"Tarrin, when you make contact with the Weave, you must resist it," she told him. "It will try to fill you, for it will see you as a part of the Weave, and as I said, the magical energy always follows the path of least resistance."
"Why didn't you tell me that before?"
"Because most students are not so in tune with the Weave," she said, pursing her lips. "Your raw power must make me change my methods, I see. You are so strong, the Weave tried to fill you in a flood. For most Initiates, it takes hours to build up so much magic. It will trickle into them, usually without them noticing it. But your power gives you the ability to instantly gather up enough energy to work. That is something that we usually have to teach to our students."
"Why did it start to hurt?"
"Our bodies are fragile, young one," she said. "They were never made to withstand so much power. That pain you felt is what happens when a Sorcerer attempts to do something beyond his ability. If I had not cut you off, the energy would have built up, and the pain become worse, until it would have destroyed you."
Tarrin blinked. "Consumed?"
She nodded. "Let us calm down, then try again. This time, when you feel the Weave connect to you, hold it at bay. You must allow it in and push it away at the same time. The balance of them is what will determine how much energy you allow to fill you." He nodded, remembering that he used the trick of reaching out and pulling in at the same time to make the connection. It was only logical, in the illogical sense of Sorcery, to have to draw in and push out at the same time to resist the flood of the magic. "Why were you so angry before?"
"I've been sitting here for four days fighting to touch the Weave, and I was doing it with my eyes closed," he said in disgust.
Dolanna considered it for a moment, then she laughed wryly. "You are too grounded in your senses," she realized. "Unless you could see what you were reaching for, you would fail. Your Were nature makes it difficult for you to work with anything that you can't experience with your natural senses, and the Sorcerer's unnatural sense dealing with the Weave is unfamiliar to it."
He nodded sourly. "Four days of aggravation for nothing," he growled. "I should have realized that closing my eyes was stopping me."
"You are still growing into your Were nature, my dear one," she said gently. "You still have much to learn. Do not kick yourself for things that you cannot know easily. But you should feel happy that you have done it," she told him, patting him on the shoulder. "Four days is very quick for an Initiate's first touching."
"I'd be happier if I didn't feel like an idiot," he grunted.
She chuckled. "As they say, the man who looks behind can see all, where the man who looks ahead only sees the bend in the road."
He blew out his breath, then finally managed to give a rueful chuckle. "Yes, well, it doesn't help," he told her.
"We still have a few hours, my dear one," she said, sitting back down. "Let us practice on touching the Weave. As you know, just one time is not enough to make it automatic. It is a learned skill, like any other. Once you make a touch, we will work on keeping your touch without losing control of it. We will also work on letting go. Your raw power will make that a vital lesson."
Tarrin looked over at her with a resolute expression. "Alright, let's get on with it."
He was expecting it to still be difficult, but much to his shock, the Weave was right there the next time he tried to touch it. He made contact immediately, and he felt the power rush into him. He tried to resist it, but it was like trying to dam a river with a blueberry bush. "Let go, Tarrin!" Dolanna barked. "Push it away!"
It was one of the hardest things he'd ever done. He stood in the face of that torrent of power, then he somehow did something between him and it, almost like cutting a cord with a knife. The power rush stopped, and he felt it drain harmlessly away from him. But it did cause him to have a momentary headache. "Good, Tarrin, good," she said. "You must still learn to resist, but you have managed to cut yourself off. You must still learn to let go of it on your own."
"Isn't that what I did?"
She shook her head. "You used your power to cut yourself off from the Weave," she explained. "You did to yourself what I did to you. You should simply let go of it, push it away from you. It would be much less unpleasant."
"Alright, let's try again," he said, blowing out his breath. He was starting to feel worn out. He reached out again, and once again, the Weave responded instantly to his call. He felt the power flood into him, and he gritted his teeth and stood fast against the torrent, then found purchase against it. He physically pushed out with his arms, and that helped his mind push the power away, faster than it was coming into him. He felt it slow, waver, and then it simply stopped. He blinked in confusion and looked to Dolanna, who was smiling slightly. "You let go of it, dear one," she explained. "Was that your intention?"
"No," he said in confusion. "I was just trying to stand against it."
"You are strong, my dear one," she said. "You tried to choke off the power, and instead choked it off completely. And I must say, I am impressed that you have managed to touch the Weave every time so far."
"It seems, easy," he said after thinking about it a moment. "It's just right there. It's like I was just trying to find it before, and now that I know where it is, it's very easy to touch."
"We shall see," she said with a smile. "Now, touch it again. This time, try to simply maintain your touch."
He nodded, reaching out for the Weave. And it was there for him. Again being flooded with magical power, this time he had an understanding of how it felt to control that power. Pushing against it with his will, he made it stop flowing into him, choking it down to the barest trickle. He already understood that if he totally choked it off, he would lose his connection to the Weave. It took effort. Alot of effort. Sweat formed on his brow as he worked to keep control of his power, fought against the raging torrent that was battering at his wall of willpower. "It's fighting me," he said shortly to his instructor.
"And it always will," she replied calmly. "You will learn how to keep control of it for long periods of time as you gain experience with it, dear one. It too is a learned skill. But for now, let it go."
With an explosive release of breath, Tarrin choked off the power, and let go of the Weave. He wiped his forehead with the furred back of a paw, feeling a bit winded. "I didn't realize that it was so much work," he told her.
"That is why you do not see very many portly Sorcerers," she said with a smile. "It is physical work to control the power."
"I noticed," he said. "Will it always feel this hard?"
"No, over time, you will strengthen your ability to control the power," she replied. "It will always be work, but it will seem less and less strenuous as time progresses. It is here where your strength works against you, dear one," she warned. "You have much more power to control than most others, and that means that it will tire you much more quickly until you learn how to manage it."
He considered her words for a moment. If other Sorcerers didn't feel that raging flood the way he did, he'd have to agree with her. It was like trying to hold back the tide, and what amazed him was that he could manage to do it. But he wasn't sure how long he could keep it up.
"Now, let us continue," she said. "Touch the Weave, and then let it go. And keep doing so until I tell you to stop."
When he left the training chamber a few hours later, he could barely walk. He felt so utterly exhausted that he could probably fall down and go right to sleep on the floor. He was too tired to even be happy over his successes for the day. Dolanna had been almost merciless in her instruction, making him touch the Weave, hold it for a moment, and then let it go, over and over and over. Tarrin never failed to touch the Weave, but as he began to tire, his control over it and his ability to let go of it began to get unstable. More than once, Dolanna had to step in and cut him off from the Weave. After she had to do it three times in a row, she finally relented and called it a day.
Numb with fatigue
, Tarrin stumbled back to the north tower and to his room, taking almost half an hour to manage the three flights of stairs, and he crawled up onto his bed. He was too exhausted to take off his clothes, and it would be much faster, easier, and more comfortable to simply shapeshift and sleep in his cat form. It had never seemed like an effort to shapeshift before, but that time had nearly put him out. Once comfortably settled into his cat form, he flopped down on the pillow of his bed and fell immediately into a deep slumber.
Wake up, a voice seemed to call to him. You have to wake up.
Tarrin's eyes opened. It was night. Deep into night, by the light coming into the window. Tarrin was still laying on his pillow, but he had curled up into a less slapdash position during his slumber. His ears and nose detected no present threats, but Allia's scent lingered in the room from when she had come in a few hours before.
Uncertain of what woke him up, he looked around one more time, and then put his head back down.
Tarrin, you have to wake up now, the voice said sharply.
Ears picking up, Tarrin lifted his head again and looked around. Tarrin, you must get up! the voice said again.
Tarrin finally managed to place that voice, and when he realized who it was, he instantly stood up. "Goddess!" he gasped in the unspoken manner of the cat.
There isn't time, she replied urgently. You must get up and go to the main Tower. Do it now, kitten!
"What's the matter?" he asked as he dropped down from the bed.
Take your staff! she ordered. There is a Doomwalker on the grounds!
"What is that?"
An undead creature, she replied. It has enormous power, my kitten. It has come to kill you, and you must face it on ground of your own choosing.
"To kill me? Another attack?" he asked as he returned to his humanoid form, and then picked his staff up from the corner.
This goes far beyond anything you've yet seen, kitten, she warned. A Doomwalker is nothing to take lightly. The Wraith you fought is like a little baby holding a stick compared to it. You can't run away from it, you can't bargain with it, and unless you fight it on your own terms, you're not going to be able to beat it.
"Why there?" she asked. "I'd rather face an enemy outside, on open ground."
You never fight a Doomwalker when its feet stand on natural earth, she warned him. It can directly draw power from the earth when it is. It has to have metal or stone under its feet to cut it off from that power. You want to be deep in the Tower when it comes for you, so it can't possibly draw you outside. It will definitely want to do that.
Nervous, Tarrin darted from his room and quickly ran down the stairs, then dashed down the corridor and out of the north tower. He passed several guards at the door and on the grounds, then raced into the main Tower through a small entrance that led to the kitchens. If he had to be deep in the Tower proper, he had a good idea of where to go. To the main core chamber that most called the Heart of the Goddess. It was in the exact center of the Tower, and it had both alot of space and alot of vertical openness. If worse came to worst, he could climb or jump up to one of the many balconies that peppered the walls all the way up the Tower. He worried quickly at exactly what this Doomwalker creature was, and he shuddered at how the Goddess had described it. The Wraith had nearly killed him, and if this creature was more dangerous, then he had a good reason to be afraid. But he was Ungardt, and he would face the challenge like any proper warrior would. It was alright to be afraid, so long as he didn't allow his fear to rule him.
He reached the long corridor with its metal gate when he first smelled it. Its scent was that of corruption and decay, like an open grave, but it had a sharp ozone smell that he couldn't identify. It was coming directly towards him, and that smell, that unnatural scent, triggered the Cat into activity. Ears laying back, Tarrin growled in his throat as the Cat registered its hatred of that scent. It reacted much like that whenever he had faced unnatural beings, such as the Wraith. Opening the gate to the chamber, he slipped through it and closed it again, then looked up. The ceiling in the passage was higher than the threshold holding the gate, creating a solid overhang that was nearly three spans long. What a perfect place to lay in ambush.
A short vault up to the ceiling and some claws driven into the stone was all it took. He tucked himself up into the corner and pulled in his tail, holding his staff against the ceiling and going statue-still, using his inhuman strength to hold himself absolutely motionless.
After only a moment, he could hear the sharp metallic sound of armored boots on stone. It was a methodical pace, from the sound of it, coming towards him. As they got louder, the smell of it became stronger and stronger, until it threatened to make him gag. He closed his eyes and reined in his nose, using all his will to deaden and ignore what his nose was telling him, even as he struggled to keep the Cat from charging from its place in the back of his mind and take control, so it could hunt down and destroy the unnatural being it could smell. After a few seconds, he found that he could tolerate that smell, and he had overpowered the instinct to drop down and attack his opponent head-on.
There was a high-pitched, raspy cackle, sound made by vocal cords long dried and in disuse. It was a hollow sound, and it froze Tarrin's spine. "I can smell ye, Were-cat," it said. "You know, you do, that Jegojah has come for you, yes. Clever clever Were-cat, you are."
The gate opened under him. The top of a helmet became visible, as a skeletal being in archaic plate armor stepped through the gate, holding a sword stained heavily with blood. It had obviously killed its way to the Tower, and that no alarm had been raised told Tarrin how good it was. It held a shield in its other hand, and it was advancing into the passage slowly and carefully, head scanning back and forth. But, like most creatures, it never bothered to look up. "Close, ye are, Were-cat, close indeed," it cackled. "Come taste the steel of Jegojah's blade. Come out, and quick and clean I will be, yes. I hold no ill will to ye, but kill ye I must, yes."
Tarrin dealt the first blow. Dropping down from his hiding place, he coiled up and then exploded into motion like a bow, curling his entire body as his arms brought his staff over his head. The end of that staff struck the undead being directly on the top of the helmet, with enough force to cleave a human being in half. But the creature merely staggered forward from the force of it, and Tarrin's staff recoiled from the helmet with enough force to spin him back around and miss putting his feet down. He landed unceremoniously on his rump as the skeletal thing went down to its knees, and both of them returned to a vertical base almost instantly.
Tarrin had to swallow the urge to flee in terror when it turned around. Its face was gray, dead flesh pulled so tautly over the skull that its face was but a mask over the bone beneath. Its eyes were pools of unholy red light, unblinking and steady, and bare yellowed teeth, without lips to cover them, sat below a grisly hole where a nose had once been. It was tall, but still half a head shorter than him. It cackled gleefully as it approached, making Tarrin go into a ready stance. "Foolish boy," it said in that raspy voice, "your stick, it can't dent my armor, no." It raised its sword into a ready position. "Come then, foolish Were-cat, come face Jegojah in honorable combat!"
Hissing, baring his fangs, Tarrin put his ears back and answered the challenge in a primal threat display. Embracing the Cat to keep it from taking control of him, his two halves met to pursue a unified goal, and then rushed in for the attack.
There was little grace to the first blows exchanged, but clear skill showed on both sides. Tarrin was taken aback with the first couple of blocks, when he realized that the creature before him was every bit as strong as he was, if not stronger. It looked ungainly, but it moved with viperlike speed, and what was most important, Tarrin felt he almost recognized the forms the creature was using. It may be an undead creature, but it was fighting with very real skills of sword and shield. And those skills were impeccable. The creature moved sword and shield in perfect harmony, blocking a rapid and savage series of broad strokes of his staff designed
to take advantage of his inhuman strength and smash an opponent to the ground. After nearly losing his head in a stunningly fast swipe at his neck in response to that, Tarrin backed up and reassessed his opinion of this opponent. The advantages Tarrin usually enjoyed over an enemy, speed, strength, and skill, were nonexistent here. They were actually in the creature's favor.
Tarrin waded back in, much more hesitant this time. He began testing the creature, using forms and routines that baited, stressed, pushed, as he tried to feel out the extent of the creature's skill and speed. His staff blurred as his power moved it about like a stick, blocking sword slashes and swiping and stabbing at his enemy in return. He knew that it was also feeling him out, but there was little to be done for that. He parried a thrust at his chest, tried to come around and strike it on the opposite side, only to find its shield slamming up against his side. Tarrin was pushed back by the heavy blow, and he screamed as a furiously hot line of pain ran up his side. Blood flowed from the wound as the creature tried to reset its blood-trailing sword for a fast stab in the belly, but Tarrin planted his foot directly in the thing's hideous face, knocking out three of its teeth and driving it a few steps backwards.
Hunching over the wound, Tarrin felt it burn and throb savagely. There was something about it that kept it open, long after his regenerative power would have stopped the bleeding. The creature had injured him, injured him for real, for the wound wasn't closing up the way it was supposed to. Pushing the pain out of his mind, he saw it spit out another tooth. He saw that his claws had punched five holes into its forehead and cheek, one of them deep enough to gouge a piece off its cheekbone. It advanced quickly after shaking its head, and he twisted around another attempt to skewer him, then put his shoulder into another attempt to slam him with the shield. It was the creature pushed back this time, and Tarrin bulled it out of the reach of its sword. He whipped his staff around with only one hand, holding it by the end as he spun in a complete circle. The move gave the staff horrific speed and force as it came around his body, and it cracked into its helmeted head with a sharp metallic clang, snapping the head to the side forcefully.
The Tower of Sorcery Page 62
