Honor and Blood

by James Galloway

  "Thanks," he whispered to her.

  "Any time," she whispered back.

  He noticed that they were really staring at him now. Taking off his sword had probably opened his cloak, and it had certainly let them see his paws. Since he had their attention, it was probably the best time to make it blatant. He would have to do it anyway. He reached up and pulled down his hood, letting his ears pop back up from where the leather cowl was weighing down upon them, and then took off his visor.

  Their reaction was subdued. They obviously realized that he wasn't human, but they weren't panicking. They were dead silent, and just about all of them were staring at him, but there wasn't any screaming or running around. That was always a good thing. He was too tired and hungry to deal with a bunch of panicky humans. Three men did leave, but there was no mass exodus towards the door. That too was a good thing. After the two months in an eternal moment of loneliness, even the company of untrusted strangers was better than being alone.

  A man that had been behind the bar approached him. He was a rather short, thin Arakite-looking man, a bit bony and with very slight cheeks that made his face narrow and long. Amber eyes glowed from under black brows, an unusual eye color for an Arakite-stock human, and they made the man very striking. Though he was sitting, Tarrin's eyes were only slightly under the man's eyes. "Sashi said you wanted to buy the entire lamb," the man said immediately. "I usually don't do that, because I won't have anything to give my other customers. But it's early yet, and I can get another one roasted before the dinner rush. I'll give you the lamb for two gold vipers."

  Tarrin reached down and picked up the purse, then upended it on the table. A large handful of pure gold nuggets clunked down onto the table, rolling a bit until they came to a stop. "Take whichever one you want," Tarrin said evenly. "I'll consider the extra a guarantee that I'll eat in peace."

  The man's eyes bulged slightly, and then he gave Tarrin a very wide, sincere smile. "I think I can guarantee you a little peace," he said brightly, reaching down and selecting the largest of the many gold nuggets sitting on the table. He bit it to ensure it was true, and then gave Tarrin a very satisfied smile. "Arl, help me unspit the lamb for our customer!" he called loudly to the other man behind the bar.

  Sometimes the simplest things in life seemed to be the best. Tarrin sat there with the roasted lamb taking up nearly the entire table, and he ate. The conversation slowly picked back up, leaving him to himself, and allowing him to relish the simple activity of satisifying a hunger that run into his bones. His wickedly sharp claws served as knife and fork at that meal, slicing apart the lamb systematically into managable pieces, then eating them with a casual slowness that belied his towering hunger. It brought a calm feeling to him, to know that life's needs were satisfied for the moment, he was fed and clothed and sheltered after many days out in the wilderness, almost as if his mad escape towards the desert was delayed for a while, with all sides agreeing to a lunch break.

  The people in the inn watched in curious fascination as the entirety of the lamb was consumed, leaving nothing but cleaned bones when he was done later that evening, a meal that would have been hard for five men to finish at one sitting. His Were digestion and healing, both powered by his quasi-magical abilities as a Were-kin, had already begun to rebuild what had been consumed to fuel his growth. He could feel his muscles begin to reflesh, to return to their proper state, though it was a very slow process that made him feel like he was itching from the inside. Much like Sarraya, when the need arose, Tarrin could eat much more than his stomach could hold, because his Were body could literally absorb the food nearly as fast as he could eat it. His slow eating hadn't stretched out his stomach or made him feel glutted, allowing his body the time to empty his stomach at nearly the same pace as he was filling it.

  Setting down the last bone, Tarrin leaned back in the booth, feeling the backpack with the book press against him, feeling thoroughly content.

  Sometimes simple pleasures were best.

  Sighing in contentment, he set his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his paws, considering the next step. One of the serving women set a mug of water down in front of him with something of a wary smile on her face, and he nodded to her absently and took a drink after smelling the water for purity. The storm would make everyone take cover, and that would probably be the best time to leave. With Sarraya's Druid magic to help, he should be able to travel during the storm, something that most of his pursuers would not be able to do. That should get him away from the flying trailers for a while, and discourage any pursuit from the city itself.

  "She didn't bring me any water," Sarraya grumbled.

  "Considering she can't see you, I'd be surprised if she did," Tarrin replied under his breath. "What have you been doing?"

  "Watching you eat like a horse isn't very entertaining, so I took a nap," she replied. "Feel better now?"

  "A world better," he replied with a contented sigh. "I can feel it working already."

  "Just take it easy for a while, and give your body a chance to mend," she told him. "We can leave when the storm hits, so they can't follow us."

  "I thought the same thing myself," he agreed with her. "And believe me, the last thing I want to do at the moment is move again."

  "That's because you stuffed your face like a pig."

  "Are you feeling alright, good master?" the serving girl who had waited on him asked as she passed. "You were talking to me?"

  "No, young one. I was talking to my other half. It's being petulant at the moment."

  "I am not!" she said loudly, stamping her tiny foot on the top of the table.

  The girl looked genuinely baffled. She heard the voice, but her eyes couldn't find its source. She looked around on the table, knowing it came from that direction, but there was nothing there.

  "Don't leave the girl confused, my rash friend," Tarrin said with a mysterious smile. "If they've seen me, seeing you won't make a whit of difference, and you'll give the girl something to tell her grandchildren."

  In the blink of an eye, Sarraya returned to visibility, standing on the table near the pile of bones. She had a pouty look on her face, and her eyes were a bit sulky as she glared up at him. "There, are you happy now?" she demanded.

  The woman stared in shock. "Wh-What is it?" she asked in wonder.

  "She's a Faerie. Sarraya, introduce yourself to the girl."

  "I thought Faeries were just made up," the girl said in awe, looking down at the exceedingly tiny, blue-skinned being.

  "I am not made up!" Sarraya said defensively.

  "Excuse her. This mythical being has a little bit of an attitude," Tarrin said lightly, smiling down at his diminutive companion.

  "Tarrin!" Sarraya snapped, but the girl just laughed.

  "Well, pardon me for staring, good mistress. I've just never seen anyone quite like you before," she announced.

  "You think on your feet, young one."

  "I'm a barmaid, good master. We have to think on our feet, or we end up in some drunken rancher's lap," she said with an impish smile. "And it's not like we never see non-humans here. There's a tribe of Giants that live in the mountains to the north. They come down here to trade sometimes, and they're allowed into the city. They're very friendly and gentle."

  "Giants tend to be," Tarrin told her. He'd seen them a few times himself, for they came down from the Clouddancer Mountains four times in his life to trade in Aldreth. They were thirty spans tall, but aside from that and wide-browed heads with heavy features and a racial tendency to be stocky and barrel-chested, they looked completely human. Very gentle beings, always careful where they put their feet.

  "Do you need anything else, good master? More water? Maybe wine?"

  "I'm fine, thank you," he told her.

  She bowed her head in a little bob, then scurried away.

  Cute girl. A very smart young lady. If he were human and three spans shorter, he may be interested in her.

  Tarrin and Sarraya passed the tim
e in contemplative silence, listening to the other patrons talk or argue or carouse. They had lost most of their interest in Tarrin, though Sarraya's sudden appearance had caused another round of staring. But with such a unique person already there, her appearance wasn't so earth-shattering as it would have been if she were alone. Tarrin let himself drift a bit in his thoughts as he settled his meal, let it do its work, feeling strangely secure considering he wasn't with his sisters or friends, that he was surrounded by strangers. It was quiet time, devoid of worries or fears, absent of the loneliness he'd felt in cat form, and though he missed his sisters and friends, just a little part of him felt as if their spirits were with him at that moment.

  But time passes, as time inexorably does. It reminded him of its passing with a keening howl from outside. He looked up to see the barmaids closing the shutters, locking them down so the inn could ride out the approaching sandstorm. It was evening now, close to sunset, and the massive sandstorm he'd seen earlier had finally managed to reach them.

  As nice a time as he had had in the seedy inn, it was time to go.

  "Sarraya," he said quietly, squeezing out from under the table and standing beside it. He shook the cloak a bit, then decided to simply take it off so he could put the sword back in its place.

  "You feel ready?"

  "Feel ready or not, it's time to go," he told her. "We have a long way to go."

  "That we do," she agreed as he took off the cloak. The patrons stared at him without the cloak, at his inhuman height, at his sleek frame garbed by dirty, torn clothing. Some of them saw the manacles on his wrists, partially hidden under the new fetlocks that had grown up under and around them. He paid them little mind as he laid the cloak on the table by the plate of bones, then reached down and picked up the sword.

  He was in the act of sliding it back on under the backpack when the shutters holding the doorway opened with a bang, and the interior door opened quickly, bringing a blast of sand-filled wind into the inn.

  "Durn fools!" someone shouted. "Shut the damned doors before we need a shovel to get out!"

  "It's in here somewhere," a voice called urgently.

  Tarrin stood up straight, his heart skipping a beat, then flowing over with a calmness. Even here, in his moment of peace, they come to harass him, to disturb him. He turned to see three men standing in the doorway as the shutters banged behind them, sand blowing in around them. Two men in black robes, and one dressed in a chain hauburk and leather leggings, a sword strapped to his side. All three looked like Arakites; they had to be locals. The warrior's equipment was a bit beaten up, making him more likely a mercenary or freelancer than part of an army. The tallest of the three was holding up a strange crystal, which was glowing with a bright amber radiance. It reminded him of the amulets that Phandebrass made, one of which he still had.

  All three fixed their eyes on him, in the act of resting his sword in its place on his back, and the mercenary man took a step back. "If that's him, you don't have enough money in the world to make me fight him," the man declared immediately.

  "Turn around and leave," Tarrin said in a deadly voice. "I'm going to pick up the rest of my things. If you're still there when I reach the door, I'll kill you."

  "Jerlos, you're nuts!" the shorter robed man said as the taller one took a step forward. "There's no way we can take the book from that!"

  "But he must have the book, Sashas!" the taller man said plaintively. "Imagine what we could learn from it!"

  "It's not worth my head, you fool!" the shorter man snapped. "Can't you feel it? Are you that blind?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "He's a Sorcerer, you idiot!" the shorter man said hotly. "A powerful Sorcerer! He could turn all three of us inside out without so much as twitching a finger!"

  That made Tarrin's eyebrow raise. Wizards couldn't feel things like that. Only Sorcerers--

  --of course. He could feel it now. The shorter one wasn't a Wizard, he was a Sorcerer. Not one of the katzh-dashi or even trained by them. He was self-taught, and judging from what he could feel from the man, he wasn't that shabby. He had considerable natural potential, it only came down to how well he had managed to teach himself as to how powerful he was.

  "But he has the book!" the taller one whined.

  "If you want to take it from him, be my guest!" the shorter one said flatly. "I'll make sure what's left of you is buried. If you want to die, go ahead, but I'm not going to keep you company!"

  And with that, the shorter one turned and fled out into the storm. The nervous mercenary took only one more look at him, then turned and followed the shorter man.

  The tall mage stood there for a long moment, his face an agony of indecision, as his desire for the book struggled against the healthy warning he was given. Tarrin gave him an utterly emotionless look, his eyes flashing green briefly as he raised a paw and showed the man his very long, very sharp claws.

  That was all it took. The man turned and fled back into the howling gale.

  "Well done," Sarraya chuckled from the table. "I say, Tarrin, you actually managed to end a confrontation without tearing apart the other guy. I don't see a single body part anywhere on the floor. I'm very impressed."

  "Save it," Tarrin said shortly, picking up his cloak and throwing it over his shoulders in silence, with only the howling of the wind bringing sound into the room. Every eye was on him, and those not sitting down were standing in place. They were all worried, uncertain, and a few of them were a bit speculative. He slid the cloak into place, then picked up the visor from the table and settled it over his eyes. "We'd best go before they find their nerve."

  "I doubt that. I think the short one left a puddle where he was standing," Sarraya laughed, flitting up into the air.

  Tarrin settled himself, readying to venture out into that stiff wind, with its blowing, stinging sand. But a sudden presence at his side made him look down. It was the pretty little barmaid, looking up at him with just a little bit of fear. She was holding up a scarf of red wool, with tassels at each end, offering it up to him.

  "What is this?" he asked her defensively, his expression wary as his fear of strangers rose up in him with shocking speed. For an irrational moment, he felt the impulse to either strike her down or get away from her, but he remembered that she had been kind to him. She had talked to him when nobody else would, had smiled at him with sincerity in her eyes. No, he would not hurt this human. She was not threatening him then, and she was not threatening him now. She was afraid of him, but that was only natural, given what he was. That she would approach him despite her fear said much for her character.

  "It'll keep the sand out of your nose and mouth," she replied with a gentle smile. There was absolutely no fear in her eyes now, as if she looked into his face and saw that he would do her no harm.

  He looked down at her for a very long moment, his feral fear of her battling against a human feeling, a feeling of--gratitude? Compassion? Something about her struck at the human in him in a positive manner, making him not feel threatened by her.

  She was giving him the scarf out of kindness. She expected nothing in return, not like the weaseling cons that had shown him a veil of kindness, only to hide the ugly truth of what they wanted from him beneath. She had nothing to gain from giving him the scarf. Her act was one of genuine compassion for him, a kindness to him. A sincere kindness.

  It had been so long since someone had shown him such sincere kindness.

  His rigid posture eased immediately. He reached down and took the scarf, her tiny hand absolutely swallowed up by his massive paw as he took it from her, and in that fleeting exchanged he felt her skin against his pad. It was warm, but it was calloused from her hard work. "I--thank you," he said brusquely, not entirely sure how to respond to her. As if he had forgotten what to do when faced with an act of kindness. The only thing he could think to do was reciprocate. "Here, take this. I don't need it anymore," he said, handing her the pouch of gold nuggets.

  "What is this?"r />
  "A fair price," he told her, looking down into hazel eyes that showed no fear. "It is a fair price."

  Tarrin wrapped the scarf around his neck, placing it over his mouth and nose, just under the visor. Sarraya flitted up against his face, then climbed into the hood and found a sheltered spot within the deep cowl, partially under the scarf. He gathered the edges of the cloak up in one paw and pulled the hood down over the visor with the other as he boldly stepped out into the storm, feeling the howling wind yank and tug at the cloak, at the hood, feel the stinging sand strike the visor as the dim light, almost like a cloudy night, forced his eyes to adjust to see. He disappeared into the storm, barely hearing the doors and shutters close in the nameless inn behind him, both worried that someone would be lurking in the storm, and confused by the young girl in the inn. Confused by her kindness, confused by his own reaction to that kindness. No human had shown him such sincere compassion in so long, a compassion given with no ulterior motives, not since an old woman on a porch had shared a meal with him, giving him the kindness of her ear and the gentle wisdom of her age. He couldn't remember her name, but she had been much the same as the young girl in the inn, a gentle presence that had soothed him in strange ways.

  It was something to think about once he was safe. Right now, there were men out in this storm that wanted the book, and he had to get away from them. Turning his face into the wind, lowering his head to keep the hood from flying off his head, he marched into the howling wind, the blinding sand, seeking to lose himself and his pursuers in the surreal environment of a raging sandstorm.

  The sand, driven by the wind, struck at the mud bricks of the city, slowly yet surely eroding them away, reducing them to dust and sand. It was a slow yet efficient process, as the sand methodically wore away the baked bricks from which the buildings of the city were made in a cycle of sandstorm after sandstorm. It was a process usually indetectable to the observing eye, a process of months and years rather than days or rides. Yet it was a process that was undeniable.