Blowing out his breath, Tarrin stopped. He had to stop often to drink, but stopping made him feel like he was standing on a campfire. He dug his feet into the sand, sinking them down past the heat to the cooler sand beneath, and let his fur insulate him from the hot sand pressing up against his ankles. He knelt down and spread the cloak out around him, shielding the sand from the sun so it would cool and take some bite off the inferno hitting him in the face while he rested. He pulled the waterskin off his belt and shook it, then uncapped it carefully with his claws and emptied it of its contents. The water was hot, but it soothed a parched throat, and sent a minor surge of energy through him.
But not much.
Crossing this land would be a trial. He already knew that, but it took coming here, feeling the fire under his feet and the weight of the sun's heat on his head to fully appreciate how difficult it was going to be. But why did he have to do it? The Goddess had told him to go this way, told him to go into the desert. She had to have a good reason. After all, if Keritanima controlled the Wikuni fleets, that literally meant that she controlled the seas. On board a Wikuni clipper, he would be completely safe. He could go to the coast right now and call to Kerri, and she would send her ships to pick him up. Why did he have to endure a trek across the desert?
Because she told him to do it.
Sometimes acting on faith was a chore. Tarrin rose back up, staring out into the blasted lands of the Selani. It was all sand and rock, and rock and sand. Not to mention the sand and the rock. Allia said there were plants in the desert, in some areas, and even then only if one knew where to look. There were oases in the desert as well, but they were well hidden and well guarded by the Selani, for they represented life. Most of them served as the Selani's home camps. The Selani were a semi-nomadic people, traveling from oasis to oasis so as not to completely drain the water in an area and to find what forage they could for their animals. They lived in tents mostly, but each clan had a permanent village where the clan-king lived. They would be interruptions of the sand and rock, at least.
In a way, Tarrin almost wanted a sandstorm to come in. At least inside the howling winds there would be shade. He shaded his eyes with a paw and looked at a distant rock spire, one of the large ones. That was his goal, to reach that spire by sunset. There was a smaller one about three longspans ahead, and that was where he intended to find some shade and rest through the hottest part of the day.
There was some kind of dark disturbance on the horizon. Tarrin watched as it seemed to take form, to expand and grow, and he realized that it was another sandstorm. He focused on it, watched it as it grew larger and larger, and in growing horror he realized that it was getting larger because it was moving towards him, and moving faster than anything he'd ever seen move!
"Sarraya, there's a storm coming in, and it's moving fast!" he said, jumping up and sprinting. Three longspans. For him, that was only ten minutes, a distance he could cover quickly and without worry. But the sand grabbed at his feet, the heat drained his strength. Even as he started to run, he began to doubt whether they were going to make it.
"Good gods!" Sarraya said in a strangled tone as she came around and looked out of the front of the hood. "Tarrin, run! If that hits us, it'll pick us up, and you won't survive the landing!"
"I'm running!" he snapped in reply, charging ahead in complete desperation. Never had he seen anything move so fast! It had to be unnatural! In seconds, the edges of the storm were defined. It was small, but it moved with incredible speed, and its broiling center churned with blowing sand and dust. It was a dark cloud, a cloud of death, which would kill anything unfortunate enough to wander into its path.
Step by step, Tarrin closed on the storm, trying to beat it to the rock spire between them. Step by step, the storm loomed larger and larger, swallowing up the horizon, coming to dominate the region before him. He could see the bulging clouds of sand making it up, see the edge of the powerful wind as it picked up everything in its path. What ferocity! And what speed! It moved faster than the fastest horse, carried along by its own winds, racing across the desert like some dark phantom.
They weren't going to make it! He was barely halfway there, and the storm was directly before him, so close that the first stirrings of wind began to tug at his cloak. In immediate terror, he realized that he had moments--seconds--before it hit them. He had to think fast! He skidded to a stop on a flat rock buried in the sand, its surface worn smooth by the scouring winds.
"No!" Tarrin said in a growling tone. "I didn't come this far to get killed in a storm! NO!!!!!!!!!" he shouted at the storm, as his eyes flared with an incandescent light. The power of the Weave rushed into him before he even realized what he was doing, so quickly that Sarraya hastily tried to control it. But as quickly as he touched the Weave, the storm bore down on him like it was a thing alive, leaving him the shortest moment to brace for its impact. He wasn't ready! He didn't have enough magic built up to do anything strong enough to counter the power of the sandstorm! He couldn't draw enough to control safely that would counter the power of the wind!
In desperation, Tarrin wove a weave of Earth, and caused his feet to sink into the stone beneath them. Then he crossed his arms before his face and braced himself.
It was like being dragged through a briar patch by ten racing horses. The wind struck him with enough force to knock the air from his lungs, and carried on it was the merciless scouring sand. The sand and dust tore into him, tore his clothing, stripped the fur and skin from him, made a whining sound as it assaulted the nicked, pitted steel of his manacles. Hot, slashing sand ripped into his face, and the force of the wind stressed the bones in his legs, threatening to break them. Tarrin leaned into the wind, using his inhuman strength to resist its power, bent his knees to take the stress off his shins. Sand invaded his mouth, drove into his ears, even ripped the tip of his left ear off. The cloak around his neck shredded instantly from the immense power of the wind, nearly broke his neck as it was pulled by the wind.
He only barely heard Sarraya's frightened scream as the clasp of the cloak broke, the laces were ripped apart, and the cloak was ripped from his back.
"Sarraya!" he gasped. She had been inside the hood, and he could hear her cry fade into the howling of the wind as she was carried away from him. Sand filled his mouth, but the sudden fear for Sarraya, the instant horror that she might be dead caused him to lose his fear, lose his inhibitions. Tarrin released all constraints and opened himself completely to the Weave, and allowed it to flow into him, through him. The Weave was weak where he was, but he could still draw in enough to feel it racing through him, scouring the fatigue and aching within as the sand scoured away skin, hair, and fur without. Tarrin felt the Weave fill him, infuse him, quickly go past the point where sweetness became pain, and warmth became burning heat. The warning from the Goddess remained in the back of his mind, caused him to attempt to clamp down on the power rushing into him, but again he found that he could not. The only way to free himself from the Weave would be to use the power within, the cut himself off before it had a chance to recharge. The Weave was thin here, he'd have a very good chance of doing it without causing himself any permanent injury.
He had to use it now, before it built past his ability to control. It wasn't enough power to disrupt the storm, but that wasn't his intent. Weaving together a spell of Air and Divine power, Tarrin released it and caused a wedge of pure Air to form before him, deflecting the wind from him enough to where it did not threaten to tear him apart. Then he sent a tendril of Air behind, a spell of searching to look for Sarraya. She was a Faerie and a Druid. She could fly, and she had magic to protect herself from the wind. He had no doubt that she would survive, but she may be injured by flying debris, and he wouldn't allow that. He found her quickly, out of the hood, being carried along by the powerful wind as it ripped her dress from her body and stripped blue skin from her body. He reached out with his tendril of Air and grabbed her, surrounded her with a barrier of protection from the wind,
and then started carrying her back to him. The wind pushed against him, tried to rip her from his magical grasp, but he would not yield. It was so strong that he stopped concentrating on the wedge of Air protecting him from the force of the storm, diverted that energy into keeping his grip on the Faerie and keeping the killing winds away from her. When he let the wedge dissolve, a furious blast of wind hit him in the face, tore off the rest of his left ear, blinded his left eye, but he ignored the damage, ignored the pain, concentrating solely and completely on his weaving. Sarraya meant more to him than his own safety. He inexorably pulled her back towards him, resisting the power of the wind, battling the power of the storm over the little Faerie.
With bloody paws, Tarrin clasped them around Sarraya's quivering, naked body. The wind had done its damage to her as well as him. He cradled her like a baby, cradled her to his chest and hunkered down, then wove a weave of Air, a Ward to keep out the sand and the wind. He laid it down around him, and when it took effect, the howling of the wind became a whisper, and the dusty air was unnaturally still.
"Tarrin!" Sarraya suddenly cried as he opened his paws. She began to cry, putting her bloody hands over her face and weeping into them. She was shivering with fear, as any normal person would be after looking death so closely in the face.
Tarrin was drained, weary. He found cutting himself off from the Weave to be relatively easy, but the pain of the backlash felt as if he'd been filled to the brim with magic, rather than nearly completely drained. The Ward itself shuddered from the magical effect of the backlash, a displacement of the air around him that caused what little remaining clothing on him to blow away from him. He didn't have much left. The pack was still intact, and its precious contents were safely on his back. But all of the shirt he had on that wasn't under the pack was now gone. His trousers had survived, but only just. The pant legs were all but gone, leaving nothing but the leather from the mid-thigh up. All of the fur on him that had been directly facing the wind was gone, and alot of his skin was stripped raw. Much of the hair on his head had been plucked from its roots, but the itching he felt up there, and all over him, told him that already his body was beginning to restore itself. Within an hour, he'd look as if he'd never been in the storm.
"Sarraya," he said weakly, "are you alright?"
"I'm alright," she said in a small voice, sniffling. "I'm scared half out of my mind, but I'm alright. Are you?"
"I'm a little grated, but I think I'm alright," he told her. It was hard to see her. Both of his eyes had been struck by the corrosive sand, and they had been damaged. She was nothing but a hazy blur, a smudge of blue in a brown hodgepodge of indistinct shapes. "I can't see."
"Hold on." He felt her reach into that place where the magic of the Druids resided, and then heard the buzzing of her wings. A tiny hand touched his face, and gentle warmth flowed through it. His eyesight became sharper and sharper, more distinct, until he could see her clearly. He held up his paw before him, and she landed lightly upon it as he managed to focus on her. "Is that better?"
She was a mess. The wind and sand had ripped the dress right off her back, and her blue skin was striped in angry reds from the stripping of the sand. Both of her wings had survived--actually, they were a bit brighter than before, having been polished by the power of the wind and sand--and alot of her auburn hair had literally been ripped from her head.
"You're naked," he remarked.
Sarraya blushed, then laughed. "You wear a dress and manage to keep it on after that," she teased. "The cloak didn't last long, did it?"
"Would you expect it to survive that?" Tarrin asked, pointing to the fury outside the Ward.
"Nope. And I think we'd better not make that mistake again. I'll make you a long-sleeved shirt and some rugged leather trousers when it blows over. At least the sword and the pack made it."
"They're up against me," he replied. "I felt the wind trying to break the straps of the pack, but they held. I guess I'd better grow out my hair again. If anything, it'll keep the sun off my neck."
"That would be a good idea," she said, sighing. "I see one more thing as well."
"What?"
"I'm going to have to teach you some Druidic magic," she said. "If I get separated from you or die, then you won't have anything at all to help you with your Sorcery, and you'll be stuck out here with no way to get water. You'll die if I don't teach you. Evaluation or not, I'm going to have to teach you."
"I guess that makes sense," he said after a moment of consideration. "But you don't have to worry, Sarraya. I'm not going to let anything take you away from me."
"I appreciate that, but let's be realistic," she said with a beaming smile. "Why didn't you get picked up by the storm?"
Tarrin pointed down with his other paw, and Sarraya followed his finger. Then she laughed brightly. "Tarrin, that was clever!"
"It was all I could think of," he said sheepishly. "If I'd really been thinking, I would have created a Ward like the one I have up now."
"Well, live and learn," she chuckled. "Let me get you out of there, and we'll see about making some new clothes. You know something?"
"What?"
"I'm not hot now," she said.
Tarrin gave her a curious look, then laughed. Something he didn't do much anymore. Only Sarraya would say something like that, and only Sarraya could make him laugh. "I guess this is your fault. You're the one who wanted a storm."
"I guess I don't know my own strength," she said with a wry smile.
"Be careful what you wish for," he said, quoting an ancient saying, "you may get it."
"No argument here," she said with a laugh, and bent about the task of healing and clothing them.
They reached the rock spire he tried to reach before the storm late in the afternoon, well after the sun began to sink towards the horizon. It was one of the thick ones, hundreds of spans wide, and it had a nearly vertical surface that had deep ruts etched into it. Some of them were thin, some wide, some shallow, some deep, and a little exploration showed one that had a bulging pocket near the ground, half-filled with sand, going deep enough into the rock spire to almost be called a cave. It was large enough to serve as a den for the night.
The savage sandstorm had kept them pinned in for most of the afternoon. His Ward dissolved long before the storm ended, but Sarraya had used her Druidic magic to change the shape of the stone ledge upon which they stood, raising it to form a barrier against the wind, even curling it over to form something of a half-cave. Sarraya wisely put the entrance so it faced the side of the wind rather than the back, to keep the sand from building up quickly. It was a good shelter, so long as they paid attention not to let the sand build up at the entrance and bury them. After it passed, Sarraya returned the rock to its original state, and they moved on.
Tarrin leaned against the wall of the shallow nook, sitting on soft sand, while Sarraya lay on her back on the sand by his foot. He was exhausted. The heat had worn him down, and using Sorcery had brought him nearly to the limit. As if that wasn't enough, the struggle against the storm had used up what energy he hadn't used in Sorcery, used up just about everything he had left. The Weave in this region was curiously thin, and that had probably made using Sorcery much less taxing, much less dangerous to him than normal. A thin Weave meant that it took considerably longer to build enough energy to weave. That had kept him from attacking the storm directly, but it had also made it much easier to cut himself off. He leaned against the rock, feeling its strange warmth, feeling the warmth of the sand beneath him in the cool shade of the pocket, let it seep into him and soothe tired muscles.
The sandstorm had caused him to do one thing before setting out again, and that was to protect the Book of Ages. He had placed it in the elsewhere, shifting into human form and tightening the straps of the pack holding it to the point where it would disappear when he changed back. It was something that he was intending to do anyway, but the storm convinced him that getting it into the ultimate of safe places immediately was the wisest
thing to do. The sword, resting beside him at the moment, had jiggled around more than was comfortable for him after the pack was removed, but he'd get used to it.
Sarraya's wings began to flutter, and then she sat up and yawned. The Faerie showed no signs that she had been flailed by the driving sand earlier that day. Her cobweb clothing was new, but this time she wore a costume much like Allia's desert garb, a loose shirt adjusted for her wings and baggy pants. She had even created diaphonous shoes for herself, to protect her feet from the sun. The ethereal material was brown, which covered most of her blue skin and made her less conspicuous to people when she wasn't invisible. She had made Tarrin a new set of clothes as well, a loose long-sleeve shirt, the color of sand, made of some very light material he had never seen before. It was so light he almost felt like he wasn't wearing anything, but he already found out that it was very strong and rugged. The trousers were good old leather, undyed buckskins, and he'd already managed to put some tears in the cuffs when he was putting them on. With feet as large as his, it was hard to get them into trousers fitted for his waist and legs without catching the claws on them. She even made him a new visor to replace the one he lost in the storm. He decided that letting his hair grow was the best move, to protect his neck, so he once again had a braid as thick as a child's arm hanging from his head, hanging down all the way to his backside.
Tarrin Kael Firestaff Collection Book 3 - Honor and Blood by Fel © Page 19