It left him only one option, something he had never really done before. While sitting on a rock in the pre-dawn, he blew out his breath and called for help. "Mother," he called. "I need to talk to you."
What is it, Tarrin?
"You once said that if I asked, you would do something for me."
Of course.
"I need your help now," he said soberly. "I moved a whole lot of ancient Dwarven art out of this area, but I didn't think to put it back inside once I moved it. I left it sitting outside, like an idiot. Could you move it somewhere safe?"
What is this I'm hearing? Is this consideration? Is this concern? Is my dour kitten actually thinking about protecting pieces of rock and metal? the Goddess called winsomely.
"Mother!" he said, flushing slightly.
She laughed delightedly. For such a noble cause, my kitten, I'd be more than happy to help you. I'll put the art somewhere safe, so don't you worry about it.
And that was that. It was the only thing he could think to worry about. He had made all his preparations, and taken all his precautions. He had learned the battleground so well that every rock had a place, and he had made his plans. There was nothing for him to do now but wait. Sit and wait for Jegojah, look forward to the moment when he looked the Doomwalker in the eyes and sent it back to Hell.
It was interminable.
Waiting was one thing, but waiting like this was quite another. For three days Tarrin waited, waited for that sense of the Weave to move towards him again, but it had not. It had stopped some distance away from him, and had not moved forward since. He fully understood that Jegojah had probably done the exact same thing as him, had found a suitable battlefield and had stopped to lure him into a fight. But Tarrin would not abandon his place, even if it meant waiting out the Doomwalker.
The waiting had frayed Tarrin's already sensitive nerves. Never a very sedate person to begin with, the waiting had worked him up to a state of nervous frenzy. He would pace back and forth in the arena all day, walking in lines and circles that had developed into pathways in the sandy soil, and when that got boring, he would go out on short patrols of the chosen battleground, making sure everything was where it was supposed to be, making sure his traps were still set and nothing had moved. He had even gone back to the large open square where he had left the dwarven art, but it had disappeared. A quick look around hadn't found it, and the Goddess had been curiously tight-lipped about where the art had gone. She wouldn't tell him, only saying that it was safe.
That only served to annoy an already nervous Were-cat, and that wasn't a very good combination. He worked off his anger by practicing with staff and sword, shadow-fighting against imaginary foes, making sure the long stretch of inactivity combat wise hadn't dulled his edge. When that lost its appeal, he moved heavy rocks around the arena floor, trying to find a perfect landscape that was just enough open space and just enough obstacle to suit him. Every time he ended up putting things back the way they had been in the first place, but at least it was something to do, and it gave him some exercise. Some of the rocks he moved weighed as much as three horses.
Three days. Tarrin was very nearly ready to abandon his battleground and his plan and hunt the Doomwalker down, but he knew that that was suicide. The Doomwalker was already a formidable foe, and fighting it on its own ground would be insane. But Tarrin knew that the Doomwalker was compelled by magic to seek him out, where Tarrin had no such magical compulsion. His compulsion was based on emotions, but he could control his, where he would bet that the Doomwalker couldn't suppress its own compulsion half as effectively. It was aggravating, but he had to wait out the Doomwalker, until that magical compulsion to seek him overwhelmed the intelligent strategy of luring the Were-cat onto favorable ground.
Three days of seething unsettled nerves, and then the Doomwalker began to move again, move towards him. The effect on Tarrin was almost one of bliss, a complete calming of his worry, so much so that he could sit in one place in total serenity for as long as he wished. He found a good place, sitting in the middle of the arena, staff on the ground by his crossed legs, eyes closed, his senses more attuned to the Weave than they were to reality. He tracked that quiver in the Weave intently, watched it approach, hesitate at the edge of the city, then move forwards again. He now knew that the Doomwalker knew where he was. That was why it was wary to enter the city. He also knew that the Doomwalker knew that he knew it was coming. That seemed a bit silly to think in those terms, but it was true. The Doomwalker would expect Tarrin to be ready for it, instead of thinking that Tarrin wouldn't be expecting to see it. He knew that because Tarrin had stopped in the city, in an environment that favored him, and had not moved since. That was not normal for Tarrin, and the Doomwalker wasn't stupid. It probably took one look from the edge of the city and realized that Tarrin was waiting for him, wouldn't leave the relative safety of the rocky terrain, terrain covered in sterile sand that would deny the Doomwalker the ability to draw energy from the land. Jegojah would know that he was walking into a trap, but his compulsion would not allow him to retreat.
The Doomwalker grew closer and closer that afternoon of the third day, but instead of getting nervous or anxious, Tarrin was strangely calm. The anger and sheer hatred he held for Jegojah had begun to build in him, growing stronger with each step forward Jegojah took, but it was an icy anger, one that allowed him to remain in complete control. There would be time enough for fury later, but right now, he wanted to remain in control. He wanted to look into Jegojah's eyes and see what was there at least once before he ripped off the Doomwalker's head.
It was here.
Tarrin opened his eyes as the sound of clanking armor reached him, raised his head as he heard it jump from the stands down to the ground. It looked exactly as he remembered, with the archaic armor and the wasted, leathery face, pulled tight over bone, with the glowing red eyes. He noticed that it had two swords belted to its waist. Tarrin's own eyes ignited from within with their green radiance as his expression dissolved away, leaving behind nothing but an emotionless, stony mask, a mask that hid everything from his adversary. It stopped some distance away from him, then calmly went about taking its shield from its back and settling it on its left arm, then drawing one of those swords. It never said a word.
Seeing it invoked a powerful fury inside him, but he kept it tightly controlled for the moment. There would be time enough to vent that fury on the Doomwalker shortly.
Tarrin did not get up. He merely watched it. Tarrin had one trump card to play, and it wouldn't be effective unless the Doomwalker was close. He had no doubt that Jegojah remembered the tall, willowy boy. Now he was facing a much taller, much stronger, much faster opponent, thanks to Shiika's draining kiss, and he wasn't going to tip his hand until the last moment.
"Waiting, I see," it cackled. "The same idea, we had, yes. But more patient, ye are, than Jegojah. For that, Jegojah salutes ye."
Tarrin said nothing, staring at it.
"Fight we must, but to be uncivil, it is unnecessary, yes. Against ye, nothing personal Jegojah has, no."
Tarrin still said nothing, and would not stand.
"Much differently, Jegojah could have come, yes," it said. "Instead, a fair fight Jegojah wanted, a fight to see which of us is the better. Twice before, luck and outsiders interfered, yes, and Jegojah wants to know. Jegojah wants to see who is the better man."
The Doomwalker began to walk forward. Tarrin reached down and picked up his staff, then uncrossed his legs. He slowly stood as the Doomwalker approached him, but Jegojah came to an instant halt about ten spans away when Tarrin rose up to his full height, rose up and stared down at the much smaller Doomwalker with flat, emotionless eyes glowing with their green fire, an expression of mercilessness upon his face. Tarrin let him size up the new Tarrin, a tall, lean, menacing sight that towered over the smaller undead warrior.