Weavespinner f-5

by James Galloway

  He donned his new clothes, and he had to admit, they fit perfectly. Cassiter had to have an uncanny eye for sizing people. The shirt was soft and comfortable, the pants like they'd he'd owned them for years, so well they fit and how soft they were. He put the folding knife that Walten gave him in his pocket, the little steel charm Camara Tal had given him in the other pocket, and put the bracers Jenna gave him on his arms. There had been a belt pouch among the numerous gifts he'd received, and he lashed that to his belt. It seemed a bit redundant to have a belt pouch when his trousers had pockets, but some things were too big to fit into a pocket comfortably. He didn't really have anything to put in the belt pouch, but at least he'd have it, just in case. Besides, it was a gift, and it was Ungardt custom to use a gift to honor the one who had given it.

  Strangely enough, putting on the clothes almost felt like putting on armor. He was finished now, and he knew that he couldn't really put it off anymore. He had to go confront Jesmind. He'd like to get it done before breakfast, so at least he could eat without it hanging over his head, but he was rather reluctant to do it. He didn't really like doing things like that, and he knew that no matter how easy he tried to make it, he was either going to make her angry or hurt her feelings. Reaching into his pocket, he clasped his hand around the little hope charm that Camara Tal had given him. She said in her note that she'd carried it around for years, and now she wanted him to have it. He wasn't sure why, but if he was supposed to hope on the little thing, he supposed that hoping that things weren't going to get out of control with Jesmind would be a good one.

  Well, there was no use waiting any longer. Working up his nerve, he put his hand on the door handle and opened it. He already knew exactly what he was going to say, and the demands he was going to make. There was little need to go over them again in his mind. He left his room and started out, moving slowly yet steadily along the halls, his expression serious and distracted at the same time as he tried to imagine the various ways that Jesmind and the other Were-cats were going to react to what he had to say. Given the shouting he'd thrown at Triana, they had to know that something like this was coming.

  Along the hallway, up the stairs, up more stairs, and then across to another stairway, passing by servants, Sorcerers, and the much more heavily present guards that were now patrolling the Tower's passages. It seemed to take forever to get there, but it also seemed like it was way too short a time before he was in the carpeted hall that led to Jesmind's door. He paused there at the landing, looking down the hall, where the door ended it. He stood there for a long moment, stepping forward a little when footsteps coming up the stairs reached his ears, not wanting to seem like he was crowding the stairway. He knew it had to be done, but he really wasn't looking forward to this. Jesmind was very willful, and he knew that it was going to become a shouting match. He didn't really want to hurt her feelings, but it may come to that just to make her back off from him and give him a little breathing space. If he could only make her understand that the best thing she could do was leave him be, she wouldn't be angering him and jeopardizing the very thing she was working to accomplish. She had to understand that he wasn't even thinking about the choice he'd have to make until he got his memory back, or at least that was his plan right now. It had changed several times in the last few days as new information reached him, there was no guarantee that he wouldn't be trying to make that choice tomorrow if some other new information came to him.

  Despite being human again, and having his mind occupied, there was enough training in him to pick up the sudden change in the footsteps behind him. There were more than one sets of them, and they suddenly went from a leisurely pace to a frantic staccato, a sound of boots running. Tarrin's first reaction was that nobody wearing boots like that would be running up or down those treacherous circular staircases unless there was a fire, and that alert conclusion was what made him turn around and look down the stairs.

  He turned around just in time to see the sword coming at him, wielded by a large man with a scar on his cheek wearing the Tower guardsman's uniform and chain jack, with two others behind him. There was no reaction of fear or shock, no surprise that he was certain the men were depending on to finish him quickly. He twisted aside like a snake, letting the sword lance just by his shirt, then grabbed the man's wrist as he overextended the thrust, twisted it, turned his arm, and then twirled and flung the man back at the other two. He did it with such speed and grace that the other men had no chance to get close enough to him to try to stab him with those swords. It was the Ungardt disarming move, a technique for an unarmed warrior to disarm an armed opponent, something his mother had taught him. But instead of breaking the wrist and forcing the hand to drop the sword, he instead turned the man against his companions, making all them slow down for that critical half second for Tarrin to back away from the landing. He knew better than to fight three men alone, but he knew that assistance wasn't very far away.

  "Jesmind!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, backpedalling furiously as the two other men caught the first and prevented him from knocking all of the down the stairs. "Triana! Jula! I need a little help out here!" He remembered the Cat's Claws when he raised his hands in a defensive posture as the first man was back on his feet, and the three men suddenly didn't look quite so enthusiastic about the odds when Tarrin caused the magical claws to come forth. He held out those claws and his hands in a wide stance, letting them see them, and he realized that the unbreakable metal that covered the backs of his hands and his forearms would serve perfectly to block and parry their weapons. He literally had two offensive and defensive weapons on each hand, and it didn't take but a second of consideration to understand how to use them in the tight confines of the passageway, even if he hadn't had the time or opportunity to practice with them and learn how to use them properly.

  With hoarse cries, the three men rushed up onto the landing and charged him. Only two could fit in the passageway at a time, and Tarrin closed his fingers to cover his hands with the claws, to form shields, then brought his hands together as he carefully considered the angles and heights of the two swords that were rushing at him. The one on the right was taller and had longer arms, and he was just a little in front of the other. That worked in his favor. He held his ground and prepared himself to meet their charge, wondering where in the Nine Hells those Were-cats were when he needed them.

  With a quick shift, Tarrin parried aside the leading sword with the back of his hand, letting it hit the metal covering it and doing him no harm, then he sidestepped and let him come almost right up on top of him, literally putting his own shoulder against the wall. He stabbed all four claws on the other hand into the man's side, making him hunch up around the four blades as they punched through the man's mail shirt and into his side, then pushed him into the path of the other, using him as a shield to protect himself from the second attacker's weapon. He slithered around the wounded man as the second tried to stop or get his weapon around the first to hit him, but he was going too fast to make such a sudden change in direction. Tarrin put his shoulder into the wounded man, still keeping his sword wide of him with his other hand, and physically bulled him into the shorter one, slamming both of them up against the wall. He did that just in time to duck under the swing of the third's sword, and heard with some satisfaction as it dug into the shoulder of the man Tarrin had injured. The man screamed this time, but it was a ragged, gurgling scream, telling him that one of his metal claws had pierced the man's lung. Tarrin spun around and backed away as the wounded man leaned heavily against his trapped companion, and the third squared off against him as the trapped one struggled to free himself.

  Nonplussed by wounding his own man, the third shuffled forward quickly, and his footwork told Tarrin that this man was an experienced fighter. Tarrin gave ground to him, backing closer and closer to Jesmind's door. What was keeping that woman when he really needed her? Tarrin turned his hands palm inward, displaying a maximum amount of shielding metal to that weapon. Until he prac
ticed some with the Cat's Claws, he'd be a clumsy opponent at best. He didn't think it prudent to try to fence the man when he was using weapons with which he was unfamiliar. What he really needed was his staff. In the confines of the hallway, the end-grip would be perfect for keeping the shorter weapon out of reach of him.

  He had his staff!

  How did it work? He feverishly tried to remember how the amulet worked as he was forced to use the Cat's Claws as shields, parrying several attempts from the man to stab him with the tip of his sword. The closed fingers enclosed his hands, letting him bat the sword away with either the back or the front of his fist. The man seemed intent on stabbing him, not trying to swing at him despite the fact that he had the room, almost fanatically obsessed with the idea of stabbing him. He was using a longsword, which was a weapon suited for either stabbing or slashing. Why the intense need to stab? He swatted away another stab at his belly, then one trying to stab him in the face, then another that tried to stab him in the shoulder. He glanced at the blade and realized that it wasn't entirely clean, it had some kind of oil smeared on it.

  Not oil. Poison!

  No wonder he was so intent on stabbing him! A stab wound would introduce the poison much more quickly than a cutting wound. He slapped the sword away again, taking another step back as he gave ground. He'd already been backed halfway down the hallway. He twisted aside from the next one and tried to cut the man's hand off at the wrist, but he withdrew his thrust with impressive speed, and sparks flew when the Cat's Claws raked across the poisoned edge of the man's sword, cutting furrows into the steel which proved who had the sharper and superior weapon. This one had seen him use that move on the other one, and he wasn't going to let it happen to him. Tarrin had the sharper, more dangerous weapon, but the poison gave the attacker every advantage. All he had to do was break Tarrin's skin once, and that would be it. The poison would do the rest.

  Now he absolutely had to have his staff. Its greater reach would put keep that poisoned blade away from him, and it would even the playing field between them. He had to think fast, the shorter one was free! He felt the heel of his foot strike wood, and he realized he'd backed into Jesmind's door. Couldn't they hear what was going on? Of course they would have, if they were in there!

  To his chagrin, he realized that nobody was home!

  He was on his own in this!

  That knowledge made getting his staff even more critical, but not when he was backed into a corner. Tensing an arm after parrying yet another attempt to stab him in the belly, he elbowed the door heavily as the flat of his foot struck it at the same time. Tarrin was a very strong young man, though he didn't look it, and the combined blow was enough to knock the door open. He was going to kiss Jesmind for not bothering to lock the door after she left. He backed into the room and suddenly opened his hands, taking a fast swipe at the man's sword as the he tried to follow him in. As long as he could hold the door, keep that man on the far side of the threshold, he could do nothing but try to stab into the room. The confines of the doorframe would hinder his movement, but he couldn't capitalize on that unless he had a long weapon to make the man fearful of trying to gain entry!

  How did it work, how did it work? Dolanna had told him to will the Firestaff to disappear. It took him a little while, but it finally did work. Did all it take to get something out was willing it to appear? He figured that it had to be. Giving a sudden shout, Tarrin took a quick step forward to surprise the man just as he was about to try to invade the room, freezing him for just a split second. He gritted his teeth and did the only thing he could really think of, willing the staff to appear.

  To his shock and surprise, a staff did appear in his hands. But it was not his trusty Ironwood weapon. It was a long shank of what looked like black steel, and it was hot to the touch.

  He had accidentally summoned forth the Firestaff.

  "That's it!" the shorter man said from behind the first. "That's the Firestaff! Get him before he makes it disappear!"

  He was a bit dismayed that he had blundered so monumentally, but he had to work with the situation. Retracting the Cat's Claws, he took up the Firestaff in an end-grip and set the end of the artifact towards the doorway. That move should have made the lead man a bit wary to enter the room, but the man suddenly screamed and backed up a good three steps, nearly about to dive out of the doorway. Tarrin realized that the man thought he was going to use magic on him!

  He nearly dropped it himself when the entire length of the old artifact suddenly erupted into brilliant flame. He could feel its heat, but it did him no harm, and he could clearly hear the thing's unspoken voice in his ears. It was urging him to strike, to trust in the power of the Staff, to raise it up and use it to smite his enemies. It wanted him to use it, it wanted him to unleash its power. But Dolanna had said that it could only work on Gods Day!

  It whispered to him, told him that it was capable of much more than just that, that he could use it to destroy those who threatened him. All he had to do was wish it, and it would be so. Its power would be his, all its power, and he could use it any way he wanted. Power like the magic they said he once knew, power to vanquish these three thieves, power to kill them with ease. It would be all his, and nobody else's. All his, all its power, the power to protect himself, the power to defend… the power to rule, the power to conquer. All its power would be his, the power that would make him a king. All he had to do was wish it, and it would be his…

  Shaking his head, he realized that, free of its prison in the elsewhere, the Firestaff was trying to subvert him. The offer of power was very tempting, but his talk with Jula made him understand where the road for those who craved power usually ended. Its offer of power was a sincere one, but in the end he would end up being a slave to its will, and its will was only that it be used as it had been created to be used. And that would get everyone he cared about killed. It was a road that ended in a cliff.

  Struggling to fight the Firestaff's mental temptations, he gritted his teeth and tried to remember how to make it go back where he had it. Will it, she said. He had to will it. Will it to go away, to be put in the elsewhere. He had to do it quickly, because the Firestaff was assaulting him with images of godhood, of him being the most powerful being on Sennadar, where he could fix all the things that were wrong with the world and create something that he would consider to be perfect. A world molded by his hands, a world shaped so that nobody was ever hungry or sick and everyone was happy. It would be a perfect world, a wonderful world, and everyone would love him and sing praises to him and-

  "No!" he said with a gasp, nearly dropping the priceless artifact. He looked at the two men in the doorway, and saw that their eyes were glazed in a strange way. The Firestaff was tempting them too! He realized that just in time to see looks of utter determination stamp on their features, and they raised their swords almost in unison. The Firestaff had them, and they were going to come through that door and try to get it with no fear about getting injured!

  They started in, struggling to get through the door at the same time, and Tarrin jumped back. He felt both relieved and very nervous when the taller one yanked a dagger out of his belt and stabbed the shorter one in the side, making him cry out and fold around the weapon. But he didn't fall, he just kept trying to push through the door. If they were going to fight each other over who was going to get to the Firestaff first, that was fine by him. It gave him a few more seconds to try to remember exactly what he did the last time he made it go, and he finally realized that he had to be holding it in one hand, his left hand. His other staff was attached to his right, Dolanna said that things in the elsewhere were arranged around his body, and that no two objects could go there that would be occupying the same space. He had to let go of the staff with his right hand, or it wouldn't disappear. He did so quickly and willed the Firestaff to go back into the elsewhere, where its infernal whispering and temptations could not reach him.

  And just like that, it disappeared.

  He was startl
ed by the sudden cry of pain from the doorway. The shorter one, with the dagger still in his side, hunched over with a scream and fell into the room, clutching at the weapon in agony. When Tarrin put the Firestaff away, its whispering ended, and the pain-numbing mindless desire it had put into the two men stopped.

  Now there was only one of them, and this time, Tarrin managed to call forth the right staff. His Ironwood staff appeared in his right hand, and he quickly hefted it into the end-grip and used its greater reach to jam the end into the man's mail-covered chest before he could get his sword within reach and before he recovered from the mind-influencing power of the artifact. A staff was a bludgeoning weapon, meant to deal damage with impact, and chain mail was not designed to absorb that kind of a blow. It did offer the man some protection, but not enough to matter. Tarrin's thrust hit him just at the base of the sternum, and the mail gave too much to prevent the man's breastbone from being broken. It was a killing blow, designed to shatter the breastbone and make the bone shards cut into vital organs, or at the very least severly hamper a man's ability to breathe. The strike didn't kill the man, but he doubled over and fell to his knees, his helmet sliding off his head, and blood absolutely poured out of his open mouth. But Tarrin was not in the mood to take any chances, not against men who were using poisoned weapons. He took up the staff in both hands and smashed it over the man's bare head, dropping him to the carpeted floor like a sack of meal. That blow was fatal, causing some of his brains to seep out of his ears after he came to rest on the floor. He didn't waste time standing over the man, he levelled his staff at the injured one who fell into the room, but he was already dead. He had vomited after falling, and Tarrin realized that the dagger with which he'd been stabbed was also poisoned. The eyes, wild and with the pupils so constricted that it looked like he had none, made it apparent that something other than a rather superficial stab wound to the side by a small dagger had killed him. Tarrin prodded him with his staff just to make sure, then rolled him over and watched to make sure he wasn't breathing. When he was satisfied the man was dead, he stepped out into the hallway and found the third one crumpled in the hall. He too was dead, and after Tarrin rolled him over, he saw why. When he fell into the other man, the man's sword had cut him on the upper arm, just under where his chain jack protected him, and the third had struck him in the other shoulder, which had penetrated his mail shirt and drawn blood. He too had been poisoned, but Tarrin doubted he would have managed to live very long with a punctured lung. If the poison hadn't have killed him, he would have drowned in his own blood. And if he had managed to survive that, he would have been no match for Tarrin, being both poisoned and with a lung full of blood.