The Questing Game f-2

by James Galloway

  Directly on top of his sword.

  That hadn't been in the plan when he did that. He tried to topple it forward, but it had teetered and fell backward. Backing away in chagrin, the Were-cat extended his claws and entered a crouching stance, ready for just about anything. His chagrin deepened when the monster picked up his sword as it got back up, holding it in one of its hands, holding the one thing that gave him a chance. He had no choice now. He had to attack it, if only to recover his weapon.

  Putting his ears back, his eyes glowing brightly, forgetting in his rage about the conclusion that his rational mind made but seconds before, the Were-cat lunged forward. He slid around another blast of fire as if he had not a bone in his body, slithering around it without allowing it to touch him, then he leaped right for the Demon's face with all ten claws out and seeking its eyes. The sudden, irrational attack seemed to take the Demon aback, and it vanished from before him almost too late to avoid having the Were-cat's claws futilly attempt to gouge out its eyes. Tarrin flew right through where the monster had been an instant before, landing on all fours near where the book was located-

  – -the book!

  Of course! Even in his fury, he understood the significance of that book! It was why he was here! Abandoning even trying to locate the Demon, Tarrin twisted to the side and made a break for the book, his paw outstretched to grab it as soon as he could reach it. If he could get the book, he could get around the Demon and flee with it! But a dark shadow to the side told him that it was too close to try, and he suddenly careened aside, abandoning his attempt.

  But it was too late.

  The single pincer-claw on its outside arm drove towards him like a spear, and he felt it hit him in the belly. He felt every agonizing spine and protrusion as it drove into him, through him, erupting from his back smeared with his blood and with bits of flesh and tissue hanging from the bony protrusions along the inside edge. There was no pain, only the awareness that he had been impaled, speared like a fish, and with that realization came a curious weakness in his limbs.

  The Demon raised him, turned him so he could look into its eyes, eyes that were without remorse. Those eyes bored into him as its hands moved the sword, laid the edge of the blade against the side of his neck, taunting him that it could end him right then and there.

  That was a huge mistake.

  He had nothing to lose now. His eyes turning from green to blazing white, Tarrin reached out and grabbed the Weave in a crushing grip, demanding all the power it could give to him. The power roared into him, suffused him, threatened to burn him alive, but he did not stop. His body exploded into Magelight, and he wove together a spell of Fire, a spell with a specific effect.

  The Demons could not be harmed by magic. But they were still vulnerable to purely physical effects.

  Releasing the weave, Tarrin closed his eyes against what was coming. A blazing eruption of light exploded from in front of him, moving only away from him, burning into the red eyes of his opponent with the light of a million suns, a light so intense that not even a Demon could resist it. It staggered back with a howl, thrashing its arm in a way that threw him from its bloody pincer, causing him to crash to the ground. The pain of having that pincer rip through him hit him like molten steel in his belly, making him convulse as the pain threatened to scour away his sanity even as the Weave sought to scour him into ash.

  But the pain eased. It eased, turned into a strangely warm feeling inside. He found newfound strength, newfound determination. He felt a strange presence, a feeling of something greater, but not something that was the Goddess. It came from beside him. He opened his eyes and looked down.

  Sarraya. He had nearly landed on top of her. Her eyes were open, and she had a single, tiny hand on his side. She was using her Druidic power on him, for him, healing his horrific injury by giving his body the energy it needed to heal itself, and accelerating his body's natural healing processes. She infused him with new strength, replenishing his exhausted body, even gave him enough strength to get a handle back on the Weave.

  She looked up at him, a wan smile on her face, and then her eyes rolled back into her head, and she collapsed.

  There was no thought. He put a finger to her head, assensing her, forgetting about the Demon. She was alive. Hurt, unconscious, but alive. She would survive long enough for him to deal with the Demon, then come back and heal her.

  Tarrin snapped to his feet as the Demon thrashed for another couple of moments, then blinked its eyes and focused them hatefully on the Were-cat.

  "Now it's personal," Tarrin hissed at it with utter contempt, raising his limned paws before him, raising them to the sky above. He drew in energy from the Weave, and then he turned it against the Weave itself. His power radiated from him like an invisible sun, waves of intense power that the Weave itself could not resist. "Let's see how tough you are without your magic, Demon!" Tarrin suddenly screamed at it, slashing his arms across his body, to the sides, in a snapping motion as he used his power to directly affect the Weave itself, throwing absolutely everything, power, Sorcery, anger, rage, will, even a part of his own soul, into the gargantuan task which he was trying to accomplish.

  The Weave shuddered. The strands of the Weave, crisscrossing through the sky, coming up from the ground or disappearing into it, suddenly began to glow with a noticable radiance, mesmerizing the citizens of Dala Yar Arak from their daily activities. They began to glow, then they shuddered again and then they began to move. They spread away from the Imperial Palace like the opening of a curtain, sliding silently as if some titanic hand were working a loom, shifting them until there was no strand within fifty spans of the outer wall of the Palace.

  And then they winked back out of sight.

  Within him, Tarrin felt something disappear, something that seemed close to his soul. There was no pain in it, no sensation, only that feeling of sudden disjointedness. He felt the Weave escape him, drain away from him, leaving him without a backlash for the first time in a while without Sarraya's aid. And when its power fled from him, it left him severely weakened, a strange kind of weakness that both took its toll on his body and seemed to reach all the way into his core, into the heart of his soul. It even drained away his fury, leaving him curiously aware, curiously calm. He tried to reach across the gulf to the Weave.

  But there was nothing.

  He could not afford to try again. The Demon looked at him in confusion, then seemed to stand there for a moment.

  And its eyes went wide.

  "Don't be surprised," Tarrin hissed in a nearly gutteral snarl. "No magic can flow without the Weave, and I control the Weave," he finished in a fierce declaration. He was utterly exhausted, utterly drained. Shifting the Weave had been what he desired, but his knees shook and he couldn't find the Weave again. Had his ploy deprived him of magic as well as the Demon? It certainly seemed that way. But it had evened things considerably. It still had his sword, still had an advantage, but it now had to come to him to kill him. It couldn't stand back and assault him with magic, or vanish and reappear somewhere else every time Tarrin got an advantage. He crooked his paw at the Demon tauntingly. "Bring it on," he hissed, laying his ears back.

  If he was trying to enrage the Demon, he was monumentally successful. With a raging howl, the monster threw his sword to the side, behind the bookstand holding the Book of Ages, then charged towards him with its huge pincers readied to either catch him or stab him. Tarrin moved out so Sarraya wouldn't be trampled, staying near the wall, readying to receive its charge. He let it rush him, rush him madly, blindly. For once, Tarrin would use someone else's rage against them, rather than be the victim of his own fury. When it was almost close enough to spear him, he suddenly jumped straight up, over its head, catching it by surprise. It tried to reach up and grab him, stab him, but he pushed off of the dome above and out of its reach, and it turned and slammed its back into the wall, making the whole chamber shudder, as Tarrin landed well out from the wall and simply dashed for his sword, dashed for h
is very life.

  But in his wildest dreams, he would never have thought that something so large, so ungainly, could move with such speed. It closed the distance between them quickly, and Tarrin had to dive aside to avoid getting impaled through the back by its mauled pincer-arm's claw. He rolled to his feet, but it was right on top of him so quickly he barely realized it, and its pincer again managed to lash out and close around his waist. It picked him up yet again, and he screamed when the tip of its other pincer claw drove into his side, not deeply, but deep enough to threaten to scratch his rib.

  No sliding out this time, mortal, the Demon's hideous voice echoed in his mind. I think you can't do that with something sticking out of you. I will crush you slowly, savoring your screams, delighting in your every agonized cry. It will be delicious.

  Separated from the Weave, with Sarraya unconscious, with no way to injure this Demonic foe, Tarrin was out of ideas. He simply had no tricks left. There was nothing he could do but squirm under the crushing vice of its claws, cry out as it increased the pressure, then released it just enough for him to draw breath, then squeeze him again.

  Just to listen to him scream.

  Desperately, Tarrin sought to touch the Weave, to join with its power, but it was beyond his senses, beyond his reach. He could not touch it. He was the victim of his own cleverness, caught in his own trap. Desperation turned to fear, soul-consuming fear as his own death stood before him, and that fear unleashed his other half once again. He struggled even harder, injuring himself in his attempts to wrest free of the Demon's crushing grip, but it had him too securely. It would not let him go.

  The sword. He could see it, laying not ten spans from him. Right there, waiting for him to pick it up, but it may as well be in Suld for the good it did him. His eyes locked on the weapon, and a dim memory of something tickled him. A memory of an exploding ship's wheel, a memory of an explosion of force that cause a collapsing building to fall away from him instead of upon him. It had that same feeling of expansion that Sarraya's Druidic magic caused within him, a feeling of connection to a greater whole, a power that was warm and gentle. Those things, they had not been Sorcery.

  The katzh-dashi have minor priest powers because they're technically not mortal, the Goddess had told him, long ago. By rendering them ageless, they get around the stricture that no mortal may use more than one order of magic.

  Please don't experiment, my kitten, he remembered her saying. My constitution couldn't take it if you did that.

  Not you can't do that, but my constitution couldn't take it.

  Were-cats don't die of old age, Jesmind had told him. We live until something kills us.

  All Were-cats have a touch of Druidic power, she had also told him. Mine is very weak, but it's enough to know a Sorcerer's weaving from a Wizard's spells. It's how I know a Sorcerer put that damned collar on me.

  Of course!

  His eyes lighting up from within, Tarrin gave the Demon an evil smile. It made perfect sense! He wasn't mortal! All Were-cats had at least some minor Druidic power! Those instances of strange power, they hadn't been Sorcery, they had been Druidic magic!

  And Druidic power didn't depend on the Weave!

  Reaching into himself, for the first time, Tarrin attempted to find that power, to touch it. He needed it, needed it like he had never needed it before. He had no idea how to use it, only wild, instinctual responses to threat. And he was under threat now. But his rational mind knew exactly what it needed done. He reached out with his instincts, the Cat, the soul of the animal within, seeking the power he knew was there.

  And it responded.

  Holding out his paw, Tarrin did exactly what he had seen Sarraya do so many times. With barely a thought, only an image, a desire, of what he needed to do, he Summoned the sword to his paw.

  And it appeared.

  The Demon's eyes widened in absolute shock as that black sword simply appeared his its quarry's hand. Tarrin turned that weapon against the Demon instantly, driving it point-first right into the monster's face, hitting it right in the eye. Only the very tip of the sword could reach, but it was enough to sink it into the Demon's eye and put it out. With a tremenous howl, it flinched away from the deadly sword and let go of him, staggering back with one of its small hands over its wounded face. Tarrin dropped to the ground, chest hurting, belly quaking from the pain of being in its clutches, but he ignored it as he drove forward to the attack. He slashed the monster in the side of the leg with the weapon, sending black blood flying as the deadly edge severed its hamstrings, causing it to howl again and collapse around its lamed leg. That brought its head within his reach.

  With a quick slice, Tarrin sent the undamaged pincer sailing away from its wrist, turned and sliced the other away, then jumped into the air once again. It looked up at him with its remaining good eye, a look of stunned disbelief on its face as Tarrin raised the sword over his head, a look of hatred in his eyes as he met the Demon's gaze. It sought to fend him off with its pincers, but only bloody stumps rose to block the Were-cat's path to victory. And they were not enough. Tarrin reared back with a ragged cry, coiling his body like a spring.

  And then cleaved its head in half with a massive overhanded blow.

  Tarrin landed beside it as its destroyed body slumped to the floor, taking a few steps back as the stench of its blood assaulted him, blowing out his breath.

  He had beaten it. He had won.

  The game was over.

  But there was little sense of victory in it. He was hurt, bloody, wounded. He had seen his dear friend Sarraya nearly get killed. He had felt the ecstacy of the Weave, had discovered newfound power within. He had vanquished an unnatural monster whose power had been incredible. But it all seemed to pale to his bone weariness, to the sober memory of what he had done to get there. And pale to the knowledge that though this game was over, another would soon begin.

  Getting the book was not enough. He remembered Shiika's warning. That if he touched it, the magic that kept it hidden would be gone, and every mage and Wizard in Arak would come after him. Now he had to get the book out of there alive, get it to where they could open it, read it, find out where the Firestaff was. And then go get it.

  Still holding the sword, he rushed over to Sarraya, picking her up tenderly. He couldn't heal her without Sorcery. He was too weary to even try if he could. But she seemed to be alright. Unconscious, wingless, and with a few broken bones. But she would be alright.

  She had saved his life. This victory was also hers, healing him of his hideous wound, giving him the strength to continue the fight. She was something special.

  Cradling her in his paw, he sheathed his sword and walked wearily up to the stand. This was it. This was what he had spent more than half a year trying to find. A large book, bound in black leather, with the ultimate secret within. It seemed so anticlimatic to him now, to be done with all obstacles, to be standing before it. He had won the game, but to him, there was little satisfaction in it now. Maybe later, but not now. The elation he thought he'd feel at standing where he was now had evaporated. Lost in his bone weariness.

  With little fanfare, Tarrin reached down and picked up the Book of Ages. He held it before him, looking at its featureless black leather binding, wondering tiredly that this could be one of the most precious artifacts in the world. That countless men, men he didn't even know about, had fought, killed, or died to gain possession of it. That entire kingdoms were fighting wars over the slightest rumor of its location. That the entire world had gone mad over what was rumored to exist within it.

  Funny sometimes, how things turned out.

  The Questing Game was over. And Tarrin had won.

  For what it was worth.

  Now came a new game, a new goal. Survival. They would come for him, come after him. He had to get the book out of the Palace, out of Dala Yar Arak, and he had to do it fast. It wouldn't take them long to get on his trail, he was sure of it. Now that he had what he came for, he had to live long enough to take ad
vantage of it.

  He turned his back on the bookstand, walking towards the door. It was time to go, before Shiika managed to get there. He was in no condition to fight with her now, not with his weariness and Sarraya to protect.

  There would be time enough to deal with Shiika some other day. For now, he had more important things to do.

  Survive.

  Getting out of the Palace turned out to be a great deal harder than getting in.

  People were running everywhere now, running around and screaming, moving in large groups. He was too tired to fight now, too worried about Sarraya to push things. Cradling her in one paw and holding the Book of Ages in the other, the Were-cat had come up from the stairs and started creeping about immediately, seeking nothing other than to avoid all contact with others. But that wasn't easy. He often had to slide into doors, turn corners before they reached the intersection. A few times, he simply had to just run, outrun them and blindly hope that another batch of armed opponents wasn't waiting around the next corner. He couldn't just sit tight and wait. He had the Book of Ages, and they could use it to find him. Just as Shiika warned. So he couldn't stop, he had to get out of the Palace, get out of Dala Yar Arak, and in his condition, he also couldn't afford to fight.

  The place was just so huge. He never passed a window, never so much as had an idea if he was fleeing into the Palace's depths or towards the outer wall. He was utterly lost, and there was nothing, no breeze, no scent, no light, to tell him which way to go.

  He felt helpless. "Goddess, if you want to give me a hand, this would be a very good time," Tarrin grunted under his breath, hiding behind a tapestry as a large force of armed guards raced by.