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

by James Galloway (aka Fel)

  That done, Tarrin spent most of the rest of the night exploring the city directly around the arena. He learned every nook and cranny, every side street and alley, even the location and make-up of the many piles or rubble in the vicinity. He found every conceivable place to hide, every cubby hole or dark-shadowed corner.

  He explored in his cat form every building within a longspan of the arena to look for those hiding places, and in so doing he was exposed to what the Dwarves had left behind. All the wood, paper, and cloth were long gone, leaving behind only the stone and metal things they made, but that was a significant amount. The Dwarves were adept at making stone furniture, believe it or not, probably softened with cushions and pillows. The faded paintings on the stone walls themselves, and some murals and frescos, showed him what the Dwarves had looked like. They were a short, stocky race, wide-shouldered and barrel-chested, with powerfully built arms and legs. They all had beards, even the women, and wore their hair long and braided in the artwork. Most of the art was depictions of battles and warriors, telling him that the race was a martial one, but there was no glorification of death and destruction in the art. It was a noble kind of art, Dwarves battling Ogres and Trolls and other Goblinoids, even one mural of a group of Dwarves fighting an actual Dragon, but no indications anywhere of them fighting with humans or Sha'Kar. So, it was a race of skilled warriors, but warriors who knew, understood, and enjoyed peace.

  He was beginning to be impressed by what he saw. The Dwarves looked to have been a noble people, skilled and strong, proud. It was a crime that they had all died in the Blood War.

  The paintings were one thing, but the art of sculpture was another. The paintings and murals were exacting and crisp, like illustrations without soul, but the metal and stone sculpture that graced those abandoned buildings showed the true soul of the Dwarven people. It was bold and exciting, with strong lines and oftentimes abstract depictions. The Dwarves could carve a bust with utter precision, making an exact likeness of someone down to the hairs in his beard, or they could create stunningly complex shapes and objects that seemed almost impossible to the human eye, abstract sculpture that grabbed the eyes and threatened to turn one's sanity inside out. Despite the bizarre shapes, all the sculptures carried with them a sense of perfection, a sense of delightful teasing of the senses, forcing one to concentrate to unlock the secrets hidden within the shape's lines. Tarrin was no expert on art, but he could see the soul within each of the sculptures, and he was astounded by them.

  The rest of the night after that was spent removing all the art that would come free from those buildings near the arena, moving them out to the outside edges of the city. He would not destroy such beauty. He also marked those buildings that were largely populated with paintings and murals. Those buildings he would not approach in the battle, no matter what it cost him. He would not jeopardize what little there was that the Dwarves had left behind. He also drew a precise boundary or explored and unexplored buildings, an area that turned out to be about two square longspans. That was the battleground. He would not leave the battlefield, for he would not risk destroying unexplored buildings and the treasures that they may hold.

  After he moved all of the art, he started to worry, realizing that he had made a serious blunder. He had left it all sitting outside, and it would be exposed to the elements. If he had to leave, then he may not have time to put it all back inside buildings, and the wind and sand would wear the art down to nothing but soulless rocks. But he was afraid now to go back and move it all over again, because the twinging of the Weave was getting stronger. Jegojah was moving in his direction, and he didn't want to get caught outside his chosen battleground.

  It left him only one option, something he had never really done before. While sitting on a rock in the pre-dawn, he blew out his breath and called for help. "Mother," he called. "I need to talk to you."

  What is it, Tarrin?

  "You once said that if I asked, you would do something for me."

  Of course.

  "I need your help now," he said soberly. "I moved a whole lot of ancient Dwarven art out of this area, but I didn't think to put it back inside once I moved it. I left it sitting outside, like an idiot. Could you move it somewhere safe?"

  What is this I'm hearing? Is this consideration? Is this concern? Is my dour kitten actually thinking about protecting pieces of rock and metal? the Goddess called winsomely.

  "Mother!" he said, flushing slightly.

  She laughed delightedly. For such a noble cause, my kitten, I'd be more than happy to help you. I'll put the art somewhere safe, so don't you worry about it.

  And that was that. It was the only thing he could think to worry about. He had made all his preparations, and taken all his precautions. He had learned the battleground so well that every rock had a place, and he had made his plans. There was nothing for him to do now but wait. Sit and wait for Jegojah, look forward to the moment when he looked the Doomwalker in the eyes and sent it back to Hell.

  It was interminable.

  Waiting was one thing, but waiting like this was quite another. For three days Tarrin waited, waited for that sense of the Weave to move towards him again, but it had not. It had stopped some distance away from him, and had not moved forward since. He fully understood that Jegojah had probably done the exact same thing as him, had found a suitable battlefield and had stopped to lure him into a fight. But Tarrin would not abandon his place, even if it meant waiting out the Doomwalker.

  The waiting had frayed Tarrin's already sensitive nerves. Never a very sedate person to begin with, the waiting had worked him up to a state of nervous frenzy. He would pace back and forth in the arena all day, walking in lines and circles that had developed into pathways in the sandy soil, and when that got boring, he would go out on short patrols of the chosen battleground, making sure everything was where it was supposed to be, making sure his traps were still set and nothing had moved. He had even gone back to the large open square where he had left the dwarven art, but it had disappeared. A quick look around hadn't found it, and the Goddess had been curiously tight-lipped about where the art had gone. She wouldn't tell him, only saying that it was safe.

  That only served to annoy an already nervous Were-cat, and that wasn't a very good combination. He worked off his anger by practicing with staff and sword, shadow-fighting against imaginary foes, making sure the long stretch of inactivity combat wise hadn't dulled his edge. When that lost its appeal, he moved heavy rocks around the arena floor, trying to find a perfect landscape that was just enough open space and just enough obstacle to suit him. Every time he ended up putting things back the way they had been in the first place, but at least it was something to do, and it gave him some exercise. Some of the rocks he moved weighed as much as three horses.

  Three days. Tarrin was very nearly ready to abandon his battleground and his plan and hunt the Doomwalker down, but he knew that that was suicide. The Doomwalker was already a formidable foe, and fighting it on its own ground would be insane. But Tarrin knew that the Doomwalker was compelled by magic to seek him out, where Tarrin had no such magical compulsion. His compulsion was based on emotions, but he could control his, where he would bet that the Doomwalker couldn't suppress its own compulsion half as effectively. It was aggravating, but he had to wait out the Doomwalker, until that magical compulsion to seek him overwhelmed the intelligent strategy of luring the Were-cat onto favorable ground.

  Three days of seething unsettled nerves, and then the Doomwalker began to move again, move towards him. The effect on Tarrin was almost one of bliss, a complete calming of his worry, so much so that he could sit in one place in total serenity for as long as he wished. He found a good place, sitting in the middle of the arena, staff on the ground by his crossed legs, eyes closed, his senses more attuned to the Weave than they were to reality. He tracked that quiver in the Weave intently, watched it approach, hesitate at the edge of the city, then move forwards again. He now knew that the Doomwalker knew where he was.
That was why it was wary to enter the city. He also knew that the Doomwalker knew that he knew it was coming. That seemed a bit silly to think in those terms, but it was true. The Doomwalker would expect Tarrin to be ready for it, instead of thinking that Tarrin wouldn't be expecting to see it. He knew that because Tarrin had stopped in the city, in an environment that favored him, and had not moved since. That was not normal for Tarrin, and the Doomwalker wasn't stupid. It probably took one look from the edge of the city and realized that Tarrin was waiting for him, wouldn't leave the relative safety of the rocky terrain, terrain covered in sterile sand that would deny the Doomwalker the ability to draw energy from the land. Jegojah would know that he was walking into a trap, but his compulsion would not allow him to retreat.

  The Doomwalker grew closer and closer that afternoon of the third day, but instead of getting nervous or anxious, Tarrin was strangely calm. The anger and sheer hatred he held for Jegojah had begun to build in him, growing stronger with each step forward Jegojah took, but it was an icy anger, one that allowed him to remain in complete control. There would be time enough for fury later, but right now, he wanted to remain in control. He wanted to look into Jegojah's eyes and see what was there at least once before he ripped off the Doomwalker's head.

  It was here.

  Tarrin opened his eyes as the sound of clanking armor reached him, raised his head as he heard it jump from the stands down to the ground. It looked exactly as he remembered, with the archaic armor and the wasted, leathery face, pulled tight over bone, with the glowing red eyes. He noticed that it had two swords belted to its waist. Tarrin's own eyes ignited from within with their green radiance as his expression dissolved away, leaving behind nothing but an emotionless, stony mask, a mask that hid everything from his adversary. It stopped some distance away from him, then calmly went about taking its shield from its back and settling it on its left arm, then drawing one of those swords. It never said a word.

  Seeing it invoked a powerful fury inside him, but he kept it tightly controlled for the moment. There would be time enough to vent that fury on the Doomwalker shortly.

  Tarrin did not get up. He merely watched it. Tarrin had one trump card to play, and it wouldn't be effective unless the Doomwalker was close. He had no doubt that Jegojah remembered the tall, willowy boy. Now he was facing a much taller, much stronger, much faster opponent, thanks to Shiika's draining kiss, and he wasn't going to tip his hand until the last moment.

  "Waiting, I see," it cackled. "The same idea, we had, yes. But more patient, ye are, than Jegojah. For that, Jegojah salutes ye."

  Tarrin said nothing, staring at it.

  "Fight we must, but to be uncivil, it is unnecessary, yes. Against ye, nothing personal Jegojah has, no."

  Tarrin still said nothing, and would not stand.

  "Much differently, Jegojah could have come, yes," it said. "Instead, a fair fight Jegojah wanted, a fight to see which of us is the better. Twice before, luck and outsiders interfered, yes, and Jegojah wants to know. Jegojah wants to see who is the better man."

  The Doomwalker began to walk forward. Tarrin reached down and picked up his staff, then uncrossed his legs. He slowly stood as the Doomwalker approached him, but Jegojah came to an instant halt about ten spans away when Tarrin rose up to his full height, rose up and stared down at the much smaller Doomwalker with flat, emotionless eyes glowing with their green fire, an expression of mercilessness upon his face. Tarrin let him size up the new Tarrin, a tall, lean, menacing sight that towered over the smaller undead warrior.

  The consternation on Jegojah's face was ultimately satisfying. No matter what happened to him after that moment, no matter how much joy or sorrow he may experience, one of his fondest memories would be the look on Jegojah's face when it stared up at him, stared at him with fear flowing through its glowing red eyes.

  That brief moment of peace was shattered when Tarrin roared mightily at the Doomwalker, ears going back and staff coming up, showing the Doomwalker formidable, long fangs and a great deal of furious attitude. Tarrin's control wavered at that instant, the moment he had been anticipating for a month and more. He gave into his fury, surrendered to his consuming hatred for and need to destroy the Doomwalker, destroy it once and for all. With a lunge that took the Doomwalker completely by surprise, Tarrin seemed to flow forward in a way that looked impossible, as if his feet never touched the ground. It looked as if he slid across the sand of the arena floor, floating above the ground as he closed that ten span gap in the blink of an eye, and struck the Doomwalker squarely in the hastily upraised shield. The power of the blow knocked the Doomwalker off its feet, sending it sailing to the side, to land on the ground in a crumpled heap.

  The chiming clang of that first blow rang from the walls of the arena floor, like a bell tolling doom, and it still reverberated through the sandy arena as the Doomwalker rolled quickly to its feet and squared off against him. The creature's shield had a formidable dent in its upper outside edge, testament to the raw power behind the Were-cat's blow.

  Jegojah cackled. "Come on then," it said in a swaggering tone, inviting Tarrin in with the tip of its sword.

  The first blows were not the careful measured strikes of warriors feeling one another out. Tarrin assaulted the Doomwalker in a fury of powerful blows, battering the smaller opponent around like a practice dummy. It looked as if Jegojah was getting pounded, but the Doomwalker always caught the staff blows on its shield or against the heavier sections of its armor. It did not try to fight back, it merely settled in and allowed the Were-cat to beat on it, letting Tarrin vent this initial explosion of angry offense. Tarrin knew that his staff could do the Doomwalker no permanent injury, and that was a part of his initial plan. His objective was not to do in the Doomwalker, his objective was to smash up its armor and render its shield useless. A solid blow in a joint would cause the metal to interfere with Jegojah's ability to move, and that would translate to an advantage. Tarrin looked like he was in the throes of utter rage, but he was actually very calm and calculating in his assault. Heavy blow after heavy blow slammed into the Doomwalker, knocking it to and fro, but it did little more than absorb the punishment.

  At least until a savage overhanded blow came in behind a badly presented shield and caved in the left shoulder of its armor, pressing the metal against its dessicated body. Jegojah struck back instantaneously after that, seeming to comprehend exactly what the Were-cat was doing, his sword thrusting out and seeking the Were-cat's belly. Tarrin twisted to the side and withdrew his staff, taking a step back and surveying his work. The Doomwalker's shield was badly beaten up, and he'd put that heavy notch in the left shoulder of the breastplate. Not much damage, but that dented shoulder would keep the Doomwalker from raising its shield to protect from high-angled attacks. That was something to remember.

  Tarrin waded back in immediately, but was more careful now. Jegojah's sword had started doing more than parrying, using those same light, shallow slashing movements that were so effective, seeking out Tarrin's paws on his staff as they traded blows. It would defend against the staff and seek to take off a finger or two as Tarrin pulled away. Tarrin irritated the Doomwalker by shifting to the end-grip, wielding the staff like a spear and imposing five spans of wood between the Doomwalker's sword and his paws. But that attempt at irritation nearly cost him his left arm. Jegojah snapped forward in a dizzyingly fast rush, sword working him at angles that were now awkward because of the Doomwalker's proximity and the length of his own weapon. It was inside his weapon's arc, and it eliminated his ability to defend with his staff. It slapped his staff out wide to his right with the face of its shield, using it as a weapon instead of a defensive barrier, and then slashed in heavily with its sword, going for the elbow of his left arm. Were it not for the manacles on his wrists, he would have lost his left arm at the elbow, quickly letting go of his staff with that paw and using the metal cuff as a shield, blocking the Doomwalker's sword. He cocked his arm back and punched Jegojah dead in the face with his lef
t paw after sending the sword wide, a move so fast that the Doomwalker didn't register it until it was staggering back from the impact.

  Damned clever! Tarrin's irritation bloomed into anger when he realized that Jegojah baited him into shifting into the end-grip, just to do exactly what it did. Were it not for Tarrin's superior speed and reflexes, he would have lost his left arm.

  He recovered himself, collected back into a guard stance as the Doomwalker leered at him, slapping its sword against its shield in an insulting manner. That served to unhinge Tarrin's control, which was probably what the Doomwalker was trying to do in the first place. With an infuriated roar, the Cat rising up inside him and threatening to take control, Tarrin closed the distance with the Doomwalker and tried to smash it into the ground. The Doomwalker sidestepped the blow easily, and flicked its sword at the recovering Were-cat's head. Tarrin flinched away, but not before a blazing line of pain drew across his left cheek, and warm blood began flowing down the side of his face.

  The intense, angry burning of that purely cosmetic injury immediately caught his attention. It was some kind of magical attack! The pain of the minor cut was almost blinding, as if he had had the entire side of his head torn off. Blood flowed profusely down the side of his face and neck, much too much blood for such a small cut. The sense of that magic became apparent to him, a latent magical effect passed on by the sword, a magic designed to amplify pain the sword inflicted, and also attacked the body in such a way that prevented his body from stopping the bleeding. The sword was evil, it was designed to either cause such flinching at the pain it inflicted that it gave the wielder an easy kill, or make the victim bleed to death after the battle, should he get away. A single scratch from that sword would be fatal to a human being.

  Tarrin backed off a few steps, joining with the Weave to come to an understanding of the magic attacking him. He picked out its function quickly, then wove together a proper counterspell to neutralize its effects. The pain quickly faded, and the blood pouring out of his face reduced to a natural rate of flow.