Sisska looked down at him. "At times, yes. At times, it was a burden. Her Highness was not what you would not call an easy assignment when she was younger. She was filled with anger and hate, and that made her unmanagable."

"I know."

"I must go now, Tarrin. Be well."

"Be well, Sisska," he returned, and she quietly left him at the rail.

That was an interesting talk. Sisska was even more quiet than Binter, and people thought Binter was mute. But in just a few words, she proved she was much more than just a towering wall of intimidation. There was some profound wisdom lurking behind that monstrous facade.

There was a smell in the wind, wind that was blowing in from the city. Though his sense of smell in human form was nothing compared to his normal senses, it was nevertheless noticable. A strange smell of decay, like someone had left a body sitting out for a month. There was also a twinge of other smells wrapped up in it, like the dirt of an open grave. He had smelled that before, and his mind searched for exactly what it was that smelled like that, but it wasn't easy. The same thing smelled differently to him when he was human than it did when he was in his natural form, because of the differences in how his nose worked in the two forms.

A shiver ran up his back. Could it be another Doomwalker? That was how that Doomwalker, Jegojah, had smelled, and that ran a shock of fear through him. Jegojah had beaten him like a practice dummy the last time they fought. Mindless of the gasps behind him, Tarrin returned to his natural form and tested the wind with his more acute senses, sifting through the unpleasant smells of a human city to isolate the scents he had smelled in human form. And that made his ears go back. It wasn't just another Doomwalker. That was Jegojah. The scent was exactly the same, right down to the slightest texture or nuance.

How could he be back? Tarrin had reduced him to ash with Sorcery the last time they fought. He had no body left. But Tarrin's nose wasn't lying. That was Jegojah, and he was coming this way.

Memories of their first battle whirled up in him, making him rub his shoulder absently. It had been a brutal fight, with no mercy shown on either side. It had ended when Jegojah made the mistake of pushing him into the Heart, but before that, Jagojah had been clearly winning. Tarrin had given back some of what he had received, but Tarrin was the one in much worse shape when he got bulled into the Conduit.

In any case, there were more lives at stake this time. Jegojah had killed people at his parents' home when it tried to kill Jenna, then it killed people in the Tower when it came for him. It would kill anyone between it and him, and the lives of his family, friends, and the performers of the carnival were now in very real danger. He didn't doubt that it knew where was. If the kii'zadun had been behind the men he'd fought earlier, they could have called the Doomwalker in to deal with him. Right now, keeping it away from the garish ship, to hide the fact that the rest of his friends and family were nearby, was the most important thing to do.

Ignoring the stares of the performers and the questioning look of Dar and Azakar, Tarrin rushed back down to his cabin and got his staff. It had been totally useless against it the first time, but it had been a weapon nonetheless, something to use against the undead warrior's sword. Tarrin could hurt it with his claws, and that would have to be how he would fight it this time. Use the staff to deal with the sword, and strike with his free paw and feet.

He went over what he remembered the Goddess saying about it. That he absolutely had to fight it on ground of his own choosing. That it had to have metal or stone under its feet to prevent it from drawing power from the earth. But he remembered that the Doomwalker was rather unusual. It wasn't mindless. It had a personality, and it believed in honor, alot like Allia and the Vendari did.

Perhaps he could use that against it.

But now it was time to go, to find ground suitable for dealing with the Doomwalker's ability. Ground of his own choosing. Or in this case, ground that wasn't ground.

Racing on deck, he dropped down to the stone wharf below soundlessly, with the performers, Azakar, and Dar looking on in confusion, just before Azakar rushed below to find his armor and sword.

He remembered it from before, a stone quay leading out into the sea that had no ships docked to it. The entrance was barred off by a wooden sawhorse gate, and the signs said that the quay was closed for repairs. It was the perfect place. There was nothing on the quay other than two stacks of old crates, and the wharf was a good twenty paces across and some hundred paces long, more than large enough to handle what was coming. No people to get in the way, nowhere for the Doomwalker to go to draw him onto natural earth other than into the sea. That was something Tarrin considered, but it was a risk that he was going to have to take. There was no way he'd fight the Doomwalker in the city. It would be much too easy for it to pry up stones and get to natural earth, and there was the fact that many innocent lives would be at risk. The wharf was the best of his choices for ground of his own choosing.

He stood at the very end of the quay, looking out into the sea, at the ships anchored out in the harbor. There was no fear in him. He was so used to fighting for his life, he had become numb to it. But this was an opponent unlike any other, and he fully understood the risks. This was an opponent that could very well kill him. But he accepted that, because to reject the possibility you'd die in a fight was the quickest way to have it happen.

He could smell it clearly now. The cool breeze blowing in from the land carried its foul stench to him clearly, and he could hear its metal-shod boots rapping on the stone as it marched up the quay. He didn't turn around. He kept staring out into the sea, marvelling at the simple beauty that could be found in the sea and the ships that sailed upon it. Maybe for the last time. When it was about ten paces from him, his tail stopped swishing rhythmically, as it tended to do, and he lowered the paw holding his staff.

"Clever," it said in that rasping, dusty voice. "Twice have ye sensed my coming, and twice have ye brought me to your own battlefield, yes. Clever Were-cat ye be."

"I destroyed you."

"My body, ye destroyed. My spirit lives on, in this new body. Never can ye defeat me, boy. Destroy me, and again I will come back, yes. Over and over, until ye finally fall."

Tarrin turned around. It didn't look any different. It had the exact same taut skin-over-bone face, the same armor, the same sword and circular shield. It even had the same scent. Perhaps that was a function of what made it come back. The wind pulled at his braid as he looked at the Doomwalker grimly. "I'm not the boy you fought before." He raised a paw, and it exploded into the ghostly limned radiance of High Sorcery. This was a calculated risk, but it was absolutely necessary. Tarrin fought to control himself, to not show the strain as the Weave tried to drown him with its power. He could feel the Weave expand around him, saturating with magical energy, energy that he sensed the Doomwalker could feel. "I don't even have to fight you to destroy you," he said in a tight voice. "You can't get close enough to defeat me, Jegojah, because I could annihilate you where you stand. But I don't want to risk destroying this city to deal with you. So I offer a bargain."

"Speak on," it said after a moment of silence.

"I'll fight you, right here and now. But neither of us use magic. You know that if we use magic, you'll lose. You can't even hope to match my power."

"A strange bargain ye offer," it said warily. "What proof that ye will honor it?"

"Nothing more than my word," he said, severing himself from the Weave, and managing not to flinch when the shockwave of pain blasted through him. It had been all he could to do cover his weakness. Jegojah had to believe that Tarrin could wipe him out right then and there, and he couldn't suspect that Tarrin no longer had control of his own powers. "The word of a man of honor."