"That's how," Tarrin told her bluntly. "You keep your arms too high, and you don't block with your legs. Var kicked you in the hip to turn you, and you threw your arm out to balance yourself. You defeated yourself, Denai."
"I was going to tell you that myself," Var told her calmly.
"Teach her," Tarrin ordered Var, then he backed away from them enough to turn around without them being within striking distance of his back.
He had his own issues at the moment. Jegojah was coming, and just the thought of it made him snarl in anger and clench his fists. He hadn't done any real fighting for three months, and against the Doomwalker, he had to be totally sharp. Yet out here, there was nobody suitable against which to spar. Var and Denai were too small, too weak, not as skilled, unable to challenge him in the slightest. There were inu and kajat, but they were animals, and didn't fight with the same levels of subtlety he needed to sharpen his skills in preparation. He had few options other than running the forms alone, but that wasn't as beneficial as actual sparring.
Yet another reason to miss Allia.
He considered trying to spar with Var and Denai in human form, but it wouldn't work. He had a different body in his natural form, and training in one form and fighting in another would not work. To train as a human would be to confine himself to a human's abilities, and that would get him killed against Jegojah. The Doomwalker was no opponent that a human could defeat. He turned back and watched as Var held up his arms with Denai in the guard stance, showing her where to adjust. Denai had everything she needed to improve, a teacher better than her. Var would teach her the right way to do things, and she would get better. But Tarrin's teacher wasn't with him… and truth be told, she had stopped teaching him long ago. Allia considered him trained, which meant that she had taught him everything she knew, and she could teach him no more. Only the application of that knowledge through experience separated them, and that was something that he had to do for himself.
He distanced himself from the others, on the other side of the oasis, and did the only thing that he could. He sparred against empty air, conjuring up an image of Jegojah in his mind, dredging up everything he remembered about the Doomwalker, and imagining it attacking. Jegojah was more than an undead creature or a magic-user, it had proven itself to be exceptionally skilled in fighting, among the paramount warriors in the world. Even if it didn't have its magical powers-
No. It was wrong to think of Jegojah as an it. The Doomwalker had shown personality. It was not an unthinking automaton, a magical weapon. It was individual, unique, with thoughts and feelings. Jegojah was a he. He certainly wasn't very friendly, but he had shown a propensity for honor. That was a good indicator that the Doomwalker was more than just another magical creation. He remembered past fights with him, how he had saluted him with his sword, how he had spoken of honor and fairness. He remembered infusing Jegojah's body, feeling the link that ran back to his soul, the soul that Kravon used to animate the Doomwalker's body. He remembered Dolanna and Phandebrass explaining exactly what a Doomwalker was, how they were created.
He slowed and stopped, lowering the sword. Of course. Jegojah was no enemy to take lightly. His skills were exceptional, and in a fair fight with no magic, the winner would be who was luckier. But Jegojah was a sentient being, with thoughts and feelings. And there was more than one way to fight. Intimidation, blackmail, flustering, they were all psychological forms of fighting, a way to get an advantage. Jegojah was very good at intimidating his enemies to give himself an edge, but perhaps that could work the other way as well. He already knew how to even the playing field, how to strip Jegojah of his ability to draw energy from the land. Maybe a little extra would frighten the Doomwalker and give Tarrin an advantage.
Tarrin hated Jegojah with every fiber of his being, but he wasn't stupid enough not to respect the Doomwalker's abilities. He'd take every advantage he could get.
And so he continued. The sword felt a little strange in his paws, not like how his staff felt natural, but he was very good with it. His mother and Allia both had taught him the sword, and he could wield one with as much skill as either of them. This sword was a bit different, for it was one of the rare few he had held that seemed to fit into his paws. Months of practice and combat had given him an affinity for the weapon, but he still missed his staff. The blade cut the air, whistling as it moved as he flowed through several routines of attack and defense, routines that incorporated punches, kicks, claw swipes, and even tail lashes into them to take advantage of his natural weaponry. The sword, which wasn't much shorter than Denai, was perfect for his height, as if it had been made for him. The single-edged weapon, its black metal shimmering in the waning sun, sliced through imaginary foes again and again, as Tarrin snaked and weaved and evaded phantom attacks. He became caught up in the soothing rythym of the Dance, allowing it to take over his mind for a time, becoming nothing and everything, where there was no thought, no fear, no worry, only him and his sword and his opponent, moving together in a seamless symmetry of poetic motion.
But it still wasn't good enough. The sword just didn't feel like a part of him, and he couldn't afford to give anything away when he faced Jegojah. He needed his staff back, it was just that simple. But Shiika had destroyed his staff, and the Ironwood from which he had cut it was an exceeding rare wood, something he'd never find around here. No other other wood would do. He was too hard on his weapon for it to break easily, because of his inhuman strength. Without Ironwood, he was without a staff-
He was without his staff. When Tarrin cut the Ironwood, he had made two staves. He cut and made them when he was thirteen, when he knew he wasn't at his full height yet. So he'd made the first for his height at that time, and made the second one very long, to be cut to the proper height when he was fully grown. He'd used that first staff for about a year and a half, then he'd given it to Jenna when he outgrew it. Jenna still had it, even though it did little more than collect dust in a corner of her room.
He could conceivably get it. He knew how to Conjure and Summon, but this was a little different. For one, the staff wasn't his anymore, and it had been a very long time since he'd held it. That would make Summoning the staff very difficult. It belonged to Jenna, and that would also make it much harder. But Jenna was his sister, so he hoped that would make it a little easier than if he'd given it to a complete strangers.
He wasn't about to give up because of that. He needed a staff, he needed an Ironwood staff, and that one was the only one he knew. He was going to try to Summon it, no matter what.
Blowing out his breath, he closed his eyes and reached within, through the Cat, reaching into the All. the intent in his mind was clear, but the image inside him was a bit fuzzy. He knew what he was trying to do, but he was uncertain as to where the staff was, so his image basicly boiled down to summoning the staff he had given to Jenna. He just hoped the All would construe his wishes through intent rather than image. He closed his paw as he felt the Druidic magic flow through him, a considerable amount that left him physically weakened for a moment.
But his paw closed around wood.
It had worked! Tarrin held up the staff in his paw quickly, but he could hardly call it a staff. It was a staff sized for a human child, so to him, it looked like a twig. But there was no denying that it was indeed the Ironwood staff. He had shaped it himself, and even after five years, its every scratch, bur, swirl, and contour were still in his memory. It was dry and dusty, but he could sense the wood through his paw, sense that it was still alive, even after five years of neglect.