The Questing Game f-2

by James Galloway

  He coughed again, and the pain was simply too much. Eyes rolling back in his head, he sagged to the wharf.

  Triana looked at him in shock, paw half-reaching for him. But then her fingers closed into a fist, and her eyes hardened. "Hard choices," she said in a whisper to herself, putting her fist to her forehead and closing her eyes, an expression of tremendous pain and loss clear on her lovely features.

  Then they opened. "Cub, you drive me crazy," she said in a clear voice, reaching down and touching him gently on the back of the neck with two fingers. There was a visible light in that touch, as Triana used her Druidic power to enact Druidic healing on Tarrin's damaged body. Under her ministration, Tarrin's body was urged to heal itself, and supplied the energy it would need to do it faster than was normal. But the amount of energy she supplied was very small, allowing his body only to heal to the point where it was stable.

  To where he would live.

  "Your Sorceress can finish the job," she said to Azakar, who had tried to approach quickly yet quietly. He was wearing his breastplate and helmet, and was carrying a sword. "I just want you to know, I didn't do this. It was a Doomwalker."

  "I saw it," Azakar said, coming to a halt well out of her reach and lowering his sword. "Why?"

  She gave him a penetrating look. "Because we all have to make hard choices," she said in a level tone, then she stalked up to him and wordless handed him Tarrin's staff. There was no emotion in her expression, a face of stone, like a sculpture of beauty with no warmth. She stared directly up into his eyes for a long moment, then she walked past him, back towards the city. Azakar wasted no time in gathering up Tarrin's limp form, and rushing back to the Dancer, back to Dolanna.

  GoTo: Title EoF

  Chapter 8

  "This is getting tiresome, Tarrin," Dolanna admonished him sternly as she put her hand to his forehead.

  He'd woken up in his bed. Again. But then again, he didn't think he'd be waking up at all. For some reason, Triana had spared him.

  Maybe the Goddess' words about what him saying to her had made a difference. She had spared his life.

  He felt remarkably well for someone who had had a span of steel shoved into his gut. There was no pain, just the weak feeling that always accompanied a Sorcerer's healing. He'd woken up to find Dolanna hovering over his bed, and feeling the ship rocking in a way that told him that they were back out at sea. He'd slept through the night and half the morning, recovering his strength. He was a little worried that Keritanima and Allia weren't there, but Renoit had them up on deck practicing, and Dolanna had ensured them that Tarrin's injuries weren't life-threatening.

  "I told you before, Dolanna," he said calmly, "I won't put you in danger because of me. That was Jegajoh. A Doomwalker. If I'd have told you about it, and you and the others came to help fight it, it would have killed some of us. I've fought it before, and to be honest, anyone else would have gotten in my way."

  "You assume much," she sniffed. "We are a group, Tarrin. We must act like a group. We cannot help each other if you keep shouldering all your burdens alone."

  "I know, Dolanna, and I'm sorry. If it would have been anyone or anything else, I would have told you. But not a Doomwalker."

  "It sounds personal."

  "I guess it is," he said gruffly. "He beat me the last time. I guess the fighter in me wanted a rematch."

  "Pride is a dangerous emotion, my young one. It can bring confidence, but it can also make one make foolish decisions."

  "May be, but I still wasn't going to put all of you in danger over me. You're more important than I am."

  "And who made this decision?"

  "I did," he said pugnaciously, giving Dolanna a stern look.

  Dolanna gave him a long look, then she actually laughed. "I am flattered, dear one," she said with a smile. "I was also impressed. You made all the correct decisions. Allia and Binter have taught you well."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Dear one, that wharf was in plain view of most of the harbor. There had to be hundreds of people watching. We saw the entire thing."

  Tarrin gaped at her.

  "King Rathbonne sent you this, as a thank-you," she said, picking up double-bladed longsword with an elaborately jeweled hilt, the hilt resembling a dragon. Wings formed the crosspiece, the body was cleverly wrapped in wire to make it look scaled, forming the handle, and the pommel was sculpted to look like a dragon's head.

  It was Jegojah's sword.

  Tarrin recognized it immediately, and it sent a pang through him. "The Doomwalker killed a great many people when it came into the city. That you had a hand in destroying it was not lost on him."

  "You mean people were watching?"

  "Of course. Azakar had a jump on us all. He saw you leave and followed you, but he did not get there in time to help. Rathbonne's men fished this out of the sea. He felt it only right that you should receive it."

  Tarrin took it from her, holding it out before him. Just the touch of it made his fur itch. He could feel the magic that made up part of its craftsmanship, an ancient weapon from time long past, that had only survived the Breaking because it was probably wherever the Doomwalker went when not stalking across the world. It felt odd holding the sword that had spilled so much of his own blood.

  "I don't deserve this," he said, holding it back out. "Triana finished it off, not me."

  "Triana is not here. She did not fight it to that point, and she struck it from behind. Besides, this is less than suitable compensation for what it has put you through. I would say that you have much more of a claim on it than anyone else."

  "It's not cursed, is it?"

  "No, dear one," she smiled. "It is merely an object, nothing more. The good or evil it can cause depends solely on the hand wielding it."

  Tarrin looked at her, then looked at the sword. It was truly an exquisite weapon, both in its forging and in its beauty. The blade was etched with flowing dragons along both sides, something he hadn't noticed before, and it was much too light to be made of steel. It almost felt made of wood, but Tarrin could personally attest to the strength of the blade, and its lethal cutting edges. It would be the treasured possession of any warrior, a sword of paramount workmanship. The fact that it carried a magical enchantment, something that was exceedingly rare, was only the icing on the cake.

  "Jegojah will come back for it," Tarrin said quietly. "It told me itself that it can't be destroyed. It will find a new body and come back, and I'm sure it'll be looking for this."

  "Perhaps. But tell me, was it using the same weapons as before? I remember the first battle you had with it, and it left its sword behind. The Tower still has the sword it used in that fight. This one is not the same."

  "It's not?"

  "No. I saw it. It was not this sword."

  "Huh," he mused, holding it up. "It's too bad I don't really like swords. This one is very nice."

  "Yes. I pity the one the Doomwalker attacked to gain it."

  "I guess so," he agreed. "Azakar uses a bastard sword, and it's a bit too small for him. I think I'll give it to Faalken."

  "He will kiss your feet and wash your clothes for a year," Dolanna laughed.

  "He can do whatever he wants. It doesn't really do me any good. Best to give it to someone that can use it."

  "He will be thrilled," she assured him, taking it from him when he offered it and leaning it against the squat night stand. "Now then, you are free to get up. You were not injured as badly as I first thought."

  "It got me in the lung. I thought I was going to die."

  "Your internal injuries were not that severe. Perhaps Triana healed you before she allowed Azakar to take you."

  "Druids can heal?"

  "Yes. Their healing is crude by a Sorcerer's standards, but they do have some ability."

  "What's the difference?"

  "A Sorcerer returns the body to its original condition," she explained. "We cannot heal diseases as Priests can, nor can we heal those who are so weak that their bo
dy cannot withstand the healing, but any type of injury or wounding can be healed. Druids only accelerate the body's natural healing process. If an injury does not set or heal correctly, there is nothing more they can do. Their healing also leaves scars, where ours does not."

  "I guess that makes sense. Sevren once told me that Druidic magic is the magic of nature, so their healing would depend on the natural healing of the one being healed."

  "Correct," she smiled. "I see you paid more attention in class than I previously believed."

  "I tried," he said with a small smile.

  "You may get up and move about, but do not exert yourself. You may also go up on deck, but I do not have to-"

  "I'll be careful," he promised.

  "Renoit left you these," she said, patting a set of leathers sitting on the nightstand. "He noticed that your other clothes are all getting a bit shaggy."

  "It's the claws," he said casually, throwing the covers aside. He was nude beneath them, but he had no reservations about it. Dolanna had seen him without his clothes more times than he could count, and it didn't bother him in the slightest to appear before others unclad.

  Dolanna stood up. "I will see you on deck, dear one. If you feel up to it, join us for our daily lesson in Sorcery. At least after I drag my students away from Renoit's performers."

  Tarrin tested the fit of the leathers after putting them on. There hadn't been a hole for his tail, but a claw fixed that problem. They fit rather well, a pair of brown leather trousers and a simple brown sleeveless vest that left his torso, upper arms, and chest bare, and showed his brands to the world. They were usually hidden beneath the cotton shirts he preferred to wear.

  Going up on deck, he ignored the looks and the stares from the performers, breathing in the fresh air. Miranda and Keritanima seemed to excuse themselves from their dancing and start towards him. Allia, much closer to him, rushed over and hugged him, and kissed him on the cheek. "Dolanna said you were well," she said in Selani. "She told us to come up and train. I nearly spit her on my sword."

  "I'm alright, sister," he assured her.

  He embraced Keritanima, then took Miranda's hand gently as the Princess slapped him several times on the chest and shoulder. "Stop doing that to me!" she demanded. "What possessed you to run off and fight that thing alone?"

  "You have no idea what it is and what it can do, Kerri," he told her seriously. "Leaving you behind probably saved your life."

  "I think you think I can't carry my own weight," she said scathingly.

  "Kerri, I wouldn't even let Allia fight that thing. What do you think that means for you?"

  Allia gave him a penetrating look, and Keritanima laughed ruefully. "I hate being the low girl in this totem pole," she said to them.

  "When I face it one on one, I know exactly what it's going to do. If I'd have had others with me, it would have been unpredictable. Trust me, sisters, the best way to go about it was to do exactly what I did."

  "I guess we must bow to your experience in this matter, my brother," Allia said. "But I do not like it. You dishonor me by treating me like a child."

  "No, sister, I'm keeping you alive," he told her. "It can't be hurt by weapons that aren't enchanted by magic. There's nothing you can really do against it other than be a target."

  "I can defeat you without magical weapons," she snorted.

  "I also feel pain, sister. That thing is already dead. It doesn't feel pain and it doesn't have any fear. I ripped its arm off, something that would stop almost anything else, and it didn't affect it any more than using harsh language. Kick me in the head, and I get stunned. Kick it in the head, and it'll turn around and cut out your liver."

  "You have a point," she acceded.

  "I'm sorry if I worried you, but I did what I did for all of us, not just for me," he explained.

  "Your reunion, it is over, yes?" Renoit shouted at them from the stern. "Practice, my performers! There is only eight days to Shoran's Fork!"

  "I'm going to-" Keritanima started with a growl.

  "You're going to go practice," Tarrin cut her off. "I'll still be here tonight, sister."

  "Alright," Keritanima chuckled.

  Tarrin watched his sisters and friend go back to their practice, sighing a bit. He was just glad they were alright. He'd fight the Doomwalker fifty times in a row if it meant keeping those he held dear out of danger. He knew they'd all have to fight together at some point, but the longer that took, the happier he was.

  Tarrin went the rail and stared out at the landline on the horizon, a greenish-brown strip near the horizon. He was still a little surprised that Triana had spared him. The look in her eyes, the complete emotionlessness of her stare, it had convinced him that she was going to stand there and watch him die, to make sure of it. But she had spared him. The Goddess said that what he had to say to Triana would decide whether he would live or die, and it had come true. He didn't remember what he said to her, but whatever it was, it had to have been effective.

  He hated it. He didn't hate Triana. She was strong, commanding, and just the sight of her seemed to both terrify him and bring to him a strange pride. He knew she didn't hate him. She was just doing her duty. It was just like it was with Jesmind, but Jesmind had had a more intimate interest in him. He wanted to learn from Triana, to get to know her, but fate had cast them down on opposite sides of a line in the sand. He didn't want to fight the Fae-da'Nar, but he didn't have the time to stop and learn what they wanted to teach.

  It had been a hard choice, but it really was no choice at all.

  In a way, Fae-da'Nar and the Were-cats were a part of his family. Jesmind had been his bond-mother, responsible for him, then she had become something more. Part of him still yearned for her. It hurt in the strangest way to reject them, to force them to have to try to kill him. He had no animosity towards any of them, but they just wouldn't listen. They were all too stubborn, too wrapped up in their law to understand that it only took a little bending of it to make everything alright. Jesmind's pride had made them enemies, and now Triana's ferocious tenacity was doing the same. Nobody would listen to him, listen to his side in their dispute, and that both frustrated and saddened him.

  To them, he was just a child. Perhaps that made them think that they knew what was best for him.

  Jegojah was another matter. At least he understood what the Doomwalker was doing now. He would see it again. And again, and again. It would keep coming back until it finally destroyed him. Jegojah was an enemy, but again, there was a curious lack of hatred in him for it. It was a powerful fighter, cunning and highly skilled, and Tarrin had the oddest respect for his supernatural opponent. He wondered where it had come from, what it had done when it was alive to learn what it had learned.

  Fighting the Doomwalker was going to be suicide. It was just too skilled with its weapons. They were nearly evenly matched now, because of the training he had received from Allia and Binter since the first battle between them. The law of averages said that it was just a matter of time until Jegojah won a match. And if it did, there wouldn't be another. Sorcery could affect it, so that had to be his primary focus. He had to get a handle on his power, to be able to use it. Even if only for a moment or two, long enough to be able to deal with Jegojah the next time they crossed swords. Tarrin would eventually run out of tricks, or run out of luck. He needed to even the battleground between him and the Doomwalker to gain the advantage. Tarrin's Sorcery was alot more powerful than Jegojah's magic. He knew it, it knew it. It was simple fact when he told it that if they both used magic, then the Doomwalker would lose.

  That was going to be a long road to travel. He couldn't even touch the Weave anymore. It was like it was a living thing, and when it sensed him come into contact with it, it reacted to him, tried to smother him in its power. He couldn't handle the radical flood of magic for even a fraction of a second before it overwhelmed him. What he did to try to trick Jegojah had been everything he could do. It was the lightest contact with the Weave he could manage,
and it took absolutely everything he had just to throttle it. If he'd tried to use Sorcery, he would have removed that single tentative block against the power, and it would have drowned him.

  Right now, Sorcery was more deadly to him than Jegojah and Triana put together, if only because it was so easily at hand. He had to get a handle on it before it killed him.

  Triana. How did she find him so fast? How did she get from Dayise to Tor as fast as a ship? That seemed impossible. If Dayise had been on the same land as Tor, it may have been possible. A Were-cat could run at nearly full speed all day, faster than any horse. But she'd have to get back to the mainland, and that would have taken time. It took a day for them to get from the islands back to within sight of the mainland, and that day would have made it impossible for Triana to cover the distance in that amount of time. How did she do it?

  He'd have to ask her, if he could keep her civil long enough the next time he saw her. Putting his paws down and leaning on them, he stared absently at the landline, thoughts wandering in and out of the instinctual murmurings of the Cat.

  The land was a long way off. It seemed strange to him now, knowing that they were out there. Enemies. Anyone who knew about the Firestaff was now an enemy to him. So many that he couldn't count, and if they were even partially in the loop when it came to intelligence, they'd know who he was and what it meant. That was a scary feeling, knowing beyond any doubt that half the world was after him. He'd known it before, but it was intangible, a feeling that though he knew it, perhaps it wasn't really true. Well, now he knew it was true, and it was like cold water thrown in his face. It would make a drunk man stone sober. And the ship, the ugly pink ship that had seemed so much the prison to him before, now it was his only sanctuary. The land was the prison now, where he would have to hide and protect himself. But on the ship, this ship, he could move about freely, without worry that someone was standing around a corner waiting to stick a silvered dagger in his back. The only thing they had to worry about were pirates, Zakkites, and the Wikuni, and it was very hard to get close enough to surprise them.