James Galloway - Honor and Blood

The morning air was cold, crisp, something that seemed unnatural for being just a few days past midsummer. The dry air, devoid of moisture, would lose the fiery heat of the day very quickly after sundown, plunging the dry savannah into surprisingly cool temperatures. The sun was a dim reddish disc on the horizon, calling the creatures of the day to awaken and begin their daily search for food and water, their daily watches for danger, their daily inspections of their territories. It also called to the nightdwellers as well, a call that their night of searching for food, of stalking, was complete, and that they had earned their rest. It was the changing of the guard, the transfer of ownership of the arid steppes from one class of creature to another, it was a cycle that had taken place countless times in the past, and would continue countless times in the future. The first stirrings of the wind, which blew as the air heated during the morning and again as it cooled after sundown, had begun to unsettle the widely spaced raintrees and other exotic flora of this strange land, causing stirring herd animals to shiver as the sun's warmth began to heat the cold air, causing small burrowing creatures to retreat into the warm safety of their dens. The huge herd animals, large, shaggy brown beasts with large horns, had started to move again, along with the white-and-black striped horse-like animals that tended to group with them, beginning to search for water.

But not every animal belonged to this ecosystem of great beasts. Sitting on a small, dead log was an animal that looked as if it belonged in a woman's boudoire than on the massive savannahs of Yar Arak. It was a cat, a large black cat, wearing a simple collar of black metal. The log was on a gentle rise, the closest thing approaching high ground in the flat terrain, and the small animal was surveying the movements of the great herd animals with mild curiosity. The cat blinked slowly, turning its head to look at a pride of great cats, lions, as they began to settle down in an area of high grass, done with their night's hunting. Predator and prey shared this great land, supporting one another and forming the web of interdependence that made life possible. The singular cat understood this, deep in its soul, for it was indeed a part of the great cycle that existed here.

Only in different ways.

The cat was no normal animal. It wasn't even a true animal. It was a Lycanthrope, a Were-beast, a being that was both human and infused with the essence of a specific animal. Part man, part animal, these unique beings existed in both worlds, living on the narrow ground that existed between human civilization and the great engine of nature. Within the small cat was the instinctual knowledge and impulses of his animal kind, as well as a human intelligence and comprehension. Unlike the animals around him, the small cat had more on his mind than food, water, and safety. He had a great many things on his mind, and very few of them were pleasant.

His name was Tarrin, and he was a Were-cat. He had not always been so, however. He had been born human, raised on a small frontier village called Aldreth, in a faraway land called Sulasia. Misfortune had brought the Cat inside him, had changed him into what he was, what seemed like an eternity ago, though it had only been a little under a year. In that year he had undergone many changes, more than simply his exterior appearance. What had been a carefree, curious, good-natured young man had turned dark, suspicious, even a little sadistic. Repeated betrayals and pressure from those around him had caused him to turn feral, to reject contact from strangers and outsiders, and it had become second nature to him to react with violence to things that he did not like or understand. But that too was a part of him, a part that he accepted stoically. Though he did things that occasionally haunted him, what he was had saved his life more than once.

And he needed that now. At that moment, he was the most sought-after being on the face of the planet. Carried with him in a magical elsewhere created by the magical collar around his neck was an ancient artifact called the Book of Ages, an artifact he had stolen from the Empress of this vast kingdom, who was herself inhuman. Within the pages of the Book of Ages, he had learned, lurked the location of an artifact known as the Firestaff, a legendary device that, when held at a certain time, would grant the holder the power of a god. That artifact was what he was after, at the behest of the Goddess of the Weave, his goddess, to gain ownership of that artifact and prevent it from being used by anyone. It was the most important thing in the world. If someone got the Firestaff and used it to become a god, the other gods would be forced to rise up and destroy the interloper, and that would create devastation on the face of Sennadar not seen since the cataclysmic Blood War.

But there were motivations, and there were motivations. Tarrin did not care about the world. He didn't care about the people who lived within it, he didn't care whether they suffered or not. Being Were, and being feral, had changed his outlook on things, had altered the value he placed on the lives of unknown people. He did not care about the world that did not exist within his territory. What he was doing was being done because the Goddess had told him to do it, not because he felt any noble need to protect humanity. It was being done because she told him to do it, it was being done because there was a little girl in Suld named Janette, a beautiful little girl who had saved him from madness, who was depending on him to protect the world that would be hers when she grew up. Tarrin did not care about the world, but he did care about Janette. Janette's life depended on this world, and that made it Janette's world in his eyes. That Janette's world would be the world he saved was nothing but fortunate coincidence. The world meant nothing to him, unless its importance was attached to someone for whom he cared.

In this he was a somewhat unwilling player, and what was behind him made him all that much more unhappy. He turned to look at them, on the horizon. Hundreds of individual campsites, each of which held at least one person who was chasing him. They couldn't find him right now, because when the Book of Ages was kept in the elsewhere, it could not be located by magical means. But as soon as he changed shape, returned to his natural form, their spells of location would work again, and they would be after him. They were all after the book. They all had dreams of acquiring the Firestaff and using it to gain ultimate power, unaware that that power would be the herald of their own destruction. It fell upon him to save them from their own foolishness, whether he wanted to or not. It was just as Shiika had said. Every two-copper mage and apprentice in Arak was bearing down on him, for their spells could now locate the Book of Ages. Most were behind, but he'd had encounters with some who attacked from the front, moving in from a city he had passed two days ago. That kept him on his toes now, for there were more Arakite cities between him and the border of Saranam, and the mages within them were no doubt moving in his direction. The Book of Ages almost seemed to be calling to them, beckoning, urging them to come to it and sample the vast knowledge locked within its ancient pages. It was the only explanation he could think of for so many to be coming after him.

But he preferred it that way. He had come out here, changed into humanoid form intentionally to lure them, to protect the others. For nine days he had moved northwest, into the heartland of this vast savannah, to draw these pursuers away from his sister and his friends. If anything happened to them, the stress may make him go insane.