Doom and the Warrior

by Lexy Wolfe

  He felt her shrug her shoulder. “I am not happy about it. Dragons are very strict with their honor, but it is their honor, not human honor. But, I am truly unshackled. I owe it my life.”

  Doom did not speak for several minutes. “I asked it what your race was. All it would tell me was that you were not human. Alimar had hampered our natural growth, but we are not restricted any longer. I don’t know what that means, but…”

  “We’ll figure it out later,” she said in a sleepy voice. “Rest. It should be safe enough for us both to nap a little while.” He smiled, closed his eyes, and felt at peace for the first time in a very long time, letting sleep claim him. Her eyes remained half-open, keeping watch as she put a protective hand over his heart.

  THE AUTUMN SUNSET painted the mountain peak in brilliant colors, the sounds of wildlife emerging as the sun sank lower in the sky with the approaching evening. Higher up the side of the mountain, the pair of former slaves had found a plateau to call their own. Heavy plant growth protected their sanctuary from most of the strong winds and a shallow cave provided shelter from the frequent storms that roared through.

  Doom returned to their small clearing with an armload of firewood, smiling faintly to see Tiwaz in the middle of unarmed exercise routines. He did not interrupt, settling the last load of wood with the rest just inside the cave. He sat on one of two fallen trees he had dragged over days before to give them somewhere to sit, leaning forward to light the fire for warmth and protection.

  Once the flames were growing to a steady burn, he considered the woman for a time. He frowned has he finally observed her with more objective criticism. Ignoring the fact she was still healing from the broken bones, bruises and lacerations from her tangle with the wyvern, he realized her pacing was off. Her moves lacked the sharp accuracy she was renowned for.

  “Ti,” he called when she finished her routine. The woman looked over at him, eyes dark and focused on something in her mind’s eye. She caught the towel he tossed to dry her sweat. Her focus returned to the here and now as she settled on her usual seat by the fire. “I feel stupid for only realizing how very little I know about your art beyond that it is fighting to entertain inside an arena. Can I ask you about gladiating?”

  “You can ask me anything,” she replied as she continued to wipe herself down methodically. “You don’t need to ask permission to ask. I may not answer, but you can always ask.”

  He smiled faintly. “I feel better asking.” His smile faded. “I noticed that your demeanor changes sometimes. Usually when your mind is fully engaged in gladiating or when you’re talking about Alimar. You sound…I don’t know. I don’t want to say ‘more intelligent’ because that just sounds insulting, but—”

  She shrugged. “It amused him to have me talk like a noble or other more ‘cultured’ sorts. Those who considered me beneath them, like his apprentice Gilhadnar, became irritated and irrational. It also annoyed those who thought I believed I was above them. Once they are already irritated, I need only say a few well-placed insults and they would be off balance. Like that idiot I fought in Dramaden. Farn from wherever.” She snorted softly. “It was too easy to goad him. And I gave him too much credit as an arena fighter. Absolutely no control.”

  Sudden understanding dawned, his yellow eyes lighting up with comprehension. “So that’s how you would get the edge over them.”

  “Most of the time, yes. Self-control is the single most important skill for any fighter, but especially a gladiator. The one who wins is not simply the more skilled fighter, but the one who controls the fight itself. Every gladiator knows better than to heed anything said during the contest. Any insult that is meant would be repeated outside the circle.”

  She smiled a little. “Not that it is always easy. I learned to see people’s triggers quickly, if they didn’t display them as obviously as Farn had. Say the things that could enrage them, then just dodge their attacks until I found an opening. Stretched the fight out, manipulated the bookmakers into changing the odds to favor whomever I faced, then beat them.” She stretched, grimacing. “Eventually, the betting odds had nothing to do with whether I would win or not, but how long it would take me to do so.”

  “It seems a little unfair,” he mused.

  “Against someone who isn’t trained in the art? Completely unfair. Then again, I am more capable of facing dirty fighters than most. The crowds love dirty tricks. They love when someone can win despite them.” She leaned forward to hold her hands towards the fire, then sat back again, fidgeting unconsciously. “They adored me.”

  He skewered two pieces of venison and placed them over the fire. His words were slow, uncertain. “Don’t you need to practice against someone to keep your skills honed? I mean, I know you do the solitary routines and all, and shadow-fight, but, well…” He met her eyes. “I worry about you.”

  “If you wonder whether I will lose my edge? Someday, yes. Training alone is a far cry from actually facing someone. I may strike harder than I intend, or less than I wanted. But no matter how rusty I get, I will always be able to manage most opponents. For a while, anyway.”

  Doom frowned deeply. “I don’t like the sound of that. You mean someone could get a lucky shot in?”

  “Of course. That is always a risk, but more so the less proper training I have.” She managed a smile as she got to her feet, scratching her thigh as though she itched. “But that won’t be for a while. You don’t need to worry.”

  Silently, Doom tended to their food and the fire, glancing up as she started pacing the edge of the camp, her eyes periodically drawn skyward. “I will spar with you,” he said. “Like we used to before.”

  She spun around, staring in amazement. “But you do not approve of gladiating.”

  He shrugged. “I suppose I don’t disapprove of gladiating. It was your lack of choice in fighting. Especially when you were forced to kill. It…isn’t as bad when you choose to fight for yourself.” He raised his eyes from the fire. “So, would I be acceptable?”

  Scratching behind her ear, she smiled. “Silly question. You are always acceptable.” Her smile vanished in a burst of exasperated irritation as she tugged at the thin tunic she wore. “Why am I itching so much all of a sudden? Did I get itching vines in my clothes somehow?” The woman all but ripped the shirt pulling it off in frustration.

  “Ti, are you all right?” he asked with a frown, getting to his feet to go to her as she shed the rest of her clothing. Not that she was modest; they each had seen the other nude before and thought little of it. He, especially, knew her body and every scar of every wound he had to sew or bandage.

  He drew back in shock when, as the sun sank below the ocean horizon in the distance, her body seemed to contort painfully, changing form. Though unpleasant to witness, the transformation took a few moments until her form settled onto that of a sleek, black panther. “Ti?” he asked when he could find his voice.

  The panther, turning circles looking at herself, raised green eyes to stare at him in horror. She cringed back from his dismayed expression, hissing as her ears flattened back when he took a step towards her. Before he could say anything, she turned and ran. “Oh, gods, no. Ti, wait!” He ran after her. “Tiwaz!”

  The nearly full moon spilled its silvery glow over the plateau as it emerged from behind a cloud bank. The moonlight made the inky black shape easy to see, but her unfamiliarity with the area away from their camp resulted in Tiwaz cornering herself in a crevice along the mountain wall. She scrabbled at the vertical rock face with her claws in a desperate bid to escape when Doom appeared, blocking the way out. Unable to climb the vertical rock, she turned to face him, ears flattened against her skull and very white teeth bared.

  Unsure, Doom approached her with the same patient cautiousness he learned when approaching prey in the forest. He reached out, expecting her to rake long claws across his outstretched hand. She recoiled but allowed him to put his hand gently on her head. “Ti, do you recognize me?”

  Green eyes blinked
with surprise as she looked up at him. The tension lessened, her ears pricking forward again. Soothingly, he ran his hand along her neck and back with very slow strokes, sensing her skittishness still trembling through her. Her attempt to speak sounded like someone was torturing and drowning her at the same time. Ears turned sideways, her head drooped sadly. “It is okay, Ti. The dragon did say—” He pulled his hand back instinctively when her ears folded back, teeth bared in a hiss.

  “You are hardly a monster,” a voice above them stated languidly. Both startled, looking up to see the rock formation above move. A massive black and grey dragon looked down at them, its eyes glowing the palest of blues. Tiwaz growled deep in her chest, ears still turned back, but not plastered against her skull. “And no, my sister did not do anything but remove the magic that imprisoned you. This is your true nature.”

  Doom stood protectively in front of Tiwaz when she slinked to hide behind him. Her eyes caught the moonlight as she hissed up at the dragon. “What do you know of what happened to my friend?” he demanded.

  The dragon’s laughter rumbled deeply, shaking loose bits of rock from the cliff above the pair. “I know a great deal. My sister tells me everything. For a change, it was not anything I did not want to hear about. There are things even gods don’t want to know, especially about their sister’s predilections.” Snaking its head around, the dragon regarded Tiwaz. “I see why she has such an interest in you, little one. You have my sympathies.”

  “Sympathies? Why sympathies?” Doom asked with wariness, shifting to put himself between Tiwaz and the dragon’s piercing gaze again.

  “Because love and attention like my sister’s can be utterly exhausting. It can be a challenge, especially for one such as your Tiwaz’s reclusive breed.” Crossing its forelegs in front of itself, the dragon rested its chin on them, regarding the two. “As I said. You are not a monster, little one. Your kind have full control over their ability to take their second form. At least, as they grow into it. Unfortunately, that is something you will have to practice to master. Until then, you will be at the mercy of the urges the moon phases cause.”

  Doom knelt, drawing Tiwaz to come forward and sit beside him. Keeping a supportive arm around her, he looked up at the dragon. “How in the world is she supposed to learn something she’s never done before now?” She grumbled sullenly, quieting at his touch on her shoulder.

  “First, let me explain why you are not a monster, little one. In the Southern Wildlands, there are many races of shape-shifters. I am not as familiar with them as I would like to be, because they are extremely reclusive. For good reason.” The dragon frowned, growling. “Magic users of all stripes from many lands would steal them away, as you had been. They hoped to derive the secret of the shape-shifting ability.”

  Tiwaz sat upright in surprise, then flattened her ears back with a snarl, calming only because of Doom’s soothing reassurance. The gromek wondered, “Am I also one of these shape-shifters?”

  The dragon appeared to consider its answer before it spoke. “Gromeks have only one form.” It looked back to Tiwaz. “You, young warrior, were born to a breed whose second form is that of great cats. The young of your kind instinctively take their second forms at night. When the moon is close to full or new, the urge is irresistible to the very young, but it can only be done at night. Once they reach their maturity, they can take their second form at will, regardless of the time of day.”

  “Why only at night?” Doom wondered, his attention torn between watching his friend and watching the dragon.

  “I do not know. As I said, shape-shifters are extremely reclusive, and they have no gods of their own and share nothing with others. They have little reason to trust any with great power.” It closed its eyes with a heavy sigh. “Those who do not have the ability to take a different shape both envy and distrust those who can. Those following the art of apothecary, the art of making potions, were the ones to discover a means to give the shape-changing ability to others.”

  Doom looked down at Tiwaz, then back up to the dragon. “If shape-shifting is a natural ability, how did they find it?”

  The dragon added, “The means do not bear repeating. It was absolute cruelty and many shape-shifters died. People called those who used the potions lycanthropes. They gained the physical abilities most shape-shifters had. Take on a second form, heal faster than normal, keener senses, and such. The only limitation seemed to be they could only change during the days surrounding the full or new moons. Most assumed it just required time until they mastered it, just as it was for those born with the ability.”

  “Time was a small sacrifice for the considerable benefits and many paid considerable money for the potions. The first and most infamous of lycanthropes were the werewolves, often called lycans. But the potions had a terrible side effect.”

  The dragon exhaled, closing his eyes a moment. “Those who used them could not accept the foreign form as their own. They went insane when they became the beasts, taking their madness out on all around them, and no cure could purge them of the taint. As if madness were not bad enough, whenever their spittle mixed with the blood of someone they bit, the victim also became a lycanthrope. Natural born shape-shifters became guilty by association to the crimes they were victims of.

  “Whenever a rumor of a lycanthrope surfaces outside the Southern Wildlands, panic ensues. Few are willing to ask any questions in the more… ‘civilized’ realms. Sometimes, it becomes what humans of the Eastern Kingdoms ‘lovingly’ call a witch hunt. Just being accused of the affliction in the Western Empire or Eastern Kingdoms becomes grounds for execution by some less scrupulous souls. Few can defend themselves because the insanity suppresses any memory of the bestial form.”

  “Alimar enjoyed having me hunt lycanthropes,” the gromek said bitterly. “Because their bites never affected me.” Doom blinked, realizing what he had been doing, and looked at Tiwaz in horror. “No wonder you were afraid of me.” He hugged her, the cat leaning against him. “I would never hurt you, Ti. Never.”

  The panther looked up at the dragon, mrowring in question. The dragon seemed to smile. “I do not need to teach you anything. Once you become accustomed to the change, you will discover how to control it. No different than learning to control your breathing. Your kind are neither ‘contagious’ nor lacking control.” The dragon rose, fanning its massive wings. “You will, however, need to be wary around those who know only of lycanthropes. That will ever be a danger to you.”

  Tiwaz snorted at that, turning her back on the dragon and skulking away, her tail lashing with emotion. Doom stood, torn between following her and talking to the dragon. “She has always been…volatile,” he half apologized.

  “She has every right to be,” the pale-eyed dragon replied. “Be strong, son. The days ahead will test you both without mercy.” The dragon sprang into the air, disappearing into the darkness.

  Doom grumbled as he followed Tiwaz back to their camp. “I see there is a good reason for having antipathy towards dragons.”

  THE TWINKLING STARS began to fade one by one as the approaching dawn slowly brightened the sky. A breeze from the ocean rustled the branches and colorful leaves, adding a wash of sound in the otherwise silent night. Doom emerged from the cave, stretching as he woke up. “Ti?” he called, looking around the camp. He sighed softly and sat on the log beside the panther who lay curled in a miserable ball on the ground.

  “What’s the matter?” The panther turned her face away. “The air is chilly. You should go inside before the sun rises so you don’t get cold when you change back.” She merely hunched her shoulders more. He got up, lamenting, “You are so stubborn.” He brought his cloak out, draping it over her as her body contorted while returning to her human form.

  “I am an unnatural, horrible monster,” she whispered, hunched into a ball where she had lain as a panther. She hid her face in her arms. “Why do you let me live?”

  Doom scowled. “You are not a monster! The dragon even said you are not a
monster. You are just a shape-shifter. There is nothing unnatural about it.”

  “You don’t understand!” She repeatedly slammed her fist so hard onto the wood Doom winced in sympathy. He grabbed her by both wrists to stop her from hurting herself. “Alimar has magic. He has lots of magic and he is a monster. I saw what magic does. I saw the evil he did with it.” She struggled in his firm grip. He grunted, determined to hold her back from injuring herself. “I have magic. I am just like him.”

  “No! You are nothing like him, Tiwaz!” He shook her. “Look at me, damn it.” She obeyed, her eyes filled with shame. His heart ached for his beloved friend’s pain. “Why would you even think you were like him? You are my Tiwaz. My warrior.” He cupped her cheek in his palm. “I do not care if you have magic. Magic is not what made Alimar evil. How he used magic is what made him evil.”

  “I saw how you looked at me when I changed shape,” she whispered, agonized. “I saw the horror and fear in them. You were afraid of me. You were…you were repulsed by me.”

  The gromek grimaced. “The dragon that removed the glyphs didn’t say you were a shape-shifter. I wish it…she…had.” He sat on the ground beside her, holding her tight against him, both for warmth and reassurance. “The transformation is not pleasant to look at. I will admit to that. And, yes, I was afraid, but I wasn’t afraid of you. I was afraid for you. I only knew the madness that overtakes lycanthropes, and for a few moments while you changed, I was so afraid you were like them. There is no cure for that magic-caused contagion. It drives those afflicted into a psychotic, murderous rage. Death is the only mercy a lycanthrope has and the only way to protect others from their bites.

  He sighed. “Then I met your eyes. I could see the horror and confusion in them, and I could see your heart. You’ve prided yourself on discipline and self-control.” He rested his chin lightly atop her head. “I saw you in your eyes. How mortified you were to learn you were something that terrifies people. A shape-shifter.