But the Were-cat showed no signs of backing off, of coming to its senses. It was absolutely enraged, and Jegojah sensed that it would not stop coming until it was dead. And given the horrific damage the Doomwalker had taken, it knew which would reach that state first. So it backed away even faster, getting a chance to open some distance between them, and motioned towards the ground.
"Come!" it managed to say through a shattered face. "Jegojah needs ye now!"
The Were-cat backed up in confusion when a second vile scent arose from the earth. It looked to see a second figure much like the first, armored and helmeted with a visor, the smell of death and the cold of the grave surrounding it like a shroud. This one was stockier than the first, that hated, known scent, stockier and a bit shorter, and it held a large broadsword in its gauntleted hand and a shield strapped to the other arm. It had literally risen up from the ground, a ground that showed no signs of disturbance, like a ghost.
But the Cat was not afraid. One was nearly destroyed, and the second was nothing more than an obstacle to get to the first.
The Cat was quickly disabused of that notion. This second one was every bit as quick and strong as the first, and it attacked with the same mindless fearlessness the Cat itself employed. It charged forward with sword raised, not even trying to defend itself, sword seeking out the Cat's heart immediately. This unusual tactic was enough to put the Cat aback, force it to back up and give ground, defending itself from this strange, fearless enemy. The sword slashed across the Were-cat's upper left arm, just under the brand, and the pain that caused was enough to make the Cat understand that raw brutality was not going to win this fight. It needed a plan, and that meant that it had to give some control back to the Human in it.
As always, Tarrin was a little disoriented when the rage slipped away, and he couldn't remember anything that had happened while he was raging. All he could see was that Jegojah was pretty much well done for, with rips and tears all over its body. It had summoned forth another combatant, he saw, a stocky one with maggots wriggling from between the holes in its visor. Tarrin had quite a few injuries, but none of them were severe enough to slow him down.
That was about all he managed to take in. The new combatant charged him with a kind of mindless intensity, not even raising its shield in defense as it rushed him. Just as it did to the Cat, this confused Tarrin, who backed away from the seemingly suicidal attack instead of attempting to engage. It had to have a reason for being so confident, for being so uncaring for its own welfare, and Tarrin was wounded enough to respect the need to not get any more holes in him. He didn't understand this new assailant. It was obviously undead, but it didn't act like Jegojah. Was it some kind of sycophant or assistant, raised to defend the Doomwalker?
Tarrin backed away from it as it tried to chop him with that sword, trying to puzzle out this strange turn of events. He Summoned his staff back to his paws and used it to fend off this attacker's blows in sudden wariness. What was this thing? He retreated faster than the thing could advance, then turned and scampered up the pile of loose rocks, to force it to come at him over uneven ground. It did so without hesitation, slipping more than once, but continuing to advance.
Tarrin looked down at it, and saw Jegojah standing some distance behind, trying to recover itself. The afternoon sun shone over Tarrin's shoulder, striking the swordblade of this new enemy in a way that made it reflect back the reddening sun's light in his face, turning the blade red to his eyes.
Like fire.
No! It couldn't be! Tarrin looked more closely at his advancing opponent. Though the armor was blackened and dirty, the design and shape of it was unmistakable, the heavy-shoulderded design used by the Knights. The rend in the breastplate of the armor was visible now that he was looking for it, and he saw the black wisps of curly hair extending out from the bottom of that burgonet helmet.
This new undead foe was Faalken!
The dream hadn't been a symbol or metaphor, it had been literal!
It was impossible! They had animated the dead body of his slain friend to attack him! Tarrin backed away, shaking his head in disbelief, stunned at this turn of events. He kept backing away as the dead body of Faalken advanced on him, still swinging that broadsword to try to take off Tarrin's head. They couldn't have! They must have robbed Faalken's grave, stolen his body and taken it back to do this to him, to disturb his rest and force his body to seek out Tarrin and destroy him! Had they no honor, no shame? Faalken had died a heroic death, one filled with honor, and they defiled everything that death stood for by reanimating his body, denying him the peace and rest he had so greatly deserved. No! This couldn't be, it couldn't be happening!
But the undead form of Faalken stalked him relentlessly, stepping forward for every step Tarrin took back, up the uneven slope and further away from Jegojah.
No! It couldn't be! Not Faalken! He'd have to fight his own friend, and destroy him! Those bastard ki'zadun!
Tarrin's backwards motion stopped, and his shoulders literally shook from rage and consternation. Not like this, not like this! How dare they defile the memory of his friend! How dare they use him as nothing more than a playing piece to get to him! First Jula, now Faalken! They were animals, using people until they had nothing left, then throwing them away like garbage!
The dead body of Faalken reached Tarrin's point and raised its sword, then chopped it down at the shoulder of its larger foe-
– -and the blade stopped some safe distance from Tarrin's body, stopped by the palm of his paw, a palm nearly cut all the way through. Tarrin's radiant green eyes seemed to waver in their color and intensity, and a look of abject indignation appeared on his face.
"You… BASTARDS!" Tarrin shrieked, finally breaking his silence. The Weave seemed to writhe at his bellowing cry, and it started to shift in ways that he could feel. He reached out to the Weave, felt it, sensed it, became one with it, then, instead of reaching out and touching it, he drew it inside of himself.
However differently it was done, the end result was still the same. Tarrin's eyes shifted from green to incandescent white, and the unmistakable ghostly aura of Magelight surrounded his body. Tarrin was absolutely livid, but this was not the mindless fury of the Cat. This came purely from his Human side, a rage at what injustice had been perpetrated upon his dear friend that it absolutely could not be allowed to remain. This was an icy fury, a cold anger of purpose, and that control was what allowed the Human in him to do what the Cat now could not.
Summon the power of High Sorcery.
Where before there had been rage and pain, now there was nothing but purity, sweetness. The raging torrent of High Sorcery filled him, filled him in an instant to his maximum potential, but then it struck the dam created by his transformation, a dam that would not allow it to threaten his body. In that moment he understood how his power increased, for before he could only hold a portion of his maximum potential safely. Now, he could hold it all with no danger to himself, no threat of being destroyed by the power. It still required effort to use, but it would not kill him.
With almost no thought, Tarrin wrapped the dead body of Faalken up in flows of Air and picked him up, then literally pinned him into thin air some fifty spans overhead, getting him out of the way of the object of his rage. Jegojah. The aura of Magelight around Tarrin coalesced into a coherent sheathe of light as Tarrin rose up into the air himself, carried by his own power, looking down on the Doomwalker with utter fury, looking for all the world like an avenging god bearing down on the subject of his wrath, surrounded by the concave, four-pointed star symbol that truly represented his Goddess.