Tarrin Kael Firestaff Collection Book 3 - Honor and Blood by Fel ©

by James Galloway (aka Fel)

  He couldn't deny that. The Weave was so much more complex than he ever imagined. Even looking at it casually, the complicated relationships between flows and strands, strands and Conduits, and the residual magical energy the produced within themselves made that abundantly clear, and they were things he could spend his entire life studying and still not fully comprehend the total workings of it. His little experience with the voices told him that there was more within the Weave than simple magical power. There were other things, like memories of past events, and there were bound to be even more mysterious aspects of the Weave that would reveal themselves to him as he came into his power.

  "Mother, what were the dreams?"

  Yet another aspect of what you are, she replied. Since you've already taken them seriously, then I can tell you that they were serious. I am the Weave, my kitten, and you are one of my children. All gods have the right to pass on to their followers certain information in the form of dreams, omens, and warnings. Those dreams were warnings, warnings I wasn't permitted to give to you directly.

  "Why not?"

  Because it would have violated the rules under which we operate, she told him.

  "It, it seems strange that you would communicate with me that way when we talk all the time."

  She laughed delightedly. Don't forget our basic relationship, kitten. I am the god, and you are the follower. That we happen to talk from time to time doesn't change that. I'm still going to communcate with you in the boring old mystical standard ways that other gods communicate with their followers. I have to keep my mysterious means, if only for appearances' sake, don't I? I'd probably disappoint you if I didn't act godly in at least a few ways. You'd think you had a boring goddess.

  That struck Tarrin as funny in some way, so funny he actually laughed. "You don't have to impress me, Mother. I'm impressed enough. And you're never boring."

  I'm happy to hear that, she replied lightly. He had the sense that she was beaming at him, for some reason.

  "I don't understand two of the dreams, Mother."

  I can't explain them to you, she warned. I can only confirm what I know you already know. You just have to work them out for yourself. In time, I'm sure you'll understand their meaning.

  He more or less expected that. But it disturbed him. One of the dreams was about Keritanima in moral pain, and the other was about Faalken. A dead Faalken, holding a flaming sword. And Jegojah was standing behind him. That one really upset him, because he had never forgotten that it was his fault that Faalken died. If he hadn't lost control, flew into a rage, he could have protected Faalken, he could have saved him. Faalken's death was his fault, his blood was on his paws. If the dreams were a warning, then it meant that Jegojah was coming again, coming for him, and that Faalken had something to do with his return.

  Jegojah was coming, when Tarrin couldn't use Sorcery.

  The timing of that went beyond mere coincidence. The ki'zadun must have known that Tarrin was unable to use his magic, somehow. How was beyond him, since it happened out here in the desert, where no outsiders would dare go, but the how wasn't as important as the response. But what they didn't know was that Tarrin could use Druidic magic. He already knew exactly what he needed to do to level the playing field between himself and the Doomwalker, to turn it into a fair fight, a fight of nothing but swords, skill, sweat, and raw will.

  The mere thought of Jegojah made his blood boil. Jegojah had killed Faalken, and though it had been Tarrin's fault it happened, the Doomwalker had been the one to deal the killing blow. Now it was coming again, coming for him...and he wanted it. He wanted the chance to rip the Doomwalker's head off. He was different now, larger, stronger, faster, more seasoned. He would be more than a match for the undead warrior, even without his Sorcery. This time, he had the chance to pay back Jegojah in blood for everything it had done, pay it back without fear that someone else was going to get hurt in the battle. There would be no constraints.

  This time, it would be settled, one way or the other. Jegojah was not going to come after him again afterward. This time, the Doomwalker would pay for killing Faalken, for attacking his family, for trying to kill Jenna. Jegojah would be facing a much more dangerous Were-cat this time, a Were-cat that was absolutely determined to finish the nightmarish creature off for good. A Were-cat that no longer feared the Doomwalker's power.

  Two would enter that last battle, but only one was going to leave.

  The Goddess had withdrawn from him in his moment of fury, probably leaving him to sort things out for himself. He didn't mind that much. He stood up and stared at the sun in the east, feeling the heat of it against his face, feeling the heat welling up inside of him. The thought of finding his power again paled in comparison of the need to avenge himself against the Doomwalker. Magic could wait. This, this was personal. Tarrin had been fearing and fighting Jegojah for over a year now, and that was just about enough. It was time to finish it.

  There was blood to be paid between them, and Tarrin was going to collect on that debt. Collect on it in a way that would make Allia proud of him.

  Turning, Tarrin started down off the spire. He had alot to think about, alot to do, and it was best for him to sort it out as he ran. That way he wasn't wasting any effort, maximizing his time, as Allia had taught him to do.

  Back on the top of the spire, in the uneven stone that made up the top of the sheared rock, rested two seared footprints, burned into the stone. They were very large, very long footprints, human-like feet that were unnaturally long and wide, almost like a cross between a human foot and an animal's paw. Gouges at the tips of the toes showed that the owner of those feet had claws, and the imprints were blackened and smoking. Three figures and an extremely small fourth could be seen racing off towards the northwest just beyond the lip of the broken spire, figures distorted a bit by smoke and heat as they passed behind the wavering heat rising up from the two seared footprints burned into the continuity of the stone, leaving behind blackened scars.

  Omens of what was to come.

  To: Title EoF

  Chapter 12

  Those two were something else.

  Tarrin squatted down beside an oasis, a pool of water that had formed inside a crack in the desert floor, surrounded by large, leafy plants and a single strange tree with ridged back and a puff of green at its peak, watching Var and Denai. They had run for most of the day, and the setting sun was inching its way towards the horizon. Tarrin had spent most of that time in a silent contemplation of what was to come, but he'd spent the rest of the time watching the two Selani. He only knew one Selani, and this was the first time he'd seen two of them interacting at a social level.

  It was quite entertaining.

  Allia had never described this. Var and Denai were, quite simply, dead set to prove that he or she was the better of the two. They were ferociously competitive, turning absolutely everything into a challenge or competition. From running to hunting to setting up tents, even to finding the better campsite for the evening, the two of them had pitted themselves against one another. There was no animosity between them--indeed, they were very friendly and open with one another--but there was still that intense need to prove superiority over the other. Gender had nothing to do with this competition. Among the Selani, there was very little difference between males and females in size, strength, or ability. Only gender separated the two, and that was no barrier to competition.

  So, the day had turned out to be one very long, ever-changing game between Var and Denai, as challenges were conceived and offered, then accepted and contended. They had battled over things as serious as finding food, and as silly as who could reach the next rock spire first. There were very few boundaries to their competitions, even going so far as to see who could tie the better tent knot. Had he not been so preoccupied, he would have found their antics to be rather funny. Sarraya surely did. The only real areas not contested were areas of specialty, such as Var's Scout eyesight or Denai's obe knowledge of languages.

  All
of that, the entire day of silly games had only been a precursor for this. The challenge of who was the better fighter. He watched them from a safe distance as they battled one another in the Dance, and from his short assessment of them, he had already chosen the winner. Denai was fast and strong, but she was still very young, barely more than an adult. Var had about fifteen years on her, and that difference in experience was the telling trait. Denai was good, but Var would eventually beat her. But Denai wasn't going to admit that easily. Their fighting was full contact, and both of them were already sporting what were going to be some pretty impressive bruises. Denai seemed to have a knack for getting Var to lower his guard on the right side, so his right eye was pretty swollen. Denai, on the other hand, had a tendency to raise her guard, and Var was coming in underneath her arms and putting some shots in on her belly, hips, and legs more or less uncontested. For some reason, Denai wouldn't block with her legs. That was a defensive technique basic to the Dance. But then he remembered that she was obe, and that her training in the Dance had probably been slowed down compared to others because of her additional duties. She was making novice mistakes, but to give her the benefit of the doubt, she hadn't been as thoroughly trained as others her age.

  No need to make this easy. Tarrin stood up and moved towards where the two of them were scrapping, in a nice flat dusty clearing not far from the oasis plants. Sarraya flitted over to his side, and that made him stop.

  "Don't interfere," Sarraya told him. "This is something they need to do. I think it's a racial custom. They're establishing the pecking order."

  "That's not social, that's instinctual," Tarrin replied gruffly. "And I already know who's going to win."

  "Who?"

  "Var. Denai's making too many mistakes."

  "We'll see. Experience isn't everything."

  "Think what you want," Tarrin shrugged, and they fell silent. But not for very long. Var came at Denai on her left side, and baited her into shifting her guard to her strong side--Denai was left-handed--then he turned his side to her and kicked her in the hip with a thrusted foot. Denai was squared against him, and the impact sent her driving to the side, and that totally lowered her defenses. One of her arms came out, and the agile Var grabbed it in both hands and whipped her over his shoulder into the ground. Denai had the presence of mind to bring up a foot and kick over her own head, but Var was expecting such a move, and had turned so that her foot only struck his shoulder. He still had hold of her arm, and knelt behind her and twisted it behind her back, threatening to break it. She struggled from her seated position to grab him with her other hand, kicking and squirming, but she couldn't get her arm behind her enough to grab anything sensitive enough to make him let her go.

  "Aija!" Denai gasped when Var wrenched her arm. It was the Selani word for yield. Denai was submitting.

  "You were saying?" Tarrin asked.

  "Hmph. Denai should have grabbed him between the legs. That would have stopped him."

  "You're talking about something most men go to great lengths to protect," Tarrin told her. "Var would have seen that coming from a longspan away."

  Var released Denai, standing up as she rolled her arm in her shoulder socket a few times to work out the sting. He was rubbing his face gingerly, from where she had walloped him a few good times. Var had won, but it was obvious that it wasn't an easy victory.

  "How did you do that?" Denai demanded from the ground. "I never put my arm out."

  Var was about to respond, but he backed off when he realized that Tarrin had come so close that he was looming over the smaller Selani. Denai scrambled to her feet, and when Tarrin suddenly cocked a fist back as if to strike her, she raised her arms into the basic guard defense, a position from which she could move quickly to block nearly anything from any direction. But her arms were too high.

  "That's how," Tarrin told her bluntly. "You keep your arms too high, and you don't block with your legs. Var kicked you in the hip to turn you, and you threw your arm out to balance yourself. You defeated yourself, Denai."

  "I was going to tell you that myself," Var told her calmly.

  "Teach her," Tarrin ordered Var, then he backed away from them enough to turn around without them being within striking distance of his back.

  He had his own issues at the moment. Jegojah was coming, and just the thought of it made him snarl in anger and clench his fists. He hadn't done any real fighting for three months, and against the Doomwalker, he had to be totally sharp. Yet out here, there was nobody suitable against which to spar. Var and Denai were too small, too weak, not as skilled, unable to challenge him in the slightest. There were inu and kajat, but they were animals, and didn't fight with the same levels of subtlety he needed to sharpen his skills in preparation. He had few options other than running the forms alone, but that wasn't as beneficial as actual sparring.

  Yet another reason to miss Allia.

  He considered trying to spar with Var and Denai in human form, but it wouldn't work. He had a different body in his natural form, and training in one form and fighting in another would not work. To train as a human would be to confine himself to a human's abilities, and that would get him killed against Jegojah. The Doomwalker was no opponent that a human could defeat. He turned back and watched as Var held up his arms with Denai in the guard stance, showing her where to adjust. Denai had everything she needed to improve, a teacher better than her. Var would teach her the right way to do things, and she would get better. But Tarrin's teacher wasn't with him...and truth be told, she had stopped teaching him long ago. Allia considered him trained, which meant that she had taught him everything she knew, and she could teach him no more. Only the application of that knowledge through experience separated them, and that was something that he had to do for himself.

  He distanced himself from the others, on the other side of the oasis, and did the only thing that he could. He sparred against empty air, conjuring up an image of Jegojah in his mind, dredging up everything he remembered about the Doomwalker, and imagining it attacking. Jegojah was more than an undead creature or a magic-user, it had proven itself to be exceptionally skilled in fighting, among the paramount warriors in the world. Even if it didn't have its magical powers--

  No. It was wrong to think of Jegojah as an it. The Doomwalker had shown personality. It was not an unthinking automaton, a magical weapon. It was individual, unique, with thoughts and feelings. Jegojah was a he. He certainly wasn't very friendly, but he had shown a propensity for honor. That was a good indicator that the Doomwalker was more than just another magical creation. He remembered past fights with him, how he had saluted him with his sword, how he had spoken of honor and fairness. He remembered infusing Jegojah's body, feeling the link that ran back to his soul, the soul that Kravon used to animate the Doomwalker's body. He remembered Dolanna and Phandebrass explaining exactly what a Doomwalker was, how they were created.

  He slowed and stopped, lowering the sword. Of course. Jegojah was no enemy to take lightly. His skills were exceptional, and in a fair fight with no magic, the winner would be who was luckier. But Jegojah was a sentient being, with thoughts and feelings. And there was more than one way to fight. Intimidation, blackmail, flustering, they were all psychological forms of fighting, a way to get an advantage. Jegojah was very good at intimidating his enemies to give himself an edge, but perhaps that could work the other way as well. He already knew how to even the playing field, how to strip Jegojah of his ability to draw energy from the land. Maybe a little extra would frighten the Doomwalker and give Tarrin an advantage.

  Tarrin hated Jegojah with every fiber of his being, but he wasn't stupid enough not to respect the Doomwalker's abilities. He'd take every advantage he could get.

  And so he continued. The sword felt a little strange in his paws, not like how his staff felt natural, but he was very good with it. His mother and Allia both had taught him the sword, and he could wield one with as much skill as either of them. This sword was a bit different, for it was one of the
rare few he had held that seemed to fit into his paws. Months of practice and combat had given him an affinity for the weapon, but he still missed his staff. The blade cut the air, whistling as it moved as he flowed through several routines of attack and defense, routines that incorporated punches, kicks, claw swipes, and even tail lashes into them to take advantage of his natural weaponry. The sword, which wasn't much shorter than Denai, was perfect for his height, as if it had been made for him. The single-edged weapon, its black metal shimmering in the waning sun, sliced through imaginary foes again and again, as Tarrin snaked and weaved and evaded phantom attacks. He became caught up in the soothing rythym of the Dance, allowing it to take over his mind for a time, becoming nothing and everything, where there was no thought, no fear, no worry, only him and his sword and his opponent, moving together in a seamless symmetry of poetic motion.

  But it still wasn't good enough. The sword just didn't feel like a part of him, and he couldn't afford to give anything away when he faced Jegojah. He needed his staff back, it was just that simple. But Shiika had destroyed his staff, and the Ironwood from which he had cut it was an exceeding rare wood, something he'd never find around here. No other other wood would do. He was too hard on his weapon for it to break easily, because of his inhuman strength. Without Ironwood, he was without a staff--

  He was without his staff. When Tarrin cut the Ironwood, he had made two staves. He cut and made them when he was thirteen, when he knew he wasn't at his full height yet. So he'd made the first for his height at that time, and made the second one very long, to be cut to the proper height when he was fully grown. He'd used that first staff for about a year and a half, then he'd given it to Jenna when he outgrew it. Jenna still had it, even though it did little more than collect dust in a corner of her room.

  He could conceivably get it. He knew how to Conjure and Summon, but this was a little different. For one, the staff wasn't his anymore, and it had been a very long time since he'd held it. That would make Summoning the staff very difficult. It belonged to Jenna, and that would also make it much harder. But Jenna was his sister, so he hoped that would make it a little easier than if he'd given it to a complete strangers.