Tarrin Kael Firestaff Collection Book 2 - The Questing Game by Fel ©

by James Galloway (aka Fel)

  Find the book.

  After that was done, move to a place where Shiika would come to him, and then pay her back for what she did to him.

  It was a simple plan, but it had many parts. And the first major obstacle loomed before him, a pair of massive bronze gates nearly sixty spans high, their polished bars showing him the force with which he had to contend.

  Suddenly, Tarrin skidded to a stop, just as they began to point at him. He was about two hundred spans from the gate. He was close enough.

  It was time to see just how powerful he really was.

  Closing his eyes, raising his head to the sky, feeling the sun on his face, Tarrin opened himself to the Weave. He did it utterly, without constraint, without limitations, seeking out its power and attempting to join with it as he had never done before. The Weave seemed to shudder momentarily, then its power roared into him like a tidal wave, an inferno of sweet power that both caused his soul to soar and threatened to incinerate him in the span of a heartbeat. His body exploded into the radiance of Magelight, the visible sign that a Sorcerer had made contact with High Sorcery, the telltale signal to those within that the distant invader was about to unleash a magical attack.

  He felt about to explode. Never had he tried this before, never without being nearly mindlessly out of control. The pain and the ecstacy merged into a riot of conflicting sensations within him, and the air shimmered with heat around his body. He stared into the face of his Goddess, and found the power staring back at him to be beyond mortal comprehension. He opened his eyes, eyes that blazed with a blinding white light, then he felt that he had taken all the power he could withstand. If he did not use it, and use it right now, it would Consume him.

  The first weave was a weave of Air, with token flows from the other Spheres to grant his weaving the power of High Sorcery. It formed around his paw, a sudden bluish glow eclipsing the Magelight around him. And with a backhanded swipe of his paw, he unleashed it. A crescent of bluish magical power, a scythe of pure Air formed before him, racing away with the arc of his paw, moving faster than any human could run, moving so quickly that nobody had the time to duck. It expanded as it moved away from him, growing to fill the entire street by the time it reached the front gates of the Imperial Palace, at a level chest high to a man. It struck those majestic gates, and then it simply passed through.

  Anything the weave struck was sliced apart with utter neatness and precision, a perfect cut that split apart anything it hit. Everyone standing between him and the gates, the men standing at the gate, they all died in the blink of an eye. Tarrin's weave slashed them apart at the chest, so quickly and neatly that the halves of their bodies remained, looking as if nothing had happened, until blood erupted from the perfect lines of the cut, which caused the upper halves to slide aside as the bodies lost their rigidity and sank to the ground. Two of those bodies did not fall, two of them did not get sliced apart, though the power of the weave knocked them to the ground as if it were a solid thing. The weave continued on after them, extending almost all the way to the majestic palace building itself, killing everything in its path, slashing apart statues, horses, anything it struck, mowing down everyone before him like a scythe mowed wheat.

  By the time the weave dissipated, it was nearly three hundred spans wide, and its leading edge was just as lethally sharp as it had been when it left his paw. The two lone survivors looked back in horror.

  Nearly two hundred of the Imperial guards and servants lay in pieces all over the lawn of the Palace.

  Gathering his energy, focusing through the drain of using weaves of such magnitude, Tarrin created the second. It was not an attack, it was a Ward, a ward of almost pure Divine power. A Ward designed to disrupt any magic that attempted to pass through it, a Ward that was attached to him, not to the space around him, forming a moving barrier that would defeat the spells of those Wizards that Shiika had bragged about. Tarrin charged the Ward with almost everything inside him, giving it a duration that would make it effective until nearly sunset, granting it a potency that would allow it to turn aside even the most powerful enchantments the Wizards tried to use against him.

  The glow of Magelight wavered around him, dimming so dramatically that it nearly winked out. But then it suddenly flared back to life, expanding around him as the power of the Weave sought to replace what he had expended, flooding back into him almost as quickly as he had used it. The wispy aura grew brighter and brighter, intensifying around him. Tarrin advanced several steps as the two survivors regained their feet, touching the rends in the fronts of their armor from his attack, then drawing their black-bladed swords. Cambions. Tarrin continued forward, reaching behind his right shoulder with his right paw and drawing the long Eastern weapon with a deliberate slowness, his expression one of utter ruthlessness. There was no pain now, no joy, no nothing. Only his towering fury, and the focus of necessity that laid before him. His braid danced in the power of Magelight, drifting and bobbing as if the tendrils of power were fingers picking it up from his back, and he stopped and raised his free paw towards the gates, which were now only twenty longspans before him.

  A weave of solid Air formed before him, only Air, and he released it with a push of his paw. The air formed into a solid mass before him, a battering ram of intense power, that struck the slashed gates with tremendous force. The slashed gates, and the walls flanking it that were also cut by the first weave, shuddered under that impact, and the walls gave way. With the sound of breaking stone and the loud squealing of metal, the gates and the walls to which they were anchored gave way, and collapsed in a large cloud of dust.

  The two Cambions coughed and choked on the heavy dust raised by the magical attack, giving ground to get out of the dusty air. Both looked up in fright as the cloudless sky began to broil, churn, as clouds formed from nothing and compressed, expanded, seethed above them, growing outward in a spiralling pattern. Brief pulses of lightning formed in the growing clouds, illuminating them as the ground began to darken with the hiding of the sun. Their attention was brought back down to earth as a shimmering white glow appeared inside the dusty cloud created by the collapse of the gates, growing more and more distinct.

  And then it suddenly went out.

  The Were-cat emerged from the cloud of dust moving at a steady, relentless pace, holding a very long, narrow, gently curved sword in one paw. He stopped suddenly, standing on a large rock, part of the debris from the wall, looking down at the two Cambions with eyes that promised their doom. He raised that black sword to the sky.

  The two Cambions staggered back when a bolt of lightning ripped from the clouds above, striking the tip of that black metal sword, dancing around the Were-cat's body and strobing across the stones around him. A loud thunderclap boomed from the lightning strike. The Were-cat brought the sword down sharply, and to their horror, lightning spilled from the clouds like rain, striking, dancing, streaking through the sky, blasting holes into the grass, incinerating men where they stood, and arcing from golden dome to golden dome as the lightning attacked the Imperial Palace as if some hand were guiding it. The two Cambions protected their eyes from the blinding light of the lightning, shuffling backwards with swords raised, terrified at what they were seeing.

  The Were-cat was somehow controlling the weather!

  And then it ended. The carnage on the field was ghastly; the Were-cat had somehow directed the lighting to strike any living thing that moved on the grounds, and the smoking bodies of the dead littered the field around the Palace, many of which had just streamed from the Palace itself to answer the strange attack on the compound. The Were-cat seemed to sag afterwards, but the sword stopped falling towards the ground and held firm, then raised back up. He looked down at them scornfully, that expressionless mask showing emotion, the emotions of anger and hate. He took the long weapon in both paws and dropped down from the rock, standing there like an angel of death, and then he lunged to the attack, an attack so sudden, so fast, they barely comprehended that they were about to me
et the God of Death in person.

  And his face was Tarrin's.

  He didn't have time to feel proud.

  He had managed to weave together a storm, to take his power and use it to alter the weather itself, something that his instructors in the Tower had said was possible, but was among the most difficult things Sorcerers could accomplish. It was supposedly possible when powerful Sorcerers with affinity for Air and Water were linked into a circle of seven. But he had done it alone, formed a storm out of dry air, a storm that had granted him its power to strike at his enemies.

  The funny thing was, he had no idea how he did it. He rarely understood half the things he did with his power. He really only knew three or four powerful weaves by heart, weaves he used over and over again in different ways. But this one, this one was brand new, and he thought he may be able to do it again. If it didn't kill him. It had gone beyond draining him. He had to literally directly channel the energy flowing into him into the stunningly complicated weave he created, for it required so much energy that not even he could hold enough to form it. He had no idea how he did that. It wasn't supposed to be possible. A Sorcerer couldn't move magic unless the potential was within his body, there to push at the magical energy where he was forming the weave. But he had done it.

  It had nearly killed him.

  Doing that had taken all the reserves he had left. He had utterly exhausted his magical endurance, and was forced to let go of the Weave. To try again would kill him, for he would no longer have the energy to resist or control the power he accumulated. His anger fueled him, replenished him, gave him the strength to fight on, to reach the goal, to win the game. But the storm remained, a lasting effect of his weaving, and its lightning and the rain that would soon fall would help him in other ways. To frighten his enemies if nothing else.

  The doors to the Palace were closing. If they barred them, he would be slowed down gaining entry to the Palace, and time was everything. Shiika would free herself any time now, and he absolutely had to reach the book before she did.

  With a snarl, Tarrin raised his sword and charged the two Cambions with blinding speed. They were confused, frightened, demoralized by Tarrin's display of magical might, and it was exactly what he hoped would happen. The chisel tip of his weapon leading, Tarrin homed in on the closer of the two, who managed to bring up his own weapon to defend himself. But a subtle twist of his blade knocked the Demon's weapon aside, and Tarrin slashed him as he ran by, literally at full speed, the weapon coming around and striking the second one before it could even respond, comprehend what had just occurred.

  He left them at a full sprint towards the front doors of the Palace, doors that were beginning to close, not even bothering to look back. He had felt the blade bite. It had done what he hoped it would do.

  Behind him, one Cambion head slowly tottered, then fell away from its body as it leaned backwards, then fell over. The other Cambion stood stock still, then crumpled to the ground with a wound that reached halfway into his body, carved through his left side.

  But they were forgotten.

  Tarrin raced across the carefully manicured lawns of the Palace, rushing towards those closing doors. They had looked out, they could see him coming, and they were hastening to close them and bar them as fast as they could. Sword held low in one paw, he got closer and closer as those huge metal doors swung inexorably together, and the rational part of him realized that they were going to close before he arrived. It would come down to whether he could reach them before they managed to bar them, bar them to where he would be forced to either find another way in, or risk using Sorcery to batter them down. Looking up, he saw an intricate circle of stained glass over the doors, an impressive design that was the seal of Yar Arak, a sun behind a scimitar. It was nearly thirty spans off the steps of the Palace.

  It was his way in.

  The men within the grand, luxuriously appointed entry chamber of the Palace worked feverishly. They had plans for such emergencies, but none of them had ever dreamed that they would be depended upon to protect the Palace from an actual assault. And from a single man! A man that could call lightning from the sky and kill entire companies with magic! They'd seen the Emperor's magicians use their magic, but never--never--with such power!

  The heavy steel bar slammed home on the back side of the doors, sealing the invader out. The alarm bells within the palace were ringing, and the entrances would all be sealed before he could reach them. To get in, he'd have to scale a perfectly smooth wall to reach one of the high windows, a climb of nearly sixty spans. And do it with men on the grounds shooting at him with bows.

  The bar was in place. The twenty men in the entrance hall all sighed in relief, reaching down and picking up weapons tossed aside to wrestle with the doors.

  They all jumped in surprise when a loud crash erupted in the hall, and the sound caused them to look up just in time to see the invader come flying through the stained glass window over the door. In a sparkling kaleidascope of colors, colors scillinting off the glass shards illuminated by the sun behind him, the invader entered the Imperial Palace. He landed lightly among the tinkering and bouncing glass, his back to them, a tall, lethal looking figure holding a sword that was longer than some men were tall. The strange tail attached to his backside slashed only once, then he turned his head and looked at them through the corner of his eye. He turned around slowly, and they all knew fear. Not from his size, his inhuman appearance, but from the glowing green eyes and the expression of utter emotionless upon his face. This was a man who was not afraid to kill. He raised his sword slightly, and those eyes narrowed visibly, a snarl forming at the corner of his mouth.

  The men rushed him desperately, attacking him in soundless unison. They all seemed to know that the only way to survive was to either take the invader down right there, or escape. And the only way to escape was past the invader. They fought with passion, with the strength that came with the knowledge that one's life depended upon his performance. They charged with desperate fervor.

  They were mown like wheat by a scythe. Their weapons found him, pierced flesh, but they did nothing but irritate this strange invader. He slashed at them with that wicked sword, shearing men apart stroke by stroke, attacking with a strength that was more appropriate for a Troll than someone his size. What started as a sudden charge turned into a terrifying rout, as men tried desperately to get by the unstoppable invader and flee down the hallways of the Palace. Strangely enough, the creature let them go. But the slowest of them, the last, was grabbed by the back of his head and yanked back, claws digging into scalp and face, and the invader leaned down to the eye level of the smallish man he had captured.

  "Where are the Empress' rooms?" he demanded in a cold tone. "Where would she keep something important to her?"

  "I--I--go that way," he stammered, pointing towards the only hallway leading out of the foyer. "The West Wing!"

  Absently, the invader broke the neck of his captive by picking him up off the ground by the head and shaking him sharply, just as country mothers wrung the necks of chickens destined for the stewpot. He tossed the body aside, then started into the cavernous hallways of the Imperial Palace.

  He was at a serious disadvantage.

  Fighting what became running skirmishes in the massive hallways of the Palace, Tarrin wandered more or less aimlessly towards the west. He had no idea where he was going, and he had to find that book before Shiika reached it. But she knew where to go, and he did not. He tried tracking her scent, but he couldn't find it anywhere he looked. It was as if she didn't even come into that part of the Palace. Judging by the size of the place, that wasn't entirely surprising. There were no Demon smells at all, just the smells of humans, the humans that maintained the cavernous place. He had no idea where to go, no idea of where to even start looking to track the Demoness' trail back to the book. If she even had been to where the book had been recently. She could have locked it away centuries ago, and he would have no way to find it by scent if she did so.


  Finding the book on his own was an impossible task given the time he had, he knew that now. He knew that he had to find someone that knew where the book was, force him to take him to it. He doubted that any of the servants would know that. But one of the cambisi, Shiika's trusted servants, would.

  So his mission was changed slightly. They had to be in here somewhere, he just had to find one of them.

  He had to end this, and soon. His endurance was starting to be tested, and with it dimmed his strength. Weaving together the storm had taken all he had. If not for his anger, he would be nearly catatonic, laying out on the grounds. The only thing that kept him going was his rage, his anger, his need to do what he had to do. He had surpassed his normal limits long ago, and he had no idea what he was running on now.

  Moving through the passages, Tarrin engaged the occasional guard or servant, killing anyone who crossed his path. Moments passed, scores of moments, and his searching for one of Shiika's Demonic children became more and more desperate, even as he grew more and more tired. Rage was starting to wane, replaced by fear, uncertainty, worry that he was going to fail. Shiika had to be free by now, she had to be coming, and he was running out of time. If she got to the book first, she could escape with it, and deny him his chance to pay her back for what she did to him. That was the only thing that kept him going now, the thought of facing that evil witch and knowing he had bested her, to decide whether she would live or die. It was the only thought he entertained for a good while, as he wandered along strangely decorated hallways, hallways that seemed eerily long, eerily empty.