Chapter 5

Tamaran

His hands began to tingle. He could feel the slightest tickle of energy sliding down his back and reaching out to his arms. His long, thick eyelashes trembled as if straining to hold their ground. Then his eyes fluttered open. He groaned with exasperation. Beads of sweat rolled down his temples and dotted his forehead. Whatever hint of anything he felt was gone. He lost it… again. The lean youth fished out a mirror from his pack and gazed carefully at his reflection. His eyes shone with faint rainbow hues, like a kaleidoscope. As he watched, they returned to their natural violet color. A common trait of those born like him was unusual eyes. Violet was unheard of among his people. He explained it away with his mother’s mixed heritage. She was from a distant country. The color shift he experienced when using his abilities was strictly unique to him. He learned to be careful who witnessed that change. The strange eye shift could be attributed to his heritage by a learned observer. That would not be a good thing. He combed his thick, wavy black hair into place though it resisted with a mind of its own. His full lips, strong nose, rich brown skin and wavy hair marked him as descended from the desert lands. Though lean, he was strong and well-toned, not tall but not short either. He was a young man, no longer a boy. A shadow of stubble always coated his face no matter how much he shaved. Tamaran would do his stretching and workout next. He believed in training his mind as well as his body. He put away the mirror and sighed. Maybe next time he could grasp control. He was so close to success that time. Bouncing along in the wagon on this dirt trail seemed a hopeless cause. There was no way he could meditate like this. Meditation was a primary aspect to his development and his training. The technique was central to his gifts, but it often eluded him. The ‘Kala-Piell’ or ‘stillness of the mind’ formed a staple of all training in his very special school. He never found his meditative trances easily. The instructors taught that one would find a focus, a topic or object to concentrate on that helped to gain the stillness of mind required. He had yet to find it. Tamaran wished he could have stayed at his school. He loved the place, the people and the lessons. His instructors were skilled and friendly. They encouraged his gifts. Some of them believed he was special even to their special breed. Sadly, that declaration could not be confirmed. His training remained incomplete. His personal efforts without his teachers were less than promising. He had hopes of attaining the lofty title of Psi-Knight, but that seemed a lost dream now. Though he had never known of an actual knight of the old order, he read about them in ancient text. Several of his texts on the gifts and development of skills mentioned them. They were the elite warriors of his kind. They were the legendary knights on the front lines of battle serving the Originators. They fought alongside dragons and other fantastic forces of the old world. They were heroes of a lost age later vilified by time and fear. He dreamed of honoring the tradition, continuing the legacy, maybe even reviving the order. He knew those were lofty goals. There were hardly enough of his kind to recreate the order. Not fully sure what that meant, it was still his dream. He sat with his back against a cushion and adjusted his legs in an effort to get more comfortable on the wagon bench. Tamaran rifled through his collection of texts, scrolls and tomes for study. He pulled a thick tome from his packs and let the pages fall open to the spot where he left his marker barely a sixth of the way through the massive book. It took him months to get this far. He could not even be certain he understood what he had read. Some of it required multiple attempts and heavy translation. The language was old, much of it used symbols instead of words. Reading this book did not come easy, but Tamaran did not settle for easy. Challenge was key to growth. He was Tamaran Alsied Kophar. It was expected of him to succeed. His family held a long history of accomplishments in various arenas. His father’s name could be located in many of the historic scrolls in Keil-Van and surrounding settlements. His name and his ancestors held numerous praises and titles throughout history. At least they did before the prosecution began and their name lost all value. His knowledge of their personal history was spotty. He knew his family was prominent in the desert lands, mostly on his father’s side. The man mentioned bits and pieces through the years. His father always seemed proud if reserved about the knowledge. He knew his father’s brother, his uncle, was like him and gifted. He also knew something happened to ruin it all. Someone slipped and the secret was exposed. They came for the school as enemies had for many other such places over the centuries. The strange cult seemed to seek them out, but why? They did not come to silence and to purge as the others had in the past. That much was clear. This cult had other unknown goals. The results were the same though. The school was destroyed, burned to cinders, her students scattered to the winds or vanished. And so, here he was bouncing along in this wagon contemplating his future. His father and his uncle were lost during the incident as well. Both had evidently been at the school when it happened. Both were presumed dead. There wasn’t a lot of information on the incident, and he couldn’t exactly hang around to investigate. They would be looking for people like him and his violet eyes were a beacon calling them to him. That led to the journey and his current path.

Tamaran could not help but reminisce about his enrollment and his studies. He loved his school. He recalled the first time Uncle Halil told him of the school. Tamaran was but twelve summers of age. He remembered how it sounded so mystical and how that idea fascinated him. There once was a very special school filled with very special people. Hidden away in a small oasis in the Rolling Sands desert it was unknown to all but the few who trained there and the select few who brought them their students. Not just any student could apply or join this school. To enroll here one required the proper blood, very rare blood. Vharesti was the name of the school. The word itself held a secret meaning, stolen from a language long forgotten. Vharesti meant ‘of the mind’ and her students were all labelled “Children of the Id”, a name given to those born with the blood of an ancient race pumping through their veins. Idosian blood was rare. Pure blooded Idosians vanished centuries ago, hunted to extinction by a fearful world. They were labelled monsters and systematically eradicated. Those that lived in this day and age were remnants of interbreeding with normal humans, the traits showing themselves in some generations while skipping others entirely. His mother’s family line held no trace of the blood as far as he knew. He learned more recently that his father’s blood held a strong connection. The strength of such traits gained through the bloodlines varied greatly as well. Few lived that held a strong strain of Idosian blood. To history and most that even knew of their existence, they were called “Mind Demons”. Originally said to have been pulled from another dimension, another world, these powerful people could literally alter reality with their thoughts, or dive into another’s mind to wrest away control. Like arcane or even divine gifts of magic, they were able to create astounding results with their powers. They harnessed mind magic. Unlike those other sources, the power came from within. It was a foreign power not drawn from EL’s crystalline core or patron sources, so it was believed anyway. In truth, so much of their history was lost to persecution and time that most of the school’s teachings and beliefs were speculation… just like the Psi-Knights. Only he had texts that spoke of the knights. They were his heroes.

Tamaran’s uncle was also a child of the id, a traveler. Halil’s powers were amazing. The man could move through space to teleport himself. It was a most rare gift. Teleportation held a mystical and sacred place on EL. Few could master such talents. Even great wizards struggled with such feats. That made his uncle very special even among the Idosian blooded. He was the one who initiated Tamaran into the secret school through his father. His father seemed hesitant but eventually brought the two together for the sake of his son. His father was the one who discovered his son’s gifts in the first place. That moment stood out starkly in Tamaran’s memories. The day his reader gifts surfaced was the day his father changed. He could not help but to notice how the man looked at him differently, treated him differently. It almost felt as if his father feared him or what he might become. At first, he thought it was a bad thing, but soon after his father warmed to the idea of his enrollment in the special school. More than warming to the idea, his father campaigned for it. His father and uncle had been distant all his life but at that point they began talking again overnight. Halil was hesitant. Tamaran’s mother remained more hesitant. She did not like the idea of promoting her child’s feared differences. His uncle warned them of the life they were inviting. All of this drove a wedge between his mother and father. They separated over arguments that grew after his enrollment. His mother promised him it had nothing to do with him, that there were things about their relationship he did not know or understand. He could not shake his doubts. The random flares of his reader gifts gave him glimpses at his mother’s reservations. She was scared, scared he might learn the truth. What truth? His father became more distant but incredibly supportive of his developing heritage. None of it made sense to Tamaran. He threw himself into his studies and enjoyed the time he had to get to know his uncle better. The man was vibrant and welcoming.

Tamaran was away on holiday to visit his mother, a last-minute decision, when the school burned to the ground. His uncle was the one that sent him to visit his mother in her people’s land. That turned out to be a freak and an incredibly lucky choice for him. The reports called it mysterious causes, but he knew as well as everyone that the school was discovered and targeted for destruction. All such schools that lost their anonymity suffered similar fates. After exhausting his resources, he learned very little about the culprits responsible. They were cultish and wore heavy robes. It was next to nothing to go on. Born and raised in the desert lands, Tamaran also knew that Idosian blood ran stronger through the desert people, suggesting that Idosians found shelter there at one point or another before their extinction. He was proud to be a descendant of such a powerful race of people. In Vharesti they taught respect for the powers of the mind, the strength in thought. He was trained to honor his gifts and those of his blood brethren even though those gifts varied greatly from person to person. Mind magic was as strong and variable as any magic on EL. He wanted different gifts, but those were handed out by fate or the Gods or some other source beyond his understanding. His was the power to interpret information based on vibes gained from objects and places. He could sometimes catch glimpses of things or even get a reading on people by touching them or their possessions or feeling the energy of a site. They called him a “Reader” but that sounded weak. He hated that title, like someone just reading a book, a mind magic librarian. It was not an improper description of his gifts, but still it sounded so paltry compared to the other possibilities. There were also thought walkers, empaths, kineticists, shifters, menders and travelers, plus a few less known hybrids that fell in-between the lines. He prayed daily that another power might awaken within him. It happened, sometimes, rarely, but it happened. There were those that could grasp at least rudimentary ability in other disciplines. Full-blooded Idosians all possessed multiple disciplines, some even mastering a minor grip on all types. The Psi-Knights of lore always possessed multiple gifts. Because of this, he meditated, he studied, and he trained in arts and skills outside the mind to help mold him into a warrior, a legendary Psi-Knight. According to the legends, Psi-Knights used multiple disciplines with skill, combining those gifts with their intense martial prowess to defend the lands from great threats. They were warriors of the highest power and earned great respect from the people. They were Tamaran’s imaginary heroes.

When he purchased a seat in this caravan, Tamaran hoped to reach the city of Sabline inconspicuously. It was assumed they would be searching for him, whoever “they” were. His mother sent him away when strange men began poking into her businesses in Merintz. Those people spooked her. Her family, prominent merchants in Paseth, took her in permanently when his father and uncle went missing. They sought to protect their daughter from the shadows that tormented his father’s family. That protection easily extended to their grandchildren. After the school burned down while he was away visiting her for a holiday, she became worried about his safety. Rumors of his ties to the mind demons began to circulate. She immediately wanted Tamaran to hide, to disappear. She never revealed all her fears to him, but he could feel them simmering within his mother. In the beginning, he accepted her protection, but his curiosity and anger over the loss of his father and uncle gnawed at him. Tamaran was the one to do the research, to locate the odd little school of magic nestled in the back quarter of Sabline. Bavree’ or Athenaeum Curioso as it had originally been named caught his eye. According to their reputation, they aided students in studying unusual magic. Villinsk was a country dedicated to magic, all types of magic. There were more magic schools in this one country than the rest of the entire continent of Pangias combined. To the casual observer unusual magic could mean just about anything, but it was the way those of Idosian blood described themselves and their talents, magic of the mind. Even if they did not cater to his kind, they might be able to direct him to those that would, or so he hoped. He knew it was a tenuous hope to cling to, but it was all he had. One thing Tamaran did know for certain is that he did not intend to give up on his heritage and he did not want to bring harm to his mother or her family with his presence. He would get revenge for his friends, his father and his uncle after learning to develop and master his gifts. He still entertained the thought that he might attain the title of Psi-Knight someday. And so, here he was on the backroads of Villinsk, bouncing along in this unstable wagon unable to meditate, trying to read a book written in a lost and forgotten language filled with symbols he did not fully understand.

* * * * * * * * * *

The caravan he joined planned to stop over in Dunabar, a small town resting on a large river that was widely considered to be the border between Villinsk and the wildlands. That was the gateway into the magic kingdom. Then he would head onward through a forest known for its dangers and wonders. If his life carried him across the realms, then he planned to make the most of the journey and enjoy the sights beyond his desert homeland. He studied everything with curiosity. Rivers were scarce in the desert lands. He looked forward to seeing it up close. Forests fascinated Tamaran. Adding mysticism to it only made him more excited. He liked Villinsk in that respect. They seemed to add mysticism to every tale. He was a huge fan of history and stories of bravery or adventure. There were numerous tales of heroes, mostly mages or priests, in the country’s archives. This journey was different for him in that he did not travel purely by the primary roadways as he had in the past. The few times he ventured beyond the deserts he did so by massive caravan and travelled by the most direct and cosmopolitan routes available. His family held wealth and station. They avoided all inconveniences as best they could. That included waterways and forests. His was a family of means and he wanted for little. Growing up among the desert lands, his was a nomadic life, but forests were not a part of his travels. So much life jammed into such a small space made him giddy. He loved to learn and to study. Many of the tales of heroes he read involved forests. Seeing new sights on the road through Villinsk was an added bonus to his goal of reaching Sabline. He even enjoyed traversing the wildlands that dominated the continent between nations. As exciting as it all was, it still took a toll. Such travel proved taxing. Another few hours and they could rest in Dunabar. That would mean he officially entered Villinsk territories. One thing he did regret about booking this form of transport was not choosing a larger caravan. They did not have caravans so small in his homelands. Three wagons were not safe, he soon learned. He grew up as a nomad, travelling from settlement to settlement, but they always remained in a pattern and their caravan contained hundreds. They also travelled along main thoroughfares with luxuries at their disposal. The deserts were home to all manner of dangers from massive beasts like yellow dragons and sand lizards or land sharks, to bandits and slavers galore. This caravan travelled the back routes, but that’s one of the reasons he chose this transport. Checks and balances, he reasoned, live and learn. Though the teamster that led the caravan, Martin Loom, was a veteran of the Villinsk army from decades past and saw fit to hire a pair of mounted mercenaries for additional protection, the roads less traveled were fraught with more danger. Among the three wagons, there was the lead wagon where Martin and his wife, Luna, stayed with most of the supplies for meals and camps. The mercenaries sometimes rested in their wagon, too. They kept spare cots in the back for such an occasion. There was a driver for each of the other two wagons, old men that had been doing this job for decades. The lot of them seemed to act as a family of sorts. The second wagon contained a pair of tradesmen, a traveling merchant they picked up days ago, and a lady on her way to meet her betrothed in Sabline. She just joined one day past. There was another woman, a gnome, that joined for a couple of days and departed at the last town. She proved an interesting character. Not many gnomes visited the desert lands. Tamaran found her most enjoyable. The final wagon, his wagon, also accommodated a traveling minstrel who proved to be the bane of his existence. The man spent day and night humming, strumming his lute, singing or reciting poetry. The man made it virtually impossible to meditate or sleep for that matter. Plus, Derris the bard, refused to stop talking. The only saving grace was that the man enjoyed getting out and stretching his legs regularly. He claimed the walking inspired his creativity. It seemed the caravan had room for others, but those seats thankfully remained empty, much to Martin and Luna’s dismay. The others in the caravan were kind and did not press him for information, even when he declined to offer his tales like they did around the nightly campfires. Both mercenaries, rugged men from unknown training backgrounds, kept their distance and divided the watch duties. One was a stocky, hairy, Flame-haired man that smelled. He hailed from the frost lands far to the south. He carried himself confidently with his well-used battle axe. The other mercenary was a mountain of a man wielding a massive two-handed sword. The bigger man was of mixed ancestry, half human and half orc. His mottled grayish-green skin tone and hint of tusks made that abundantly clear. Orc blood was not so uncommon after the wars ravaged the land and the orc armies invaded Villinsk. Half-orcs found more acceptance in Villinsk these days. Orcs, like gnomes, were not so common in the desert lands. Tamaran appreciated that they appeared to be capable warriors. He would not pick a fight with either of these mercenaries.

With one day left before reaching the next small town of Dunabar, the caravan settled on the side of the road in a small clearing that had obviously been used as a campsite before. They descended through the hills and made their way across a stretch of savanna known as the Lion’s Mane, named for its rolling fields of tall golden grass and the numerous large cats that lived there. Some likened it to the endless golden fields of the Dayscape plains. Tamaran had already heard about the grass in several different ways despite having been glued to his studies for hours. First, he heard about the grass in a poorly worded poem, then an annoying song, then a really bad joke. Flustered with his failed efforts to block out Derris the minstrel, He put down his book and peered out at those golden fields to see what all the fuss was about. He was glad he did. The rows of rolling golden waves were beautiful and reminded him of the sand dunes in his homeland. The sight was quite entrancing.

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“Aren’t they simply mesmerizing?” Derris asked in an exaggerated whisper. The slender, flaxen-haired man sat with his face in his hands gazing out as they bounced along the road. Tamaran nodded and forced a smile. Derris irritated him to no end after two weeks on the road together. The dramatic, happy-go-lucky bard would not relent, though. As if the forced smile were an invitation for conversation, he continued while sliding closer. “Are you originally from Villinsk?”

Tamaran had done well to avoid this conversation, but the man would not relent. His smile opened the flood gates. “No, I am not.”

“You don’t say?” Derris beamed excitedly. This was the best response he had gotten out of the handsome foreigner in weeks. Usually, Tamaran answered with one-word responses only. He took that as a sign that he was finally wearing down his defenses. “May I ask where you do hail from, my friend?”

Tamaran stared at him in disbelief. What would it take to get the point across? “East,” he replied curtly.

“Oh wait, let me guess. That’ll be way more fun! This will be our own private game to pass the time. Why I’m absolutely titillated!” Derris placed one finger to his pursed lips and began evaluating the handsome young man. “I’ll say, you are from the desert lands. I suppose you could be from anywhere but your accent plus your mannerisms coupled with your nice clothing and that blade at your hip say desert lands to me. You’ve also got that beautiful deep brown skin tone and those full lusciously thick black waves of hair. I noticed that silk sash under your vest poking out when you walk and especially when you bend over. It hugs the top of your firm rump. Lovely design and craftsmanship, by the way. That’s desert silk, isn’t it? It is! I knew it!” Derris beamed with his mouth hanging open. He clapped his hands together excitedly. “Am I correct? Am I? Please tell me I am!”

He did not miss the inappropriate complements, or their intent filed into the conversation so casually. The bard looked so goofy that Tamaran could not contain a smile. And, at last, the minstrel had broken him. “Yes, you are correct. Though my mother hails from a small town in Paseth with a lineage tracing back to the desert lands, my father is indeed a child of the Rolling Sands and thus, so am I.” He extended his arm in a traditional greeting. “Tamaran, Tamaran Kophar.”

The bard accepted his arm eagerly. “Derris, Derris Pierre, pleased to make your acquaintance Lord Tamaran. I hail from right here in Villinsk, from Visek actually. It’s a small village, little more than a mudhole on the road. If you blink too slowly, you’re likely to miss it.” The blond-haired, blue-eyed man broke into an ear-to-ear grin. “I’ve never known anyone from the desert lands. You are so handsome and regal. Are all the men there so striking? Your eyes are simply mesmerizing. That shade of violet cannot be common. I’m so excited to meet you!” He sat upright and shimmied his shoulders side to side. The motion looked ridiculous to Tamaran. He then clasped his hands together in front of him attentively. “Tell me everything about it! What constitutes being a desert lander? I’m all ears.” The man placed a hand behind each ear and bent them forward. Derris was also practicing his comedic arts. Tamaran thought it was a lost cause.

The desert lander broke into a full laugh and raised his hands towards the eager man. “I will start with… we like our privacy. I will end there, too. But it was nice meeting you, Derris of Visek.” Tamaran returned to his studies and shifted his back to the minstrel.

Derris sighed and nodded though the man was not even looking his direction. “I understand. I understand. We’ll take this slowly, Tamaran Kophar. This is a relationship that deserves time to simmer and grow properly. Like two ships passing in the night, we will come together when the fates deem it so. No true tale worth hearing would require any less. We still have several long and magical days on the road together, days to form a lasting bond.” He suddenly got an idea and began strumming his lute while piecing together the words to a new song.

I met a handsome man on the road,

He hailed from the desert lands,

He spoke very little, but said so much,

I formed a bond with a handsome man from the desert lands…

Derris began to hum and strum after that as he attempted to complete the lyrics. He would hum a few bars and spit out a random word then start again. Most of those words made no sense at all. He only seemed intent on finding ridiculous rhymes. Tamaran could not fight back another grin, but he dared not turn to face the man or encourage him further in any way. He knew Villinsk to be a land of free-thinkers and spiritualism as well as mysticism and the arts, but he suddenly wondered if Derris was an example of a common local. He hoped not.

They felt the wagon slowing and then lurching to a stop. They reached their campsite for the evening. In practiced fashion, the two mercenaries rode off to scout the area and make sure no threats waited nearby. Martin and Luna, the caravan masters, along with their two teamster drivers began preparations for a campfire and evening meal. They took a moment to water and feed the horses and then established the circular campsite where everyone would share the meal of stew and bread. Luna was a descent cook, so Tamaran looked forward to the meal even though she made only slight variations on the same menu each night. While they set the stage for the evening, Tamaran took his chance to slip away and exercise. The sun had not yet dipped below the horizon, and he wanted to make the most of the light. He had a routine of stretches and calisthenics. He learned these practices from his father, but they blended well with the teachings of the school and his meditative practices. He wandered a few hundred paces from the wagon, locating a small clearing in the tall golden grass. He liked his privacy. It seemed the perfect spot for his exercises. Tamaran stripped away his shirt, belt with scabbard and boots then began stretching. The warm breeze felt good against his bare skin and the grass felt nice between his toes.

He built up a good sweat that began to trickle into his eyes and down the deep ravine at the center of his chest and stomach. As he performed the last of one-hundred sit-ups, Tamaran had to pause to catch his breath and wipe his brow clear. He heard a gasp and noticed Derris perched on a boulder nearby with a sketchpad and stick of charcoal in hand. Whatever was he doing? Was the man drawing him? The gasp was the result of the bard making a line he did not intend to make on the paper and now he was struggling for a way to repair his precious drawing. Tamaran jumped to his feet and planted his hands on his hips as he panted and glared at the man incredulously.

“Are you sketching me?” he asked in an accusatory tone.

Derris looked up and beamed with pride. He smiled back enthusiastically. “Why yes! Yes, I am! You are a wonderful model, by the way, Tamaran. You maintained that position for quite some time. How many of those sitting exercises did you manage? Thank you. Quite impressive! No wonder you are in such great physical shape. I grew hot just watching you.” He fanned himself with the sketchpad. “Quite the accomplishment.” The blue-eyed man appeared to be studying his glistening torso admiringly. The man’s intense gaze was drinking him in from head to toe.

Tamaran suddenly felt incredibly exposed. He felt his cheeks blush and that angered him more. “I came here for privacy.” He snatched up his boots and began fitting them to his feet. He strapped his belt and scabbard plus scimitar about his waist.

“And you can get right back to your private exercises. I’m excited to see what comes next! I’ll be quiet as a mouse. I promise.” The bard used his fingers to pinch his lips and turn. He then mimed throwing away a key and smiled. He winked at Tamaran then shifted his art pad to a new page for sketching. The blond man’s eyes seemed to focus on his bare chest.

Irritated and a little stunned by Derris’ bold actions, Tamaran had to pause to arrange his thoughts lest he risk blurting out a series of most unkind statements. Knowing they still had a few days together in that wagon forced him to use caution. He scratched his head and processed how best to tell the man to leave him alone. Derris was oblivious to his annoyance, which only made the situation that much worse.

A strange noise echoed out in the distance. It sounded like a horn of some sort. Both men jerked their heads in the direction of the sound. What did it mean and where did it come from? Then came what sounded like a woman’s scream. Tamaran moved to finish getting dressed and Derris put away his art supplies. The bard continued talking the entire time in excited tones, but Tamaran had already tuned him out. He was more concerned with what was happening. They had been on the road for weeks and this was new. He stood and faced Derris ready to direct the man back to the wagons when he spotted something perched on the boulder behind him in the same spot where the bard had been sitting moment earlier. It looked like a large gold-colored cat, bigger than a big dog, with crystal spikes running down its spine and tipping its twitching tail. Those spikes appeared to glow faintly in the fading sunlight. With a better look he could see that the large cat was not perched but prepared to pounce. Its yellow eyes locked onto him. He knew that look well. The look of a predator choosing its prey. Immediately he leapt into action. Derris had his back to the crystal cat and would never see the attack coming. Tamaran lunged forward, taking the bard by the shoulders forcefully. He did not let his gaze leave the crouched cat.

“Oh, well I definitely didn’t expect this, but I must admit I find you quite attractive, too, Tamaran,” Derris smiled and then puckered his lips and squeezed his eyes shut.

Tamaran’s face switched to a frown as he tossed the slender bard aside and rolled in the opposite direction. As the men split apart, the large cat pounced. It slashed and bit the empty air, landing in the clearing where they once stood. It released a loud roar and its big claws flexed. Those claws could shred a man easily. They heard other similar roars in the distance. The spiked crystals on its spine began to light, one after the other with the pattern starting at its neck and running down to the tip of its tail. The final crystal tipping its tail flashed brightly as it roared again, blinding Derris who shrieked like a little girl as he took it all into his sights through impossibly wide eyes. Tamaran closed his eyes in time to avoid most of the bright flash, though he did still have dazzled sparkles dancing in his vision. He drew forth his scimitar from its scabbard on his belt and scrambled to his feet, striking a defensive posture. He clutched the weapon tightly. It was a gift from his father on his fifteenth name day. A finely crafted scimitar with swirling designs etched into the pommel and base of the blade, the weapon served him well and he trained with it often over the years.

“Get back to the wagon!” He shouted at Derris, but the man was blinded and crying as he fumbled to stand. Tamaran sighed heavily. He intended to race to the boulder, try to use it as cover as he fended off the crystal cat but now, he would have to defend the blinded and helpless bard instead.

The cat could tell its hunting tactic had worked on one of its victims and so it honed its attention to Derris. The bard screamed and cried loudly which only fueled the cat’s instincts to kill. It began to circle him slowly while its glowing tail twitched. Tamaran’s head jerked around, searching the area. What if this cat wasn’t alone? Those roars sounded further away but for how long? He did not spot any other predators in the immediate vicinity, but they would be difficult to see since they matched the color of the grass.

“Quiet yourself and stay behind me,” Tamaran called out firmly. He kept his scimitar leaping from hand to hand, pointing towards the cat.

Derris could hear the growls of the cat and Tamaran’s words. The bard had no sense of direction to pinpoint anything though. He clumsily stumbled towards the man’s voice, begging for help. His hands found a grip and he began running them all over the man’s bare chest frantically. Tamaran had to bat his hands away and shove the man behind him.

The cat raced at his heels and Tamaran leapt forward slashing an arc with his scimitar. He yelled at the same time. Living in the desert as a nomad, he learned long ago that loud noises were disruptive to most animals. Hunting animals often had exceptional senses of hearing. It was a great distraction technique, plus it could alert allies to your position. He lunged at the cat and shouted again. The technique had the desired effect. The cat kept its distance while it evaluated this new foe. It moved in cautiously, avoiding the man’s blade strikes. The cat was dexterous. When it got close enough, the animal lashed out swiping one leg from beneath Tamaran. He fell to the ground and immediately rolled away. Those powerful jaws snapped at the spot where he fell, missing him by inches. Derris stood a dozen feet to the side crying and calling for help. He still could not see anything and had no idea what was happening. With its victim on the ground, the cat pushed the attack. It began chasing Tamaran as he rolled away, slashing him with its sharp claws. He grunted against the pain and brought his scimitar to bear, catching the cat’s leg seconds after it sliced his shoulder. The cat hissed and jumped back with a nasty gash.

“Get to the wagons! Get help!” Tamaran shouted, but Derris only held his ground screaming in a high-pitched voice and crying about not wanting to die.

The bard’s repeated high-pitched screams seemed to irritate the cat as much as they annoyed Tamaran. The crystal cat changed its focus. It wanted easier prey, prey that did not fight back. It also wanted that terrible sound to stop. The cat crouched, prepared to pounce. Tamaran watched in horror as he tried to get back on his feet. He knew he could not possibly reach the animal in time to stop it. It played out like slow motion. He crawled to his feet and pointed his scimitar at the cat as its paws left the ground. The golden-furred animal soared through the air with both paws spread wide, claws out, and teeth bared. Tamaran shouted a warning, but it was too late. Derris never saw the attack coming. The cat’s claws were inches from the blinded and screaming bard. He doubted the man could hear the warning anyway over his own voice. Just as he was prepared to avert his gaze, a greenish-gray blur burst onto the scene and literally rammed the cat from the side in midleap, knocking it away to the ground with a deep grunt. Following the bull rush came a massive blade of steel, a twohanded sword as tall as a man that crashed down practically cutting the cat in equal halves. Another grunt sounded with the blow. There was a death gasp but nothing more, the crystal cat was dead. The light in its crystal spikes faded away. The massive half-orc mercenary raised his giant sword overhead again to finish the task, cutting the cat cleanly into two separate pieces. He grunted loudly once more at the sky and flexed his impressive muscles while swinging his big blade overhead in a circle. He then looked at Tamaran with crazed eyes that calmed to a stern glare. His gray eyes suddenly held a sense of gentleness. He nodded and gestured back towards the wagons with one thumb. He shifted his gaze to the bard and chuckled. Taking the slender man by the collar, which elicited another high-pitched scream, he shoved him towards Tamaran. The mercenary then raced off through the tall grass with a vengeance and a growl. A few seconds later, Tamaran heard another of the large man’s crazed grunts. He sounded like some sort of wild animal. That grunt was followed by a loud hiss from another cat. Then a squeal as if the animal were in pain.

Both surprised and relieved, Tamaran collected Derris and his shirt then rushed for the caravan. He tried not to limp too badly from the slashes on his calf and he favored the other slashes across his shoulder. They reached the campsite to find everyone huddled by a blazing campfire. Martin Loom ushered them into the group, directing his wife, Luna, to tend to Tamaran’s injuries. The old teamster held a long-bladed sword in one hand and a shield in the other. He watched the tall grass for any signs of danger.

“A pride of sun cats, they were lurking in the grass. Deadly animals. We’re lucky Tarvick spotted them and sounded his warning horn when he did.” Martin did not bother to take his gaze from the grass. “They fear fire so we should be safe here. How did you escape? I see you are wounded. I heard the… uh… the screams.”

While Luna cleaned his wounds and wrapped them in bandages, Tamaran did his best to recap what happened. “That orc man, the mercenary, he saved us. He cut the cat that attacked us in two. We probably would have died otherwise. He would have for certain.” He jerked a thumb at the crying bard. Derris’ sight was just beginning to return. He was beyond embarrassed, especially when he noticed his wet trousers between his legs. The two tradesmen, the drivers and the travelling merchant all huddled fearfully nearby, taking in his tale. He noticed that the lady was not present. “Where is the lady?”

Martin met his gaze and shook his head subtly. “The mercenaries should return shortly. They are chasing off the rest of them. From your account three of the cats are dead now.” Tamaran noticed there was blood on the man’s sword. “I’ve met their kind before. Without surprise and outnumbered, they’ll flee.” He seemed to be holding in the emotion, probably around the loss of a passenger. That could not bode well for his business. A teamster’s reputation was only as good as his last caravan.

Within a half hour the mercenaries returned, cleaning their weapons. The hairy northerner named Tarvick carried a body wrapped in a bloody quilt. It had to be the lady. He seemed excited, maybe a little too excited given the circumstances. He also had a collection of bloody claws in his hand, most likely ripped from the paws of the dead sun cats. A large stretch of four claw marks across his torso assured them the cats did not die without a fight. When Luna moved to clean his wound, the hairy man waved her away with an offended grunt.

Martin did his best to calm everyone, but the damage was done. The mood around the campfire was oppressively quiet and the mercenaries stayed close this night, which proved an eerie reminder of the danger lurking in the darkness just beyond their vision. Tamaran realized this land was as deadly as the deserts. He regretted his choice of small caravans once again.

* * * * * * * * * *

The next day the caravan took to the trail like normal and made its way without interruption to the small town of Dunabar. The merchant was anxious to sell his wares and the craftsmen to ply their trades. Martin and Luna were busy making arrangements for the lady’s remains and explaining the situation to the town guard and constable. Arriving with a body in tow did not look so good for them. Derris remained surprisingly quiet over the last night and day. He did not accost Tamaran anymore except to offer his thanks and to apologize for bothering him in the past. Happy for the peace, he felt a little ashamed about his treatment of the man and embarrassed for him over his reaction to the attack by the sun cats. He would be mortified if he wet himself like that. When Tamaran tried to thank the half-orc that saved them, the man never bothered to acknowledge him. He only grunted. He was too busy sorting through and washing the blood from a collection of crystals that must have come from dead sun cats. The next few days on their way to Sabline would be awkward at best. Tamaran decided to dedicate himself to his studies and ride out this journey to the bitter end. At only a couple of days from Sabline, it seemed a poor time to seek new transportation. Plus, the half-orc mercenary had earned his respect. Martin and Luna were good honest folk and took every opportunity to check in on him and apologize for the cat attack. They even purchased him healing salves to help his wounds mend quickly. He was glad to see that most of the passengers stayed on. He felt bad for the teamster couple. They were truly good people. His wounds cleaned well and were healing nicely, too. One of the craftsmen chose to depart at Dunabar as did the southern mercenary. That was unfortunate. Martin managed to pick up another mercenary for the rest of the journey, but the new man looked much less impressive and less experienced. He was barely as old as Tamaran, maybe younger. Had this youth ever held such a position? Could he handle a sun cat attack? Tamaran was doubtful. He tried not to think too much about that and instead looked forward to the trek through The Forest of Shade. In a few short days, if he was lucky, he could begin his studies at a new school. He hoped this was a good choice. He invested much effort and time into this path. He needed a sign that he was on the right course.

As if in answer to his troubled thoughts, a deep voice whispered into his mind. “Continue… expand… Seek” He knew that strange whisper. He identified it as an echo of sorts from his father and his uncle. They had spoken similar words to him during his studies to understand his bloodline and gifts. He smiled. That was comforting and a good sign though he realized his mind was playing tricks on him. That sealed it. He definitely needed a good night’s rest.