by Frank Morin
I am pack leader. He threw the thought into the space he seemed to be sharing with his human self. All challengers must be destroyed.
His human self threw back, You serve me, and I dictate who dies.
With a howl of animal rage, he smashed the seat where Ivor had sat a moment ago, prowling circles around the table as he strove to drive the infuriating human from his mind.
The conflicting wills crashed and beat against each other in his head with satisfying fury, triggering a skull-splitting headache. He smelled anger and felt his own blood surging in battle lust, even though his limbs barely moved.
His human self was far stronger than before. It withstood his assault, even though he drove every ounce of rage and fury against it. They clashed, committed absolutely, and for a second their two selves melded together.
His vision blurred and his head felt like it was about to split asunder.
Then Connor’s mind snapped awake and he looked out through rampager eyes. He now controlled his body, and it was glorious. Every muscle thrummed with strength. His paws could smash stone, and his jaws could rend granite flesh. Scents poured in, clearer than any Pathfinder could hope to experience. He turned, and his body moved like a coiled spring.
But somehow he was still Connor. The beast prowled in his heart, pushing him to release it and destroy everyone in the city. It was so strong, its hunger so intense, Connor had to fight with all his will to hold it at bay.
But he managed it. He scarce believed it, but couldn’t risk doubting himself or the beast would take control again.
The door banged open and Tomas and Cameron entered, carrying a long length of chain. Ivor waved the others back and took a step closer, water and fire still rippling along his hands.
“Connor, can you hear me?”
His heartbeat had slowed after the initial rush of panic. Still elevated above normal, he faced Connor in rampager form with remarkable calm.
Connor tried to say, “I’m all right.” It came out as, “Um-arr-rah.”
Ivor seemed to take that as a good sign. “What happened?”
Connor wasn’t sure. His thoughts still felt sluggish, clouded by the purple haze of porphyry. In rampager form, it was so much easier to feel than to think, to rend than to sit.
So he padded across the room away from the others and their tantalizing scent of fear and warm flesh. He’d transformed, but something was different this time.
His mind seemed more awake than ever before in rampager form, even though the beast also felt more alive, more real than ever.
As he considered that monster in his heart, he suddenly became aware of the power that fueled it. Always before, transformation into a rampager had been so raw and so wild that he barely managed any coherent thoughts. It was as if his mind was plunged into turbulent waters that flooded his mind and drowned him in rage.
This time he floated on the surface and got a glimpse at the river of power he rode. It glowed green in his mind’s eye.
As soon as he focused on that, he became aware of the dual currents of magic, just as he had when trying to tap his tertiary powers. This time though, they did not collide inside of him and cancel each other out. The reddish current flowed past, close beside him, but not quite touching. It was the greenish current that fueled his rampager heart, through the porphyry.
He was stronger. He wasn’t sure how he knew it, but he did. Recognizing that greenish current unlocked deep reserves of strength he hadn’t known he’d lacked.
Was his clarity due to his sworn promise to Verena, his repeatedly declared resolve to die before surrendering to the monster in his heart? Or was it somehow tied to his ascension and ability to sense those different power frequencies?
He didn’t know, and it didn’t really matter. Connor’s mind rode that green current as even more strength poured into him, until he felt he might simply explode. He breathed deep, savoring the movement of thick muscle across his torso and haunches. Even if any other rampagers still existed, he no longer feared them. They were like pups compared to his new strength.
Ivor called from across the room. “Connor? How did this happen?”
There was no way he could pronounce sweetbread with his monstrous maw, so he tried to say muffin.
It came out as, “muffa.”
Ivor glanced at the table and nodded. “I thought those tasted different.”
Rory grunted. “That means Craigroy. Shouldn’t be surprised that he knows you’re here, or that he’d make another play to control you.”
“How are you still in control, though?” Ivor asked, edging closer and studying his enormous form with fascination. “Last time, just seeing the powder nearly overwhelmed you.”
He couldn’t explain it, but he wasn’t about to miss the opportunity. They’d just been discussing the need for more witnesses to the lie of patronage.
No time like the present.
Connor tried to say, “Revolution,” but the word came out like a growled, “Ravarooroo.”
Ivor grimaced. “I’d ask you to write it, but what’s the point?”
Connor gestured toward the main square far below.
Then he leaped through the window.
As he soared out over the hundred foot drop he clearly heard Rory’s muttered, “You’ve got to be kidding.”
At the same time Cameron sighed. “I liked Merkland. Pity.”
54
Fear is a Great Motivator
As Connor fell toward the huge, peaked roof of the southern wing of the palace, he unleashed a full rampager roar.
He had really good lungs. The sound reverberated through the city, the echoes building upon themselves, seemingly magnified by the crisp, clear air. The sound seemed to seize people and freeze them in place. He landed and sprang to the outer edge of the roof and roared again, drawing every gaze.
That’s when the screaming started.
Fear boiled into the air all around Connor like smoke from a thousand tiny fires. Connor threw his head back and howled louder still, exulting in the power to terrify an entire city. Rory and Ivor wanted witnesses of the lie of patronage. He planned to round up as many as possible.
So he raced down the length of the roof and vaulted from the southwest corner, easily crossing to one of the mansions clustered near the palace. He crossed several roofs in a flash, then jumped to the high, peaked roof of the imposing Hall of Lords.
Loving the unrivaled power of his mighty limbs, Connor shot up one of the high towers in enormous bounds, claws tearing into the stones and easily finding purchase. At the top, he howled again, then unleashed his tightly-coiled muscles in a mighty spring. He flew all the way across a stone-paved square to the roof of the military command building.
Soldiers were already pouring out of every doorway, many stamping feet into boots or struggling to don armor. He spotted Boulders tapping granite and a Spitter gathering snow and compressing it into water.
Useless. He ignored them and raced the alarm bells through the city, using the rooftops as his highway. He crossed one long barracks, scattering terrified soldiers, who were then chastised by officers trying to mobilize the city defense. He soared across wide avenues, howling all the while, making sure everyone saw and heard him. Fear grew so intense from the populace that it made his head spin and sparked a ravening hunger. He almost detoured into a small courtyard to eat a couple of slingers who began casting stones at him.
Civilians fled in every direction, like goats caught in the open during a pedra bloodlust. Soldiers were shouting the alarm and trying to get organized, but he moved so fast he left them in a constant state of frantic confusion.
As Connor neared the huge outer wall surrounding the city, one Firetongue on duty struck at him with several whiplike tendrils of fire. Connor simply vaulted the flames and landed atop the wall next to the surprised soldier. The man stumbled back, flames exploding from his hands.
Connor stepped through the fire, his thick hide smoldering but protecting him from harm
. He hooked a long claw under the man’s chest plate and tossed him off the wall.
The soldier used flames to slow his fall, but Connor was already tearing along the top of the wall, scattering soldiers. A Sentry tried to intercept him with a grasping column of earth, but he plowed through it and leaped back to the nearby rooftops.
Connor laughed with the thrill of simply running, the sound like the rumbling of a hundred battle hounds. His muscles bunched and flexed tirelessly as he crossed the city, spreading panic on all sides.
He worked back around to the enormous main square facing the inner wall of the central palace and stopped in the center, near a tall, four-tiered fountain, its waters frozen for the winter. Soldiers poured into the square from every side, forming into nervous companies. They hesitated to advance, wise enough to fear engaging the monster.
Connor’s long ears weren’t quite as good as a Pathfinder’s, but he easily heard whispers of unclaimed. Soldiers watched him with fearful curiosity, while civilians peeked out windows or craned around corners. With so many soldiers between them and danger, for the moment their curiosity overcame their fear.
It seemed every eye in the entire city was focused on him. So far so good.
Now for the hard part.
Connor took a long, slow breath, closed his eyes, and tried to untap porphyry. He needed to transform back to human form, but he’d never done it on purpose before. Always he’d burned porphyry to exhaustion. He couldn’t wait for that, but needed to prove he could step back to humanity now while everyone was watching, but before the soldiers worked up the courage to attack.
The beast chained in his heart immediately erupted into a frenzy of rage, resisting the decision. Only through porphyry could it be released, and although he was controlling it, it was awake and it exulted in the might of his transformed state. It attacked his control, striving to seize dominance again.
For a moment, Connor groaned as he struggled to impose his will upon the fierce monster in his heart. His muscles quivered from the inner battle and he growled low and threatening, triggering a ripple of nervous shuffling from the soldiers creeping slowly closer. They’d attack any second. He needed to transform now!
So Connor focused on Verena. He filled his mind with the last memory of her, lying peacefully asleep in Altkalen. He’d memorized every facet of that moment, and now he brought it to vibrant life in his mind. As the image took shape, that same peace that she radiated settled over him and helped him rein in his unbridled fury.
Releasing porphyry was immensely difficult, worse than waking up in a tub of bacon and not even licking a single piece. Transforming back hurt just as much as turning into the monster had. His window-shaking roar changed mid-howl into the far weaker scream of a human in terrible pain.
He staggered and fell to one knee, panting. Luckily the pain faded quickly and he returned to himself, feeling whole, but woefully weak. He laughed and raised a fist in triumph.
He’d not only controlled the beast, but caged it and returned on his terms. That victory was more amazing in its own right than beating that elfonnel at the Carraig.
Gasps of surprise reverberated around the square, but Connor barely noticed.
He was freezing.
As a rampager, he’d ignored the cold as easily as he’d ignored the Firetongue’s flames. Standing on the snowy square with no boots, no shirt, his pants ripped up to the knees, he started shaking with cold in seconds.
That was so miserable, he nearly transformed back. Luckily, Tomas and Cameron charged into the square at the head of a forty-man company of Fast Rollers. They pushed through the soldiers, formed up their squad closer to Connor, then the captains approached together.
Tomas tossed him a spare battle jacket, which he gratefully donned. Cameron passed him his belt with his pouches of affinity stones, then beckoned a mature woman with the insignia of a Firetongue closer.
“Heat up the air a bit, will you, love?”
She glared. “I told you I’m not dating you, Captain.”
“It’s just an expression,” he protested.
“I’ve learned not to let you get any ideas.” She crossed her arms and waited.
Cameron sighed, then made a rather gallant bow. “I apologize, oh lady of the blistering fires. Will you please warm things up a bit?”
Tomas added, “You want to irritate the lad and give him an excuse to transform again?”
“Fine, but no more flowered prose. Ever.” She raised a hand that glowed with inner fire. The air warmed and Connor sighed with relief.
“Thanks.”
She retreated a step, as if afraid he’d bite her, then glared at him for frightening her.
Cameron said, “Just because he’s been a raving lunatic monster this morning doesn’t mean he can’t be polite, does it?”
A knot of nobility and high-level officers approached, followed by pairs of each of the tertiary affinities. The soldiers included a mixture of Dougal’s forces and those from other realms, and they all looked nervous and a little confused. Connor hoped most of them were Guardians.
Connor recognized Lord Nevan at the head of the nobles and waved. “Hello, Nevan. I hear you’re in charge of the city these days.”
Lord Nevan drew a bit closer, while most of the other nobles hung back. “Connor? What happened to you?”
An older lord with graying, brown hair and sharp, blue eyes that glowed with unmistakable Pathfinder light, trailed close behind Nevan. He carried himself with the self-assured swagger of a man convinced he was important. “What is the meaning of this? You, soldier, why haven’t you detained that unclaimed yet?”
Tomas asked, “What unclaimed, Lord Torcall?”
That was the name of one of the central players in Dougal’s court. Torcall pointed at Connor. “Him, of course.”
“I’m not unclaimed,” Connor told them calmly.
Another lord, younger, with thick, black hair, who wore an ankle-length fur coat joined Torcall, making sure to stand exactly even with him. “We all saw you.”
Lord Nevan glanced at the other two, who stood barely half a step behind him. “Torcall, Logan, please allow me to handle this.”
“What exactly did you see?” Connor asked, tempted to absorb a little granite. His tertiaries might be problematic, but he might need his primaries and secondaries. He didn’t want to tempt porphyry again. With so many potential hostiles, he might not be able to control the urge to destroy them all. That would create exactly the opposite effect he wanted.
The senior officers spread out, flanking the three nobles. Connor didn’t have to be a rampager to read their nervous tension.
A woman with the rank of chornail took a step closer. She also wore the tower symbol of a Sentry, so that would make her an earth-nail. Her uniform was trimmed in High Lord Feichin’s crimson and steel. “We saw you transformed into a monster. What else could we assume?”
“Because you’ve seen so many unclaimed, right?” Connor prodded.
When she hesitated he asked, “Have any of you actually seen an unclaimed?”
They exchanged glances, but none of them spoke.
“Of course you haven’t, because there is no such thing.”
“He’s barking mad,” Lord Tocall said.
“Not today, not in this. My name is Connor and I am Blood of the Tallan.”
That elicited a round of excited murmurs, which grew even louder when Lord Nevan said, “I know you, Connor, and I can confirm you speak the truth.”
The earth-nail’s glare deepened and she accused, “I thought you looked familiar. I saw you at Altkalen, allied with the Grandurians.”
The murmurs turned ugly.
“I was there, fighting Dougal’s lies.”
Lord Torcall took an angry step forward, bringing himself even with Nevan. Lord Logan quickly followed suit as Torcall snapped, “That’s more than enough.”
“Let him speak,” the woman said. He might be a lord, but she was a senior officer and her high
lord was a vocal opponent of Dougal. She seemed eager to hear more.
“Might we speak in private?” Lord Nevan asked urgently
Connor felt bad for Nevan. His world was about to get shaken to the roots. He liked the man, but change had to hurt sometimes. So he shook his head. “I’m afraid not this time, my lord. We’re beyond plotting in secret. Everyone needs to hear this. Like I said, there is no such thing as unclaimed. There is no such thing as patronage. It’s a lie known only to the high lords. They use it to enslave the rest of us.”
Lord Nevan blanched. Lord Torcall looked furious. Interestingly, Lord Logan looked intrigued. Most of the officers looked stunned, but Connor studied their reactions as they started understanding the ramifications of that declaration. The noble-born Petralists would focus on the threat to the establishment, while the common-born Guardians would begin to realize their entire lives were a lie and perhaps new options were available.
Quite a few looked like they weren’t ready to believe, though. One of them, a beefy Sentry asked, “How do you explain that monster?”
He hadn’t even bothered to make the question indecipherable. That was a good sign. “There’s a secret affinity stone called porphyry. I am perhaps the only person alive with an active affinity to it. It causes that transformation. We call them rampagers and Dougal has used them for years to reinforce the illusion of unclaimed and to remove his enemies.”
Lord Torcall grew visibly angry and pointed at Tomas and Cameron. “Seize him and throw him in irons.”
Lord Nevan looked annoyed, but Tomas spoke before he could chastise Lord Tocall for overstepping his authority. “Can’t do that, sir. He’s telling the truth.”
“I’ll have you whipped.”
Cameron took a slow step closer and nodded toward the force of Fast Rollers. “I wouldn’t recommend anything so foolish, sir. Not if you plan to live ‘till lunch.”
“You dare threaten me?”
“Oh, shut up, Torcall,” Lord Nevan barked. “You’re making things worse. Connor is beyond your authority.”