor like a child with its pincers locked around his waist. And it was squeezing him, driving the sharp ridges and protrusions on its pincers into his middle, tearing a scream from his mouth as he felt as if he was being snapped in half.
Tarrin grabbed those pincers with his paws and pushed, pushed with all his might, his desperation giving him even more strength. But it wasn't enough. He could feel the monster strain against him, have to struggle to maintain its grip, but the pain overwhelmed him momentarily and caused him to lose his purchase. Pain blasting through him, he grabbed at a desperate ploy, one that just may work.
Soundlessly, quickly, his great understanding and experience giving him the ability to perform through the pain, Tarrin shapeshifted into his cat form.
The pincers collapsed around his suddenly small body, and they stopped before they could crush him, striking each other trying to grab the suddenly tiny prey. They could not close far enough fast enough. Tarrin dropped from the pincers unabated, landing on all four feet and instantly dashing forward, directly between the monster's legs. He shifted back in the blink of an eye and raised his paws, driving them up into the crotch of his opponent. He couldn't hurt it, but he could knock it off its feet, surprise it long enough for him to recover his sword. A leg snapped out and slammed into the back of its ankle as he pushed on it from below, and he succeeded in knocking it off balance. It teetered for a moment, then crashed to the floor with such force that he could feel it under his feet.
Directly on top of his sword.
That hadn't been in the plan when he did that. He tried to topple it forward, but it had teetered and fell backward. Backing away in chagrin, the Were-cat extended his claws and entered a crouching stance, ready for just about anything. His chagrin deepened when the monster picked up his sword as it got back up, holding it in one of its hands, holding the one thing that gave him a chance. He had no choice now. He had to attack it, if only to recover his weapon.
Putting his ears back, his eyes glowing brightly, forgetting in his rage about the conclusion that his rational mind made but seconds before, the Were-cat lunged forward. He slid around another blast of fire as if he had not a bone in his body, slithering around it without allowing it to touch him, then he leaped right for the Demon's face with all ten claws out and seeking its eyes. The sudden, irrational attack seemed to take the Demon aback, and it vanished from before him almost too late to avoid having the Were-cat's claws futilly attempt to gouge out its eyes. Tarrin flew right through where the monster had been an instant before, landing on all fours near where the book was located-
– -the book!
Of course! Even in his fury, he understood the significance of that book! It was why he was here! Abandoning even trying to locate the Demon, Tarrin twisted to the side and made a break for the book, his paw outstretched to grab it as soon as he could reach it. If he could get the book, he could get around the Demon and flee with it! But a dark shadow to the side told him that it was too close to try, and he suddenly careened aside, abandoning his attempt.
But it was too late.
The single pincer-claw on its outside arm drove towards him like a spear, and he felt it hit him in the belly. He felt every agonizing spine and protrusion as it drove into him, through him, erupting from his back smeared with his blood and with bits of flesh and tissue hanging from the bony protrusions along the inside edge. There was no pain, only the awareness that he had been impaled, speared like a fish, and with that realization came a curious weakness in his limbs.
The Demon raised him, turned him so he could look into its eyes, eyes that were without remorse. Those eyes bored into him as its hands moved the sword, laid the edge of the blade against the side of his neck, taunting him that it could end him right then and there.
That was a huge mistake.
He had nothing to lose now. His eyes turning from green to blazing white, Tarrin reached out and grabbed the Weave in a crushing grip, demanding all the power it could give to him. The power roared into him, suffused him, threatened to burn him alive, but he did not stop. His body exploded into Magelight, and he wove together a spell of Fire, a spell with a specific effect.
The Demons could not be harmed by magic. But they were still vulnerable to purely physical effects.
Releasing the weave, Tarrin closed his eyes against what was coming. A blazing eruption of light exploded from in front of him, moving only away from him, burning into the red eyes of his opponent with the light of a million suns, a light so intense that not even a Demon could resist it. It staggered back with a howl, thrashing its arm in a way that threw him from its bloody pincer, causing him to crash to the ground. The pain of having that pincer rip through him hit him like molten steel in his belly, making him convulse as the pain threatened to scour away his sanity even as the Weave sought to scour him into ash.
But the pain eased. It eased, turned into a strangely warm feeling inside. He found newfound strength, newfound determination. He felt a strange presence, a feeling of something greater, but not something that was the Goddess. It came from beside him. He opened his eyes and looked down.
Sarraya. He had nearly landed on top of her. Her eyes were open, and she had a single, tiny hand on his side. She was using her Druidic power on him, for him, healing his horrific injury by giving his body the energy it needed to heal itself, and accelerating his body's natural healing processes. She infused him with new strength, replenishing his exhausted body, even gave him enough strength to get a handle back on the Weave.
She looked up at him, a wan smile on her face, and then her eyes rolled back into her head, and she collapsed.
There was no thought. He put a finger to her head, assensing her, forgetting about the Demon. She was alive. Hurt, unconscious, but alive. She would survive long enough for him to deal with the Demon, then come back and heal her.
Tarrin snapped to his feet as the Demon thrashed for another couple of moments, then blinked its eyes and focused them hatefully on the Were-cat.
"Now it's personal," Tarrin hissed at it with utter contempt, raising his limned paws before him, raising them to the sky above. He drew in energy from the Weave, and then he turned it against the Weave itself. His power radiated from him like an invisible sun, waves of intense power that the Weave itself could not resist. "Let's see how tough you are without your magic, Demon!" Tarrin suddenly screamed at it, slashing his arms across his body, to the sides, in a snapping motion as he used his power to directly affect the Weave itself, throwing absolutely everything, power, Sorcery, anger, rage, will, even a part of his own soul, into the gargantuan task which he was trying to accomplish.
The Weave shuddered. The strands of the Weave, crisscrossing through the sky, coming up from the ground or disappearing into it, suddenly began to glow with a noticable radiance, mesmerizing the citizens of Dala Yar Arak from their daily activities. They began to glow, then they shuddered again and then they began to move. They spread away from the Imperial Palace like the opening of a curtain, sliding silently as if some titanic hand were working a loom, shifting them until there was no strand within fifty spans of the outer wall of the Palace.
And then they winked back out of sight.
Within him, Tarrin felt something disappear, something that seemed close to his soul. There was no pain in it, no sensation, only that feeling of sudden disjointedness. He felt the Weave escape him, drain away from him, leaving him without a backlash for the first time in a while without Sarraya's aid. And when its power fled from him, it left him severely weakened, a strange kind of weakness that both took its toll on his body and seemed to reach all the way into his core, into the heart of his soul. It even drained away his fury, leaving him curiously aware, curiously calm. He tried to reach across the gulf to the Weave.
But there was nothing.
He could not afford to try again. The Demon looked at him in confusion, then seemed to stand there for a moment.
And its eyes went wide.
"Don't be surprised," Tarrin hissed in a nearly gutteral snarl. "No magic can flow without the Weave, and I control the Weave," he finished in a fierce declaration. He was utterly exhausted, utterly drained. Shifting the Weave had been what he desired, but his knees shook and he couldn't find the Weave again. Had his ploy deprived him of magic as well as the Demon? It certainly seemed that way. But it had evened things considerably. It still had his sword, still had an advantage, but it now had to come to him to kill him. It couldn't stand back and assault him with magic, or vanish and reappear somewhere else every time Tarrin got an advantage. He crooked his paw at the Demon tauntingly. "Bring it on," he hissed, laying his ears back.
If he was trying to enrage the Demon, he was monumentally successful. With a raging howl, the monster threw his sword to the side, behind the bookstand holding the Book of Ages, then charged towards him with its huge pincers readied to either catch him or stab him. Tarrin moved out so Sarraya wouldn't be trampled, staying near the wall, readying to receive its charge. He let it rush him, rush him madly, blindly. For once, Tarrin would use someone else's rage against them, rather than be the victim of his own fury. When it was almost close enough to spear him, he suddenly jumped straight up, over its head, catching it by surprise. It tried to reach up and grab him, stab him, but he pushed off of the dome above and out of its reach, and it turned and slammed its back into the wall, making the whole chamber shudder, as Tarrin landed well out from the wall and simply dashed for his sword, dashed for his very life.
But in his wildest dreams, he would never have thought that something so large, so ungainly, could move with such speed. It closed the distance between them quickly, and Tarrin had to dive aside to avoid getting impaled through the back by its mauled pincer-arm's claw. He rolled to his feet, but it was right on top of him so quickly he barely realized it, and its pincer again managed to lash out and close around his waist. It picked him up yet again, and he screamed when the tip of its other pincer claw drove into his side, not deeply, but deep enough to threaten to scratch his rib.
No sliding out this time, mortal, the Demon's hideous voice echoed in his mind. I think you can't do that with something sticking out of you. I will crush you slowly, savoring your screams, delighting in your every agonized cry. It will be delicious.
Separated from the Weave, with Sarraya unconscious, with no way to injure this Demonic foe, Tarrin was out of ideas. He simply had no tricks left. There was nothing he could do but squirm under the crushing vice of its claws, cry out as it increased the pressure, then released it just enough for him to draw breath, then squeeze him again.
Just to listen to him scream.
Desperately, Tarrin sought to touch the Weave, to join with its power, but it was beyond his senses, beyond his reach. He could not touch it. He was the victim of his own cleverness, caught in his own trap. Desperation turned to fear, soul-consuming fear as his own death stood before him, and that fear unleashed his other half once again. He struggled even harder, injuring himself in his attempts to wrest free of the Demon's crushing grip, but it had him too securely. It would not let him go.
The sword. He could see it, laying not ten spans from him. Right there, waiting for him to pick it up, but it may as well be in Suld for the good it did him. His eyes locked on the weapon, and a dim memory of something tickled him. A memory of an exploding ship's wheel, a memory of an explosion of force that cause a collapsing building to fall away from him instead of upon him. It had that same feeling of expansion that Sarraya's Druidic magic caused within him, a feeling of connection to a greater whole, a power that was warm and gentle. Those things, they had not been Sorcery.
The katzh-dashi have minor priest powers because they're technically not mortal, the Goddess had told him, long ago. By rendering them ageless, they get around the stricture that no mortal may use more than one order of magic.
Please don't experiment, my kitten, he remembered her saying. My constitution couldn't take it if you did that.
Not you can't do that, but my constitution couldn't take it.
Were-cats don't die of old age, Jesmind had told him. We live until something kills us.
All Were-cats have a touch of Druidic power, she had also told him. Mine is very weak, but it's enough to know a Sorcerer's weaving from a Wizard's spells. It's how I know a Sorcerer put that damned collar on me.
Of course!
His eyes lighting up from within, Tarrin gave the Demon an evil smile. It made perfect sense! He wasn't mortal! All Were-cats had at least some minor Druidic power! Those instances of strange power, they hadn't been Sorcery, they had been Druidic magic!
And Druidic power didn't depend on the Weave!
Reaching into himself, for the first time, Tarrin attempted to find that power, to touch it. He needed it, needed it like he had never needed it before. He had no idea how to use it, only wild, instinctual responses to threat. And he was under threat now. But his rational mind knew exactly what it needed done. He reached out with his instincts, the Cat, the soul of the animal within, seeking the power he knew was there.
And it responded.
Holding out his paw, Tarrin did exactly what he had seen Sarraya do so many times. With barely a thought, only an image, a desire, of what he needed to do, he Summoned the sword to his paw.
And it appeared.
The Demon's eyes widened in absolute shock as that black sword simply appeared his its quarry's hand. Tarrin turned that weapon against the Demon instantly, driving it point-first right into the monster's face, hitting it right in the eye. Only the very tip of the sword could reach, but it was enough to sink it into the Demon's eye and put it out. With a tremenous howl, it flinched away from the deadly sword and let go of him, staggering back with one of its small hands over its wounded face. Tarrin dropped to the ground, chest hurting, belly quaking from the pain of being in its clutches, but he ignored it as he drove forward to the attack. He slashed the monster in the side of the leg with the weapon, sending black blood flying as the deadly edge severed its hamstrings, causing it to howl again and collapse around its lamed leg. That brought its head within his reach.
With a quick slice, Tarrin sent the undamaged pincer sailing away from its wrist, turned and sliced the other away, then jumped into the air once again. It looked up at him with its remaining good eye, a look of stunned disbelief on its face as Tarrin raised the sword over his head, a look of hatred in his eyes as he met the Demon's gaze. It sought to fend him off with its pincers, but only bloody stumps rose to block the Were-cat's path to victory. And they were not enough. Tarrin reared back with a ragged cry, coiling his body like a spring.
And then cleaved its head in half with a massive overhanded blow.
Tarrin landed beside it as its destroyed body slumped to the floor, taking a few steps back as the stench of its blood assaulted him, blowing out his breath.
He had beaten it. He had won.
The game was over.
But there was little sense of victory in it. He was hurt, bloody, wounded. He had seen his dear friend Sarraya nearly get killed. He had felt the ecstacy of the Weave, had discovered newfound power within. He had vanquished an unnatural monster whose power had been incredible. But it all seemed to pale to his bone weariness, to the sober memory of what he had done to get there. And pale to the knowledge that though this game was over, another would soon begin.
Getting the book was not enough. He remembered Shiika's warning. That if he touched it, the magic that kept it hidden would be gone, and every mage and Wizard in Arak would come after him. Now he had to get the book out of there alive, get it to where they could open it, read it, find out where the Firestaff was. And then go get it.
Still holding the sword, he rushed over to Sarraya, picking her up tenderly. He couldn't heal her without Sorcery. He was too weary to even try if he could. But she seemed to be alright. Unconscious, wingless, and with a few broken bones. But she would be alright.
She had saved his life. This victory was also hers, healing him of his hideous wound, giving him the strength to continue the fight. She was something special.
Cradling her in his paw, he sheathed his sword and walked wearily up to the stand. This was it. This was what he had spent more than half a year trying to find. A large book, bound in black leather, with the ultimate secret within. It seemed so anticlimatic to him now, to be done with all obstacles, to be standing before it. He had won the game, but to him, there was little satisfaction in it now. Maybe later, but not now. The elation he thought he'd feel at standing where he was now had evaporated. Lost in his bone weariness.
With little fanfare, Tarrin reached down and picked up the Book of Ages. He held it before him, looking at its featureless black leather binding, wondering tiredly that this could be one of the most precious artifacts in the world. That countless men, men he didn't even know about, had fought, killed, or died to gain possession of it. That entire kingdoms were fighting wars over the slightest rumor of its location. That the entire world had gone mad over what was rumored to exist within it.
Funny sometimes, how things turned out.
The Questing Game was over. And Tarrin had won.
For what it was worth.
Now came a new game, a new goal. Survival. They would come for him, come after him. He had to get the book out of the Palace, out of Dala Yar Arak, and he had to do it fast. It wouldn't take them long to get on his trail, he was sure of it. Now that he had what he came for, he had to live long enough to take advantage of it.
He turned his back on the bookstand, walking towards the door. It was time to go, before Shiika managed to get there. He was in no condition to fight with her now, not with his weariness and Sarraya to protect.
There would be time enough to deal with Shiika some other day. For now, he had more important things to do.
Survive.
Getting out of the Palace turned out to be a great deal harder than getting in.
People were running everywhere now, running around and screaming, moving in large groups. He was too tired to fight now, too worried about Sarraya to push things. Cradling her in one paw and holding the Book of Ages in the other, the Were-cat had come up from the stairs and started creeping about immediately, seeking nothing other than to avoid all contact with others. But that wasn't easy. He often had to slide into doors, turn corners before they reached the intersection. A few times, he simply had to just run, outrun them and blindly hope that another batch of armed opponents wasn't waiting around the next corner. He couldn't just sit tight and wait. He had the Book of Ages, and they could use it to find him. Just as Shiika warned. So he couldn't stop, he had to get out of the Palace, get out of Dala Yar Arak, and in his condition, he also couldn't afford to fight.
The place was just so huge. He never passed a window, never so much as had an idea if he was fleeing into the Palace's depths or towards the outer wall. He was utterly lost, and there was nothing, no breeze, no scent, no light, to tell him which way to go.
He felt helpless. "Goddess, if you want to give me a hand, this would be a very good time," Tarrin grunted under his breath, hiding behind a tapestry as a large force of armed guards raced by.
You had to but ask, my kitten, came the glowing, glorious response. She certainly seemed happy about his success. Turn right at the next intersection, then left, then right. That hallway will lead to a window. I think you can manage things from there.
"I think so."
You have done well, my kitten, she beamed in his mind. I can't begin to tell you how proud I am. You have done well.
"Save the congratulations for when we're all safe," he breathed, darting out from behind the tapestry and turning right at the intersection.
"This way!" a voice shouted from behind him. Tarrin could hear another group of men behind him, armored men. He looked to and fro for a doorway, a passage, anything to use to hide, but he was trapped in an open area. And they were close.
"Ummmmmm," Sarraya said blearily in his paw. "Tarrin, where are we?"
"Sarraya, listen to me!" he said in a harsh whisper. "You have to turn invisible! Can you do that?"
"Ummm, yes, I can," she said groggily. "Where's that big monster at?"
" Just do it!" he whispered fiercely, carefully setting her down against the wall, then he shapeshifted into cat form and stood right over her, keeping anyone from accidentally stepping on her. Sarraya gasped in pain when she moved, but her form did fade from view. Tarrin sighed in relief and remained over her, anxiously awaiting the guard party.
If they hadn't been warned about what he was, they'd probably pass him right up. Readying to either fight or run, Tarrin's heart lurched when the men turned the corner, seven human guards being led by a man in yellow robes. The man looked a bit confused. "What is it, Watchwizard?" one of the guards asked in Arakite.
"I thought I saw something," he said. "No matter. Let us continue!"
They rushed right by him, paying him not a single thought.
Tarrin blew out his breath in relief. That was close! But they didn't know he had a cat form, so they hadn't paid the black cat any mind. He remembered how much he loved the fact that his animal form was something small and inconspicuous. "Sarraya, are you alright?" he asked quickly, moving away from her.
"I'll be alright," she said breathlessly, sitting up. Sarraya grunted audibly as she looked over her shoulder. "My wings… ah, well," she sighed, then she gave a squeak of pain. "I'm not going to be flying til they grow back. And I'm not feeling very well at the moment."
He moved away slightly, then hunched down on his belly. "I don't think you'll be too heavy to carry," he offered. "They won't be looking for a cat, so it'll be safer for us this way. Just stay invisible."
"Just don't jostle me, I think my ribs are broken," she replied. He felt her pull herself up onto his back, very gingerly, and when she stopped fidgeting, he stood back up. He felt her grab some handfuls of fur for purchase, and he started slinking off in the direction the Goddess had indicated, moving very carefully so Sarraya wasn't needlessly bounced around.
It worked rather well. The guards paid the black cat no attention at all as they raced here and there, and Tarrin simply walked to the window, walked slowly and carefully, relieved beyond measure that he wasn't going to be leading a procession off the Palace grounds. He may get spotted trying to get over the wall, but once he was off the grounds and into the city, it would only take a moment of isolation to shapeshift and hide from them.
The window was a problem. It had no ledge, and it was too high for him to see the outside. To look, he'd have to shapeshift, and if he did that, he'd be exposing himself to the men that he could hear very close to him.
Again, the guards provided him with the perfect solution. One of them stopped at the window after he scampered away, and another appeared at the end of the hallway. "We're to form up on the practice field, Vol!" the distant guard shouted.
"I'm coming!" he replied, moving immediately back the way they came.
And so Tarrin simply followed the guards, followed them to a set of stairs, followed them down wide passageways, followed them right to a small servant's entrance that led to the outside. He followed them right outside, and when he got outside, he started across the wide expanse of ground between the Palace and its wall. Nobody stopped him. Nobody challenged him. After all, how silly would it look for a human to accost a cat?
Tarrin's anxiety only deepened as he made his way across the wide lawn. He was so close he could see it, so close he could smell success. Until he got off the grounds-all the way out of the city-Shiika and her Demons were a dangerous threat. He was totally exposed out on the grass. Just one of the cambisi, just one that knew he had the power to turn into cat, could ruin everything simply by looking out a window. He had come too far to be stopped just outside the Palace walls.
His anxiety reached nearly unbearable proportions when he reached the wall. Now came the danger.
"Sarraya," he said in the unspoken manner of the Cat, "get off of me."
"What are we going to do?" she asked in a whisper, climbing down.
"I'm going to change, get over this wall, and get out of sight and change back before they can get anyone in a position to follow us," he told her. "It's going to be fast, and it's going to hurt you. I just wanted to warn you up front."
"As long as I know it's coming," she said, fading into view before him. "Just try not to kill me," she winked.
"I'm going to put you on my head. Just don't let go," he warned. "Ready?"
"Let's do it," she grinned.
Tarrin changed, and immediately stuffed the book under one arm, then reached down and scooped up his tiny friend. He set her on top of his head at the same time as he vaulted up the wall, feeling her grab a good hold on his hair and dig her legs into the tighter areas where it went into his braid even as his claws drove into the stone of the wall. He scrambled up as fast as he possibly could with only one paw and two feet, nearly falling off three times as his claws slipped, but he reached the top and raced over the wide top, where men patrolled, and started down the other side. He barely heard the first shouts of alarm from the men on top of the wall, who had seen him race across, but they were too late. He dropped the twenty spans left to the ground effortlessly, and was racing at full speed away from the wind band of empty space and into the buildings before the first of them reached where he went across. He ducked into an alley immediately, and after making sure nobody could see him, he changed back before warning Sarraya. She was suddenly on his head, sagging it nearly to the ground.
Tarrin's breath exploded from him. The hardest part was over. They had escaped from the Palace in one piece. More or less. Now another task lay before them, to hide until the searchers gave up, then go and find the others. He could contact Allia with the amulet, but that would require him to change back, and he couldn't risk that so close to the Palace, with so many of Shiika's men so close to him. He had to get further away, so they could escape before they could get to him.
"Warn me next time!" she snapped, sliding down to his shoulders gingerly.
"Sorry," he replied. "They know we went in here, so let's get out of here," he said. "We have to find the others."
There was a commotion at the end of the alley. Tarrin and Sarraya both instantly shut up, Sarraya turning invisible and Tarrin hunkering down behind a broken crate. Two yellow-robed Arakites appeared at the end of the alleyway with nearly twenty guardsmen behind them. Tarrin hunched down even more as they both looked in, and there was confusion on their faces.
"Stroka, where did it go?" the shorter robed man asked.
"I know not, Vadren," he replied. "The spell was pointing straight to the book, and then it simply vanished. There is nothing there!"
"I felt the same. Did we stray back into that dead-magic area?"
"No, my spell is still operating. It just has nothing to find!"
"Mine as well."
The taller man growled. "It cannot be far!" he said. "Spread out and search, guardsmen! Turn back and search near the wall, perhaps the thief took it back into the magic-dead area, where our spells cannot locate it!"
"As you command, Watchwizard!" one guard said sharply, then he turned and barked orders to his men. They all broke up into pairs and moved back towards the wall enclosing the Palace grounds.
If Tarrin were human, he'd be jumping up and down in glee. Of course! How lucky could he get! The Demoness said that they could use magic to find the book. But when he shapeshifted, he placed the book into the elsewhere, a place their magic could not reach!
So long as he stayed in cat form, they could not find him!
"What's got you so happy?" Sarraya asked.
"They couldn't find me, Sarraya!" he said happily. "Shiika said they could find the Book of Ages with magic, but when I shapeshifted and it went into the elsewhere, they couldn't find it! They can't track me down!"
Sarraya chuckled lightly, then winced. "Tarrin, you have the weirdest luck."
"I'm not going to complain about it, Sarraya," he said, sitting down. "You talked to the others? Are they safe? Did Shiika let them go?"
"They're alright, Tarrin," she replied. "She did let them go. I think she realized that taking them was only going to make you angrier. And boy, was she right," she added with a grin. "You're spectacularly nasty when you're angry."
"Save it, Sarraya. We have to find them and get the Abyss out of here."
"We just have to look in the largest city in the world, with you as a cat, to find them," she said cynically.
"You're such an optomist," he grunted, slinking deeper into the alley. He waited as she got more comfortable on his back, after getting moved when he hunkered down to hide from the men. When she was settled, he turned and started for the other end of the alleyway. He didn't want to bounce her around, so he moved carefully, but with as much speed as he could manage with her injuries. "I have a plan, we just need to get some distance from the Palace."
"You and your plans," she huffed. "Was tricking me into taking the first hit part of your plan?"
"Don't start with me, or I'll carry you in my teeth," he warned as they disappeared from sight.
"At least then you'd shut up!"
"You weren't supposed to be there!"
There was a silence. "Sorry about that. I saw the Book, and I guess I just lost my head."
"It happens. Now get our bony butt out from between my shoulder blades. It hurts."
"Don't talk to me about bone, Tarrin! I must be sitting on a pile of them!"
"They're yours."
"Jerk."
"I love you too," his chuckle echoed silently through the alley, for those capable of hearing it. "I love you too."
GoTo: Title EoF