“Does that leader-man…do any of them know you understand them?”

Another pause.

Then a snort of distaste followed by another shake of the head.

“Oh…okay,” she murmured.

Her blood froze colder than the night-chilled mountain air. This tiger was not only intelligent, but wise enough to hide its sapience from its masters. That did not bode well: a wild creature that could reason was frightening enough, but one that knew to deceive?

That showed all the intellect of a human, married to the primal power of a great predator. A terrifying possibility: the filthy cult leader had worked his craft better than he could have imagined. Now, the question was, why the deception?

She forced her gaze to the cat’s eyes. “You hate them, don’t you? All those dog-faced bastards, you hate them. And you hate that smug, self-licking Milos most of all don’t you?”

A thunderous growl filled the pit.

Lips pulled back to reveal its deadly fangs.

For a heartbeat, Wurhi thought this was it. That she had provoked it and drawn forth its ire. Yet, as a few breaths passed, it did not pounce upon her. Instead, it simply nodded once more. She realized that the growl had not been a sound of threat.

But one of affirmation.

A flash of insight struck her. “I hate those bastards too!”

The tiger stamped the earth with a great paw and vigorously nodded its massive head, its fangs glinting in the moonlight. Then, it cocked its head and stared at her. Confusion? At what? It understood the word hate…so that meant…

…oh.

“Okay, okay, okay…” Wurhi started. “Bastard? Well a bastard means…”

She stopped. What was she doing? Was she truly trying to explain the concept of bastardy, matrimony and inheritance to an animal?

“It means someone you hate a whole lot.” She quickly muttered.

Close enough.

The beast gave a snort of approval.

Yes. Definitely close enough.

‘This is actually fun,’ she smiled, watching the gigantic predator strangely mimicking human motion. ‘Or maybe it shouldn’t be. Who knows? After what’s happened in this damned mountain, I’m probably half-mad, anyway!’

She gave the tiger an appraising look.

In the strangest of ways, it seemed that the Zabyallan - in this beast’s den full of the bones of its victims - had at last found an ally. Her gaze traced the monstrous claws, fangs and mountainous, iron-thews bunching beneath its hide.

And perhaps a powerful one at that.

Yet, misgivings tugged at her thoughts: this creature was one of the cult leader’s grandest prizes; the achievement that crowned his many attempts at wringing strength from flesh, blood and bone.

It was his servant, and she had witnessed it kill by his command.

She shuddered at the thought of ferocious claws tearing through manticore hide as though it were rotten meat wrapped in wet papyrus. This beast could do the same to her with but one claw, and perhaps there was a game to its actions.

Its master had wished her to die violently at the end of a slow, grim contemplation, while death hung over her like a waiting gallows. If this tiger had understood that vile man’s words and wishes, then perhaps this was its way of executing his command with the cunningest of primal cruelty.

To pretend to share a joined loathing - deception was no stranger to it, after all - to draw down her defences so that she would trust it.

Then, when she had relaxed her guard? Her eyes drifted to those sword-like fangs and she shuddered. Perhaps she should deceive it in turn: fake falling for its game until she could find a way to end it or escape.

Or…

She paused once more, wavering on a decision that could determine the present course, and probably length, of her life. She chewed her lip…

…and memories returned to her.

One seemed an echo from across a lifetime.

She and a newly met Sengezian had pressed into a Merchant Prince’s demesne, seeking to break his demonic power and steal his treasure for their own. At the time, she had suffered abandonment by her long-time partner, Kashta of Mabatia, and so had warily anticipated the same from this stranger.

Yet, the Sengezian had conducted himself with trustworthiness and honour - and no small amount of kindness toward her - while she had been prepared to slip a knife between his shoulders. She cringed at the very thought of that now - for Kyembe had become one of the closest bonds of her lifetime.

Yet, she had nearly done the same again, had she not?

The crazed knight.

She and Kyembe had come upon Cristabel at the bottom of a pit in the Forest of Giants. Wurhi snorted at the irony: here she now was in a pit, trapped just as Cristabel had been, and she had pushed to leave the holy woman where they had found her.

Out of desperate need, she herself had freed the knight in time, and the mighty woman had gone on to save both of their lives without hesitation.

The Zabyallan looked upon the tiger.

It all seemed so utterly mad. On the streets of Zabyalla, one’s morning friend could be one’s assassin by moonrise. Even a partner of many years - as Kashta had shown - could leave oath, bond and friendship behind for greater greed.

But twice now, trusting another in need had saved her life.

She shook herself, resolve rousing her, and took a deep breath.

She no longer dwelled upon the streets of Zabyalla, and perhaps it was time she started acting like it. Drawing herself up, she peered directly into the beast’s eyes. “Hey. Do you wanna escape with me?”

Bounding up from its haunches, the tiger let loose a roar that shook stone and drifted to the peaks above, soaring into the night.

Wurhi grinned. “Okay, then. C’mon, let’s run the hell away together.”

Milos of Crotonia glanced to the window, his attention drawn by a familiar roar. As it overran the mountains and swelled into the sky, his mood darkened.

“You acted too swiftly,” he muttered, and though his words were aimed at his tiger, their intent was pointed inward.

He had allowed himself to grow emotional and foolhardy. Attached to his beast-man and focused on his hopes for Crixus, he had acted out of rage: driven by his inner beast toward the path of unrestrained and petty vengeance.

This was not the path of a Sacred Alpha. It demeaned him.

Lycundar’s blessing brought with it a primordial rage that would strengthen the beast - as long as one held onto restraint and was not controlled by primal urges. A true leader, a truly blessed Sacred Alpha, was the embodiment of wisdom, lupine cunning and predatory instinct, not ravenous rage.

Had he been one with his wisdom, then losses might have been mitigated: the Zabyallan proved herself beyond his expectation. While the loss of Crixus and his beast had been a pity, he might have been able to tame the rat shapeshifter’s unruliness and gain a precious subject.

Now, that potential had died along with the Rat, and the losses had simply multiplied.

“Be better,” he murmured to himself.

The only consolation was that this entire bloody affair started by that Ameldan pup - who he struggled to tolerate with increasing difficulty - was at last finished.

“Did you hear that?” Kyembe glanced to St. Cristabel, his crimson eyes wide.

“In my very bones.” The knight lifted her visor, peering up at the mountain from their hidden shelter within the pines. “Can you tell where it came from?”

The half-dark elf squinted toward the summit. “No…somewhere on the far side, perhaps. I cannot be sure: the echoes muddy the sound.”

“Hrm,” Cristabel grunted. “No matter. Remember what Jeva wrung from that wolf-devil: likely that cry belongs to one of the beasts bred by their foul master. No doubt we shall meet it in due time.”

“I would rather find Wurhi before we meet the owner of that roar.”

“Truly. Rescue first.” An anticipatory smile took her lips as her eyes drifted over the fortification before the massive cavern into the mountain. “And then…glory later.”

Kyembe shot her a look. “Come, let us circle this place and see which way we can slip in.”

Wurhi promised to never make a grand declaration again.

She had gleefully rushed into the tunnel leading from the tiger’s enclosure but had only found disappointment within. Aside from several large sleeping chambers carved into the rock - this great cat enjoyed more rooms in its lair than most people in their homes - the tunnel had merely yawned open into another pit deep within the mountain.

The inner chamber had proved well-guarded: the murmuring and gossiping of no less than a half score of cultists echoed above. Any attempt at exit from here would raise alarm and bring a mass of cultists down upon their heads.

The little Zabyallan puzzled as she re-emerged into the outdoor pit. Golden eyes shone as the cat watched her return. It likely knew the futility of escape by that route and so had not bothered to follow her.

Now, though, it rose from its haunches and watched her with rapt attention.

“Hold on, I’m thinking, I’m thinking.” She eyed the interlocking logs above.

They were woven closer together than within the pits in other parts of the mountain, and bronze bars reinforced them. The only boon about this place was that it lay unguarded.

She glanced about to consider her resources: bones that could make for useful tools littered the pit. Wurhi considered the antlers of the horned skeleton, which might have made for a crude saw or chisel. As she thought on this, she spied a knot of rats congregating about a skeletal leg. The little vermin had set upon a thick thigh bone - working through it with sharp incisors. Together, they efficiently etched a tunnel to reach the marrow within.

The white bone shavings littering the straw were testament to the power within their tiny jaws and the hardness of their teeth. A strange idea began to brew in Wurhi’s mind. In her other form, she had split the beast-man’s thick wrist as though it were straw.

She glanced to the wood and bronze above.

Wurhi the Rat did not hesitate.