James Galloway - The Tower of Sorcery

"Hey!" the voice outside shouted, and the door thumped loudly.

Tarrin could hear nothing but the pounding of his own heart, and the incessant, undeniable, animalistic urge to be free. Grabbing the chain on the left manacle, he twisted the eye where it was connected to the manacle and twisted it off, and then set his paws as far apart as he could to make the chain connecting his paws taut. Snarling soundlessly, his inhuman strength suddenly attacked that chain, as Tarrin pulled his arms apart with every ounce of his incredible power. The chain did not break, so he put his wrists together and yanked them apart, giving out a bestial cry as manacles tore skin, muscles ripped from anchors on bones, and ligaments tore and snapped. His overpowering need for freedom had overwhelmed his sensation of pain, and those arms inexorably pulled further and further apart, straining the heavy chain connecting them together.

The sound of the chain snapping under the irresistable force of Tarrin's augmented strength was accompanied by the sound of the throwing of the bolt on the door, and murky torchlight suddenly flooded into the room. "I said sit down and shaddup!" the voice called again as the door opened.

The pain had been too much. The pain, the rage, the inescapable fear, they assaulted Tarrin's mind in harmony, and he could no longer control them. His consciousness was again shunted off to the side, overwhelmed by his animalistic urges, conquered by the Cat. The Cat would be free.

The Cat would be free!

The man, a slim, unshaven sellsword, with a rank scent and a scarred face, took one look at the hunched Were-cat, arms free of the chains, a broken chain the size of a man's wrist hanging between the manacles. His eyes glowed from within with an unholy greenish radiance, and the look on his face was one of pure, unadulterated hate. He took one look at the man, his ears laid back, and he roared , his claws coming free of their sheaths.

"Sweet mercy!" the man screamed, slamming the door in the face of that apparition, even as it lunged forward.

But there was no mercy left. Tarrin's paw exploded through the closed door, opening up and grabbing the man by his arm. The man shrieked in agony when that inhuman grip closed over his arm, crushing bones beneath it, but it turned into a whoosh as Tarrin yanked, shattering the door by pulling the unfortunate man through it. The sound of the imploding door echoed through the passages, and they were quickly accompanied by horrified, agonized shrieks and screams as Tarrin systematically savaged the guard. Unsatisfied with simply killing him, Tarrin unleashed his full rage upon the man's body, tearing, breaking, ripping, destroying, feeling the rush of flesh tearing against his claws, revelling in the sound of bones snapping within his grip. Tarrin's voice, a screeching roar of pure animalistic rage, drowned out the man's weakening screams and pleas, which were cut off when Tarrin grabbed the man's head between his paws and pushed , utterly destroying everything above his neck. Blood, bone, brains, and worse flew in every direction, spraying Tarrin and the walls with grisly ichor, and the smell of it drove him utterly mad. Even that was not enough. After the body fell to the floor, Tarrin continued to destroy it, sending gibbets and shredded bits of flesh, bone, leather, organs, and cloth in every direction, to stick to the walls and ceiling, to hang from Tarrin's body like grotesque jewelry, to slick the floor with blood and gore. When there was nothing even remotely human left to identify, when the remains of the man were spread all over the floor and the walls of the small cell, Tarrin raised his head to the ceiling and screamed, a raging howling roar of pure hate, pure rage, the purity of the need to survive at any cost.

Two more men appeared at the destroyed opening of the cell, and Tarrin whirled to face them, covered in the spoor of his defeated foe, and a look of pure rage, utterly devoid of rational thought, twisted his face into a fang-bared snarl.

"Holy Karas preserve me!" one of them gasped, but it was too late. With a roar, Tarrin sprang forward, killing one instantly when his paw found the man's face, and drove that head back and against the wall behind it, where it crushed between the wall and Tarrin's paw. The other managed to draw his sword, just in time for it to fall from nerveless fingers when a full swipe of Tarrin's clawed paw ripped the man's head completely off his body.

Tarrin gave another howling roar, a scream of rage, but also of triumph. He would be free! Now he would leave, using the memories of his human half, memories of hallways and passages that would lead back to the top, back to the outside, out of that prison! A man spotted him, then turned and ran down a side passage, but Tarrin didn't give him any mind. The Cat inside him was trying to get its bearings, to decide which way it was supposed to go in order to find the way out, and it struggled to comprehend human conceptions to make that decision.

A sudden clamoring of bells startled the Cat, and it couldn't grasp that it was an alarm. Giving up for the moment, the Cat decided that moving was best. So Tarrin began stalking down the passageway, seeking something familiar that it could use to find the way out…a scent, a movement of the air, anything that seemed familiar. He turned a corner, and found himself staring at at least ten armed men, who immediately shouted at him and drew weapons.

But Tarrin had no fear. Snarling, he issued a raging howl, then rushed to the attack, totally oblivious to any danger. Swords pierced his flesh, but he felt nothing, ripping and raking and tearing, even biting, anything that he could get his claws on. He tore at faces, gouged out eyes, slashed throats and chests with his claws, raking with his feet to disembowel his adversaries. Skilled thrusts and swipes cut his flesh, drew deep blood, chopped off his left paw at the wrist, just below the manacle, but the enraged Were-cat felt no pain, no fear, nothing but the overwhelming need to destroy, to kill, and he had no mercy.

A brief episode of pain registered to him as his left paw grew back, almost as quickly as it had been severed. Their weapons were not magical, and the magical barrier that stopped magic seemed to be incapable of affecting his innate pseudo-magical abilities, such as his regenerative powers. But when Tarrin took that brief rest to allow it, it was because ten mangled bodies lay in various stages of dissasembly on the floor around him. He was standing ankle deep in entrails.

That began a pattern, as Tarrin randomly stalked the hallways of the underground complex, looking for the way out, killing absolutely anyone who got in his way. He did not chase them down, but anyone who challenged his forward momentum or failed to flee at the sight of him was instantly and savagely attacked. A trail of savaged bodies marked his path along the dark, shadowy tunnels, as the mercenaries and warriors and guards sought to locate the intruder and neutralize him. Tarrin attacked them all, no matter how many there were, and he was soon soaked in both his own blood and that of his victims, leaving swords and daggers protruding from his body as grim testaments of the attempts to slow him down, not feeling the pain in the haze of his utter rage. He killed them singly, in pairs, in groups, he killed anyone he could find, he killed them with utter ruthlessness. They were enemies, seeking to take away his freedom, and they had to die. In short minutes, dozens and dozens of the dead marked his grim, systematic passage along the winding, intersecting tunnels, creating a grisly path for others to follow to find him.

It came to a head in a wide passageway, almost like a gallery, with a set of stairs at the far end. A large complement of guards had gathered at the far end, at least thirty of them, and they all pointed and shouted as Tarrin stepped from the shadowy tunnel and into the brightly lit chamber, covered in blood and with a dagger sticking out of his shoulder. He narrowed his eyes and laid back his ears, then roared at the large gathering in a horrific scream of hatred and rage, and he hunkered down into a pouncing position.