The Tower of Sorcery f-1

by James Galloway

  Two more men appeared at the destroyed opening of the cell, and Tarrin whirled to face them, covered in the spoor of his defeated foe, and a look of pure rage, utterly devoid of rational thought, twisted his face into a fang-bared snarl.

  "Holy Karas preserve me!" one of them gasped, but it was too late. With a roar, Tarrin sprang forward, killing one instantly when his paw found the man's face, and drove that head back and against the wall behind it, where it crushed between the wall and Tarrin's paw. The other managed to draw his sword, just in time for it to fall from nerveless fingers when a full swipe of Tarrin's clawed paw ripped the man's head completely off his body.

  Tarrin gave another howling roar, a scream of rage, but also of triumph. He would be free! Now he would leave, using the memories of his human half, memories of hallways and passages that would lead back to the top, back to the outside, out of that prison! A man spotted him, then turned and ran down a side passage, but Tarrin didn't give him any mind. The Cat inside him was trying to get its bearings, to decide which way it was supposed to go in order to find the way out, and it struggled to comprehend human conceptions to make that decision.

  A sudden clamoring of bells startled the Cat, and it couldn't grasp that it was an alarm. Giving up for the moment, the Cat decided that moving was best. So Tarrin began stalking down the passageway, seeking something familiar that it could use to find the way out…a scent, a movement of the air, anything that seemed familiar. He turned a corner, and found himself staring at at least ten armed men, who immediately shouted at him and drew weapons.

  But Tarrin had no fear. Snarling, he issued a raging howl, then rushed to the attack, totally oblivious to any danger. Swords pierced his flesh, but he felt nothing, ripping and raking and tearing, even biting, anything that he could get his claws on. He tore at faces, gouged out eyes, slashed throats and chests with his claws, raking with his feet to disembowel his adversaries. Skilled thrusts and swipes cut his flesh, drew deep blood, chopped off his left paw at the wrist, just below the manacle, but the enraged Were-cat felt no pain, no fear, nothing but the overwhelming need to destroy, to kill, and he had no mercy.

  A brief episode of pain registered to him as his left paw grew back, almost as quickly as it had been severed. Their weapons were not magical, and the magical barrier that stopped magic seemed to be incapable of affecting his innate pseudo-magical abilities, such as his regenerative powers. But when Tarrin took that brief rest to allow it, it was because ten mangled bodies lay in various stages of dissasembly on the floor around him. He was standing ankle deep in entrails.

  That began a pattern, as Tarrin randomly stalked the hallways of the underground complex, looking for the way out, killing absolutely anyone who got in his way. He did not chase them down, but anyone who challenged his forward momentum or failed to flee at the sight of him was instantly and savagely attacked. A trail of savaged bodies marked his path along the dark, shadowy tunnels, as the mercenaries and warriors and guards sought to locate the intruder and neutralize him. Tarrin attacked them all, no matter how many there were, and he was soon soaked in both his own blood and that of his victims, leaving swords and daggers protruding from his body as grim testaments of the attempts to slow him down, not feeling the pain in the haze of his utter rage. He killed them singly, in pairs, in groups, he killed anyone he could find, he killed them with utter ruthlessness. They were enemies, seeking to take away his freedom, and they had to die. In short minutes, dozens and dozens of the dead marked his grim, systematic passage along the winding, intersecting tunnels, creating a grisly path for others to follow to find him.

  It came to a head in a wide passageway, almost like a gallery, with a set of stairs at the far end. A large complement of guards had gathered at the far end, at least thirty of them, and they all pointed and shouted as Tarrin stepped from the shadowy tunnel and into the brightly lit chamber, covered in blood and with a dagger sticking out of his shoulder. He narrowed his eyes and laid back his ears, then roared at the large gathering in a horrific scream of hatred and rage, and he hunkered down into a pouncing position.

  "He's mad!" someone shouted as Tarrin gave out a harsh scream, and then charged.

  "Go for the head!" someone else cried, drawing a sword.

  It was a clash of rampaging, animalistic fury against desperate self-preservation. Tarrin attacked the men headlong, swatting away only what weapons came in for his face and head, and destroying anything he could grab hold of. Screams of pain and the dying quickly echoed up and down the passages as Tarrin killed anyone that came within reach of his paws, driving forward with such savage ferocity that the score of men remaining were unable to wrap around him, unable to take him from behind. They did eventual fold in around him, and he became a lightning-fast whirlwind of death, killing anyone foolish enough to try to stab at him with a weapon, grabbing swords and hands and arms and yanking their owners within reach of a decapitating blast from the other paw. The men between him and the stairs melted away under his mindless fury, and the others quickly began to spread out further and further. After more than half of them were dead, the remaining men finally realized that they had no chance against him, and they broke and scattered in every direction. The unfortunates that tried to flee up the stairs died swiftly as Tarrin caught up to them and dispatched them with decapitating rakes and head-crushing blows, sending bodies and body parts tumbling back down the stairs.

  The young, robed woman at the top of the stairs, immobilized by the sounds of death and pain from below, was the first to see the Were-cat emerge from the dark stairs, covered in gore and eyes blazing with an unholy greenish aura that preceeded the outline of his body as it emerged from the darkness. She was a thin thing, small, pretty, and she stared at him in a horrified gape, seemingly unable to move, paralyzed by his appearance. Others began to appear, armed men and even women, shouting and pointing and rushing towards him. But the pretty young lady was right there, mesmerized in some macabre fashion by the Were-cat's approach. She was unmoving, she was trembling, and she was helpless.

  She was the first to die.

  They were in place. Lilenne nodded to Keritanima, who tapped Manx on the arm, who gave a signal to his men. They rushed forward quickly with their swords drawn, their boots making little noise on the cold cobblestones of the large paved plaza surrounding the hammer-shaped building. The Wikuni Marines moved quickly and efficiently, covering each of the six entrances in four-man squads. Six Knights advanced over the fence for each team, and they quickly reinforced those Marines at the doors to prevent anyone from coming out or going in. A larger group rushed the massive main doors of the cathedral, which opened into the Nave of the church, where even now the High Priest of Karas was conducting the Service of the Ending Day, the last day of the ride, before a large congregation.

  Keritanima was wrapped in an icy resolve. The Ward prevented her from locating Tarrin, but she was still searching the fringes of the barrier, seeking any hint of him should he cross through it. She would not allow them to keep him. He was her brother, and that term meant alot more to her now than it did only a month ago. Allia stood beside her, just as grim and foreboding, and they were both feeling the same rage and fury. They were true sisters, and they were getting their brother back. They had been through too much together for her to abandon him now. She had never believed that she could ever feel the way she did for anyone, but she had to admit that she did. Tarrin was her brother, her friend, her dear companion, and without him, her life seemed empty. The very thought of him being lost to her filled her with a nameless dread, and caused a fury in her so towering that she would be willing to fight the entire Cathedral with her bare hands to get him out of there. She had no idea what was going on, how they were treating him. They could be torturing him!

  "Come on," she told Allia in a tight voice. "Darvon, Manx, Azakar, with us," she called. "Let's go knock on their door."

  Binter and Sisska moved up behind the Princess with their huge hammer and axe, a truly formida
ble barrier to any who wished to do her Highness harm, and the group of very dangerous people dismounted and started across the plaza. It took them a moment to reach the huge, bronze-inlaid double doors that led into the Nave, with the Hammer and Scales of Karas etched into that burnished golden covering. Azakar took one door and Binter took the other, and they pushed them open with a sudden jerk that made them boom against their thresholds on the far side.

  That sound caused the chanting voice of the High Priest of Karas, a short, pudgy man standing on a pulpit on the far side of the massive chamber, to falter. He looked up the long row of pews, at the wildly mismatched group of people entering the church, and did not pick his sermon back up. The church was very full, and almost all of them, commoners and nobles alike, dressed in their best, turned to look as the group of grim-looking visitors moved into the main gallery.

  Keritanima strode in with a look and demeanor that anyone would take for a Queen, her amber eyes blazing as she kept them locked on the pudgy man standing on the pulpit behind the altar. It was a flat look, one of icy danger, and it made the priest slightly uncomfortable.

  "All are welcome in the house of Karas," he said in an urbane voice. "Please, take a seat, my children, and we will continue the sermon. There is no shame in being late."

  That caused a few light chuckles, but Keritanima's cold expression did not change. "You will release Tarrin Kael, and you will release him now," she said in a savage voice. "If he is not standing before me in five minutes, I'll have my Marines and your own Knights raze this cathedral to the ground."

  "There is no call for this, threatening," the priest said in a calm voice. "I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about, um, Inititate."

  "You will address me as Princess Keritanima," she snapped. And for the first time, she meant it. "Darvon," she barked.

  "My Lord Irvon, you are holding the Knight Tarrin Kael within this building. You will release him immediately, or the Knights will take him by force. And as you've heard, we've had her Highness bless us with support from her own Marines, as well as a complement of katzh-dashi from the Tower. We have the cathedral surrounded, and the katzh-dashi have Warded this entire area against magic to prevent your acolytes from trying anything foolish."

  The man gave the Lord General a look, and then it paled into one of pure horror.

  "We know he is here, Lord Irvon," Darvon said calmly, but there was steel behind his eyes. "We will take him when you give him to us, or we will take him after bringing this cathedral down around your ears. Either way, we will take him. The choice of how it is done is yours."

  The man Irvon looked unable to speak, but then he somehow got his composure back. The congregation began to whisper and gasp, murmuring excitedly among themselves as they drank in Darvon's words. "You are free to search, my Lord General," Irvon said in a strained voice. "I'll file my people out of here under guard and let you comb the cathedral, but I assure you, you will not find anyone that does not wish to be here. There is no need for violence or destruction."

  "Then start turning your people out, Irvon," Keritanima said coldly. "Darvon, bring in a company of Knights to assist the priests with their evacuation of the Cathedral. Just so nobody gets overlooked."

  "That is ridiculous!" Irvon said. "I am being very accommodating to you, people, just by offering to empty the Cathedral so you can put your minds at ease. But sending in armed men to take my people prisoner goes just a bit too far. I give you my word as a priest of Karas that we will cooperate with you."

  "That word means spit to me, Lord Irvon," Keritanima snapped hotly, making many of the onlookers gasped. "I really don't care how ridiculous you think it is. You can let the Knights escort them out, or you can pick up their remains when my Marines storm this building and kill anything that moves. It's your choice."

  Irvon paled again, and stared at Keritanima in shock. "You would dare-"

  "I dare anything," she interrupted, glaring at him. "Binter," she said bluntly. "I think the Lord High Priest is stalling. Would you go up there and brain him for me?"

  The monstrous Vendari started ahead of the Princess, his massive warhammer held lightly in his right hand, his black eyes flat and promising death as he advanced up the central aisle to a cacophony of gasps and not a few screams from the congregation. "No!" Irvon said in a strangled tone, even as a group of armed priests quickly formed up around the altar and pulpit. "Alright, alright! I'll do as you ask!"

  Binter looked back to Keritanima, who only motioned with her head. He turned and moved back towards her, and the entire popluated Nave sighed in relief. It was in that moment of silence that it was heard.

  It was faint, but it was very audible. It was a rolling, howling cry, the ear-keening call of a Troll, the sound they made while fighting.

  "Troll!" Darvon said immediately, reaching for his sword.

  "Binter," Keritanima said sharply, "where did that come from?"

  "It came from beneath us," Allia answered for him, kneeling and putting a four-fingered hand on the floor. "It is under here."

  "What's under the floor, Darvon?" Keritanima asked.

  "The crypt," he replied uncertainly.

  Eyes widening, Keritanima turned and fled back up the aisle, leaving the others confused. She had no time to explain. She burst through the open door, pointing towards Lilenne and screaming in a very impressive, booming voice.

  "Lower the Ward, Lilenne! Lower the Ward NOW!"

  Panting, the Cat wasn't sure if it could take this enemy.

  He was covered in blood, both his own and that of his foes, and it had been a long and brutal path. Tarrin had been stabbed, slashed, hacked, poked, and slammed by a myriad of weapons, weapons that the Cat completely ignored. But the constant regeneration had began to slow, and it slowed more and more as he was injured by those who opposed him. The regenerative abilities he enjoyed were quasi-magical, but they still drew strength from his body to operate, and that strength was nearly gone. Wounds that would have sealed instantly if he were refreshed were taking long, long moments to slowly knit together now, and it had left his body weary and his reflexes slowed. His body was tiring out, and even the Cat understood that he had to get free soon, before he was left incapable of healing a mortal blow.

  It was a grisly marker by which his fatigue was measured. The hallways behind him were absolutely littered with the dead, mutilated, and the dying, as he cut a swath of destruction and murder right through the ranks of his opponents. There was no grace, no honor, and no mercy in his method of killing. He simply charged forward, accepted any injury that the victim dealt upon him, then ripped him limb from limb. Anyone who crossed him died, from armed guards to unarmed servants, they were all treated with the same merciless finality. Tarrin's feet left prints of red behind as he stalked forward in the large chamber, where a single Troll stood on the far side holding a huge club made from the gnarled taproot of a tree. Trolls were natural enemies of the Were-kin, and Tarrin challenged it with no fear as he stalked forward, paws out wide and preparing to rush the thing and tear out its throat. Men and women rushed in behind that Troll, some of them obviously spellcasters, but it was the ones with crossbows, bows, and swords that caught the Were-cat's attention. But there was no surrender, no mercy, no turning back. There was only forward, there was only rage, and there was only freedom.

  With a savage roar, Tarrin burst forward, but his moves were not as fast, not as sharp, as they usually would be. Arrows and crossbow bolts slammed into him, staggering him, but he neither fell nor stopped. The Were-cat ignored the hammering missles, keeping his attention on the advancing Troll. He ducked under and away from a massive sweep of that club, and lanced inside its swing as it carried through. His claws were out, and they flashed once and once only as he slipped up and inside the Trolls' stance, sweeping upwards from the floor and raking right through the area covered by the foul monster's fur breechclout. The crippling move would have worked, had he not missed and struck the Troll on the inside of his thigh
rather than the crotch. The move made the Troll give out a ear-shattering bellow, and the Were-cat found himself flying across the room. He struck the far wall head first, bringing stars to his eyes and sending to the floor in a heap, but the shuddering of the floor beneath him warned him that the Troll was advancing to finish him off.

  He rolled just as several more arrows and crossbow quarrels struck the floor where he had been, then kicked out with his foot. The blow didn't have much behind it, but it was still enough so crack the shinbone of the Troll's advancing leg as it set it to drive Tarrin through the floor with its club. The Troll hopped back and bellowed again, taking its massive club in both hands and raising it over its head. It moved with surprising speed, catching Tarrin just under the arm as it quickly feinted the overhand smash, then switched to a vast underhanded sweep that caught the weary Were-cat off guard. Tarrin sailed through the air, landing heavily on the floor some paces away, arrow and bolts tearing out or breaking off as he rolled and skidded to a stop. Tarrin was dazed, so dazed that the Cat nearly lost its control of his mind and allowed his conscious mind to return, but the Cat was still too enraged to relinquish control yet.

  Not until it was free.

  The Troll limped forward with men and women advancing behind him, coming to end the Were-cat right then and there, and the Were-cat was too tired to be certain it would survive.