Ascendance

THE HEAVY AXEswooped from on high, arcing out and down in front of him, to hit the log at a perfect angle to split it in two, sending both pieces tumbling to the side of the stump. Without even bothering to pick them up, the strong man grabbed another log and set it in place, leaving it rocking atop the stump. The shaky movement hardly mattered, for the axe descended in one swift and fluid motion, and two more halves fell to the stump sides.

Another log followed, and then another, and then the woodcutter had to pause and sort out the timber piles, tossing the cut pieces twenty feet to a huge woodpile.

The morning air was chill - even more so to the man, for his chiseled body was lathered in sweat - but that hardly seemed to bother him. Indeed, if he even felt the chill, he didn't show it, just went on chopping with more focus than seemed possible.

He was nearly fifty years old, though no one watching him would guess his age at even forty. His muscles were hard, his skin tight, and his eyes shone with the fire of youth. That was his blessing and his curse.

Another log, another two halves. And then another and another, on and on throughout the early morning, a rhythmic snapping noise that was nothing out of the ordinary for the dozen and three other hardy folk of Micklin's Village, an obscure cluster of cottages on the western frontier of Honce- the-Bear. A group of rugged and uncouth men inhabited the village, spending eleven months of the year out in the Wilderlands, hunting for furs and then traveling back to civilization for one month to a great and bawdy party and market.

No, ever since this man Bertram Dale - though that was likely an alias, they all knew, much like those used by more than half the men in town, outlaws all - had come to Micklin's Village, the rhythmic sound of wood chopping had become the rooster's crow for the place. Every morning, in pelting rain, driving snow, winter's cold, or summer's heat, Bertram Dale had been out at his work. He had made himself useful in many ways in addition to cutting the wood for the whole village. He had also become Micklin's Village's cook, tailor, and, best of all, weapon smith, showing the huntsmen fabulous techniques for honing their weapons to a fine edge. Curiously, though, Bertram had never shown any interest in hunting, which was easily the most lucrative trade to be found in the region. As time had passed and he had made himself useful to the others, every one of them had offered to take him out and show him how to track and hunt the game of the area: the raccoons, the dangerous wolverines, the otters, the beavers, and the wolves.

But Bertram would hear nothing of it. He was content, he said, chopping and cooking and performing his other duties about the village. At first, some had whispered that the man must be afraid to go into the forest, but that talk had quickly faded as each man in turn came to understand part of the truth about this curious newcomer. Bertram understood weaponry better than any of them; he was as strong as any - including Micklin himself, who was at least a hundred pounds heavier than Bertram - and he had a grace about his movements that could not be denied. Lately the whispers had turned from ones of derision to curiosity, with most now reasoning that Bertram must have been a soldier in the great Demon War of a decade before. Perhaps he had seen some horrors, some whispered, that had driven him out here away from the civilized lands. Or perhaps he had deserted his company in battle, others wondered, and was on the run.

In any case, Bertram had surely been a godsend of gossip for the often- bored folk of Micklin's Village. He hardly seemed to care about the whispers and the rumors, just quietly went about his work every day, restocking the woodpile with freshly cut timber after cords had been stacked beside each of the six buildings in the village.

Bertram paused in his work to watch the huntsmen go out this morning and to take a deep drink of water from the pail he had set out by the chopping block, pouring more over his iron-hard torso than he actually got in his mouth.

All the huntsmen called out to him as they headed off, with many offering, as they offered every day, to take him along and show him the trade.

But Bertram politely declined every offer with a smile and a shake of his head.

"I can show ye good," the last man called. "Inside a month, I'll have ye better than half the fools in Micklin's!"

Again Bertram only smiled and shook his head, not letting on in the least how perfectly ridiculous he thought those words to be. Within a month, indeed! For this man who called himself Bertram Dale knew that he could outhunt any man in the village already and that he could outfight any two of them put together with ease. It wasn't lack of skill that kept him from the forest and the hunt; it was fear. Fear of himself, of what he might become when the smell of blood was thick in his nostrils.

How many times, he wondered, had that happened to him over the last few years? How many times had he settled into a new home - always on the outskirts of the civilized lands - only to be on the run again within a short time, a month or two, because that inner demon had freed itself and had slaughtered a villager?

As much as the fear of being caught and killed, Bertram hated the killing, hated the blood that indelibly stained his warrior's hands. He had never been a gentle man, had never been afraid of killing his enemies in battle, but this . . .

This was beyond tolerance. He had killed simple farmers, had killed the wives of simple farmers, had killed even the children of simple farmers!

And with each kill had come more self-loathing and an even greater sense of helplessness and hopelessness.

Now he was in Micklin's Village, a place inhabited only by strong, able- bodied huntsmen. He had found a daily routine that kept him fed and sheltered and away from the temptations of his inner demons. No, Bertram Dale would not go out on those hunts, where he might smell blood, where he might go into a murderous frenzy and find himself on the run yet again.

How many villages were there on the western borderlands of Honce-the- Bear?

The axe arced down, cleanly splitting another log.

He had it all cut and piled by mid-morning. He was alone in the village then and would be until late afternoon, likely. He did a quick circuit of the area to ensure that no one was about, then stripped to his waist in a small square between four of the buildings.

He took a deep breath, letting his thoughts drift back across the years and the miles, back to a great stone fortress far to the east, a bastion of study and reflection, of training and piety.

A place called St.-Mere-Abelle.

He had spent well over a decade of his life there, training in the ways of the Abellican Order and in the arts martial. He had been an Abellican master, and his fame had approached legend. Before taking the name of Bertram Dale, and several other names before that, he had been Marcalo De'Unnero, master of St.-Mere-Abelle. Marcalo De'Unnero, abbot of St. Precious. Marcalo De'Unnero, Bishop of Palmaris. He had been named by most who had seen him in battle as the greatest warrior ever to bless St.-Mere-Abelle - or any other abbey, for that matter.

He fell into a crouch, perfectly balanced. His hands began weaving in the air before him, drawing small circles, flowing gracefully out in front and to the sides.

So many had bowed before him, had respected him, had feared him. Yes, that was his greatest pleasure, he had to admit to himself. The fear in the eyes of his opponents, of his sparring partners, when they looked upon him. How he had enjoyed that!

Now his hands worked faster, over and under each other, weaving defensive circles with such speed and precision that little would ever find its way through to strike him. Every so often, he would cut the circle short and snap off a wicked punch or a stiff-fingered jab in front or to either side or even, with a subtle and sudden twisting step, behind him. In his mind's eye, he saw his opponents falling before his deadly strikes.

And they had indeed fallen to him, so many times! Once during his tenure at St.-Mere-Abelle, the abbey had been attacked by a great force of powries, and he had leaped into the middle of one group, fighting bare- handed, dropping the sturdy bloody-cap dwarves with heavy blows and kicks that stole their breath or precision strikes that jabbed through tender eyes to tear at brain matter, leaving the dwarves twitching on the cold ground.

That had been his truest realization of joy, he thought; and his movements increased in tempo and intensity, blocking and striking, first like a snake, then like a leaping and clawing lion, then like a kicking stork. To any onlooker, the former monk would have seemed a blur of motion, his movements too quick to follow, taut limbs snapping and retracting in the blink of an eye. This was his release, his litany to stay the rage that knew no true and lasting release. How far he had fallen! How much his world had been shattered! Father Abbot Markwart had shown him new heights of gemstone power, had shown him how to engage the power of his favored stone, the tiger's paw, more fully. With that stone, Marcalo De'Unnero had once been able to transform his arm into the killing paw of a tiger; with Markwart's assistance, the transformation had taken on new dimensions, had been complete.

But in that mutation, De'Unnero's body had somehow apparently absorbed the gemstone, the tiger's paw, and now its magical energies were an indelible part of his very being. He was no longer human - he didn't even seem to be aging anymore! He had only come to this realization very recently, for he had previously assumed that his superb physical training was merely giving him the appearance of youth. But now he was forty-nine years old, with the last decade spent in the wilderness, in harsh terrain and climate. He had changed in appearance, in complexion, and in the cut of his hair, but the essence of his physical body was still young and strong, so very strong.

De'Unnero understood the implications. He was no longer truly human.

He was the weretiger now, the beast whose hunger could not be sated. When he had come to realize that this inner power could not be completely controlled, De'Unnero understood it to be a curse, not a blessing. He hated this creature he had become more than anything in all the world. He despised himself and his life and wanted nothing more than to die. But, alas, he could not even do that, for, as he had merged with the powers of his tiger's paw, so had he merged with another stone, a hematite, the stone of healing. Any injuries he now sustained, no matter how grievous, mortal or not, mended completely and quickly.

As if in response to that very thought, De'Unnero leaped into the air, spinning a complete airborne circle, his feet lashing out with tremendous kicks, first one, then a second that slammed the side of a building. He landed lightly, bringing himself forward over his planted feet in a sudden rush and snapped out his hands against the hard logs repeatedly, smashing, splintering wood, tearing his skin and crushing his knuckles. He felt the burning pain but did not relent, just slammed and slammed again, punching that wall as if breaking through it would somehow free him of this inner curse, would somehow break him free of the weretiger.

His hands swelled and fiery explosions of pain rolled up his arms, but still he punched at that wall. He leaped and kicked, and would have gone on for a long time except that then he felt the inner callings. Then he felt the mounting power, the rage transformed - and transforming him into the killing half-human, half-feline monstrosity.

Marcalo De'Unnero pulled back immediately, fighting for control, refusing to let loose the beast. He staggered backward until he banged into the wall of the opposite building, then slumped down to the ground, clutching his hands to his chest, curling up his legs, and yelling out a denial of the weretiger - a denial of himself, of all his life.

Sometime later, the former Abellican brother pulled himself to his feet. He wasn't concerned with his wounds, knowing that they would be almost fully mended by the time any of the huntsmen returned. He went about his chores but only did those that were essential, for his mind wandered back to his emotional explosion in the small courtyard. He had almost ruined this new life he had found, and though it wasn't really much of a life by Marcalo De'Unnero's estimation, it seemed like one of his very few choices.

He wandered out around mid-afternoon, over to the woodpile, and then, knowing that the supply of logs could always be increased, decided to go out into the forest to retrieve some more, despite the waning daylight.

De'Unnero didn't like being away from the village at this hour, for there were too many animals about, too many deer, smelling like the sweetest prey, tempting the weretiger to break loose and devour them. Rarely did he venture out after mid-afternoon; but this day he felt as if he had something to prove to himself.

Long shadows splayed across the ground before him, their sharp edges gradually fading to an indistinct blur as the daylight dimmed to twilight. De'Unnero found a dead tree and hit it with a running, flying kick that laid it on the ground. He hoisted one end and started dragging it back the few hundred yards to Micklin's Village but stopped almost immediately, catching a scent. He dropped the end of the log and stood very still in a balanced crouch, sniffing the air with senses that suddenly seemed very much more keen.

A movement to the side caught his attention, and he knew even as he turned that way that he, the human, would never have noticed it. He realized that meant the weretiger was rising within him, was climbing out along a trail of that sweetest of scents.

The doe came into view, seemingly oblivious of De'Unnero, dipping her head to chew the grass, then biting the low leaves of a maple, her white tail flipping up repeatedly.

How easy it would have been for De'Unnero to succumb to the call of the weretiger, to allow the swift transformation of his physical being, then leap away to his waiting meal. He would have the deer down and dead in a few heartbeats. Then he could feast upon the blood and the tender flesh.

"And then I would rush back to Micklin's Village and find fifteen more meals set at my table!" the former monk said loudly, growling in anger at his moment of weakness - and the deer leaped away at the sudden sound of his voice.

Then came the most difficult moment of all, that instant of flight, that sweetest smell of fear growing thick in his nostrils. The weretiger caught that scent so clearly and leaped for it, rushing through the man, trying to steal his humanity and bring forth the deeper and darker instincts.

But De'Unnero was ready for the internal assault, had come out here specifically for this moment of trial. He clenched his fists at his sides and began a long and low growl, a snarl of denial, fighting, fighting.

The scent receded as the deer bounded far away, out of sight, and so, too, did the urging of the weretiger.

Marcalo De'Unnero took a long, deep breath, then picked up his tree trunk and started off for Micklin's Village. He found some satisfaction in the victory, but he realized that it truly signified nothing, that his little win here had been on a prepared battlefield against a minor foe. How might he have responded if the deer had come upon him unexpectedly, perhaps in the village when he had been letting loose his rage? How might he respond if he found himself in a fight against a bear or a vicious wolverine or, even worse, another human? A skilled human, and not one he could easily dispatch before the beast screamed for release?

Could he suppress the weretiger then?

Marcalo De'Unnero knew that he could not, and so he understood his victory out here to be symbolic and nothing more, a small dressing to tie over his wounded pride.

Some of the huntsmen were back in the village by the time he arrived, yelling at him for their supper, with one tossing a wild goose at his feet.

There was that smell of blood again, but now De'Unnero was merely Bertram Dale, a woodcutter and a cook.

He went off quietly to prepare the meal.