Miasma

Veezmar cackled as he studied the indigo solution which held destruction. The avian carefully set down the flask on a wooden work bench. The first day of the eighth month was a perfect one for a field test, although from his windowless chamber, the changing views of each season mattered little. He settled himself onto Slythe's old throne. It was one of the many amenities he had transported to his new home using the teleportation devices, both large and small, that he had devised as a master of Mutant high technology. He reached for a decanter set on a side table, and poured himself a glass of wine stolen from an unfortunate tabbot merchant. His porcine flesh had complemented its flavor over several fine meals. The portable heating system turned on, and a wave of warmth fluffed his shoulder feathers. The vulture gave a grunt of thanks, for the short dung colored kirtle he favored did little to insulate his pale skin and increasingly stiff bones from the cold and damp.

Despite the uncomfortable environment, he preferred the isolation and privacy of his new nest. Indeed, it had been some time since he had abandoned Castle Plundarr. The pesky Thunderans had continually spied on the old fortress. They had thought him mad, a deception which he had encouraged as he walked around the grounds spouting gibberish. When he had synthesized enough explosives, he made his move, and brought the old base down in a glorious explosion that shook the land. Lion-o's guards had sifted through what little of the structure remained, and had drawn the conclusions he had desired. They clearly thought him dead, a victim of one of his experiments. They stopped their patrols. His new nest was hidden nearby in the extensive cave system that riddled the ridges. That they had yet to discover it due to their laxity pleased him immensely.

The other Mutants had long scattered, and how many remained was unknown. Mumm-Ra was probably aware of his existence, but the ancient evil one had not shown his disgusting face for many suns. The arcs of lightning that rocketed around his pyramid were still few in number since a stranger had almost destroyed him. Veezmar raised the glass to toast himself. High science would always best magic, yet it could not stop the passage of time. The avian drained his cup. He looked toward his vial of death. All that remained was to convert the liquid into an aerosol bomb. "Now to aim at the heart of Thundera," he wheezed to himself. "Developing this potion was my greatest challenge, but it will become my greatest victory." He threw his glass against the stone wall.

*****

The last few notes of the aria that Shaktar'ri sang floated upon the air like a hummingbird, bright and small and unwilling to leave.

"One thousand gods," Sri'rin whispered in reverence. "You have the most intoxicating voice."

"It is a splendid tune, is it not," said the white tiger with a smile, pleased with his companion's reaction to his singing. He adjusted a woven brown belt threaded with small shells that neatly accented his blue robe, and favored his robust form. "It captures all the doubt a warrior faces before battle, while the unknowing people sleep. And yet his courage promises victory. We must have Cheetara translate the words into our language," he added as he finished dressing, "for that song, and all the others I have transcribed from the Master's music sheets."

"You do not need to know the meaning of the words. Your emotion conveys everything." Sri'rin handed his fellow mystic a small pack. "The training you took with Master Xhilari when you were last in Tabbia has elevated your voice to a new level."

Shaktar'ri lightly brushed a stray white lock of Sri'rin's mane away from his forehead with affection. "You flatter me as always."

"You'd better leave for the Balkin village, or neither one of us will get anything done this day," his mate answered, waving his arm casually so that the silver bracelets on his wrists tinkled softly. He settled himself on the edge of a carved chair, the dark wood complementing his long purple tunic patterned with silver spirals. "I will walk with Cori and Tir'shan this afternoon to the city to discuss plans for future annexes with some of the younger mystics. As usual, we go on her schedule."

"Yes, she is chronically late, but you must also respect her condition. That she has tolerated her pregnancy so well has amazed everyone, especially the father. So treat her kindly."

Sri'rin's expression grew thoughtful. "Tir'shan always expects the worst to occur, but perhaps that is understandable given his history."

The weighty comment passed by Shaktar'ri, who preferred to give attention to his lover rather than to consider the angst ridden ri'sar'ri who possessed tremendous power. It is hard to believe that you came from the worst streets on Thundera, for you carry yourself like a brooding prince, my Sri'rin. Shaktar'ri sighed. I will favor you when we meet again, my fine one, he decided, his ardor hard to check. As he departed their chambers, a cold wind crossed his heart, and he wondered which one of the dead journeyed alongside him.

*****

"Please take her to her mother, and I will bake bread for a month in your place!" Tygra pleaded as he paced around his chamber at the temple of Mrísena. His daughter's constant crying had dampened the shoulder of his black caftan, and had kept him from the tome Tir'shan had unceremoniously dumped on his desk that morning.

The white tigress laughed heartily. "My lord Tygra, how can I refuse such a fine offer," Cori remarked. She took the squalling cub from her distressed father. Immediately, the tiny tigress settled against the ri'sar'ri's ample breasts, and quieted. She ran her hand over the infant's short mane, then frowned. "She feels a little warm, but that could be because she has fussed most of the morning."

"She is usually such a quiet cub. I suspected colic, because she has finally started on some soft foods," the architect conceded. "Now you tell me that she has a fever. She should remain with me."

"No, my lord. She will be fine with her mother and the other mystics at the annex for the day. All of us there can monitor her, so you need not be concerned. Little ones often run quick fevers which come and go like summer storms. You should know that by now. Besides, Ameera will also be there to keep her company. Tir'shan's cub is quite curious about her." Cori grinned. "As for you, a more urgent task presents itself. You can concentrate on learning the prayers we use for the benefit of all beings in Mrísena's name. I see that Tir'shan has left the book. There are many variations to learn."

Not for the first time did Tygra wonder how he would deal with the ritual of being a priest of Mrísena when he still had not taken the oath to the Goddess, and had not mastered mystic healing. Every day he vacillated on what the many roles he had assumed meant.

Cori narrowed her cobalt eyes. If she sensed his ambivalence, she did not reveal it further. The sleeve of her blue robe fluttered as she waved her right hand. "We have an agreement," she added, ending their discussion.

*****

"Batra, where might she have gone? Surely, like any youngster, Mara has her favorite hiding places."

The balkin elder pensively looked to the clear blue sky for some moments. His sad expression contrasted with the gaily colored clothing of a weaver. He said finally, "She is an obedient lamb, that one. And that is why I am so worried. She would not wander off alone."

Shaktar'ri looked past the neat cottages and fences of the Balkin village, and across a wide field brimming with vegetables as the coolness of the morning evaporated. It seemed no one had need of mystic healing. He would offer his help, find Mara, and soon they would all be laughing over afternoon tea and delicious cake. "The search has not gone to the north. That is where I will look," he stated plainly.

Batra grabbed his hand, and bowed his horned head. "Thank you, mystic. We owe your people so much."

The white tiger's stomach growled in protest for he had eaten only a light breakfast. "This will be over quickly, Batra. Some refreshment when I return will be payment enough."

*****

The forest beyond the Balkin village was not dense. Light easily filtered down from the canopy. As Shaktar'ri walked, he listened carefully to the sounds made by bird and mammal alike. Soft chittering pointed him in another direction. Sounds like the squirrels have found someone, he thought with amusement. Obedient indeed. He chuckled. Much did I delight my elders with my mischief when I was a kitten on the Blue Mountain.

Somewhere a branch fell from a tree. Close, he thought, returning to the task at hand. An outcropping of rock blocked the lightly worn trail. As he passed to the left, he saw a flash of white. Under a tree sat the lost lamb, her hands neatly folded in her lap as if she had not a care in the world.

"Mara you have vexed the village," he said with a laugh as he approached.

The lamb looked up, terror filling his large green eyes.

The gas bomb exploded at his feet, thrown by an invisible assailant. The dense, cloying fumes burned his eyes, and stole his breath. Shaktar'ri fell.

*****

A beaked face filled his returning vision. The grey vulture before him was clearly not of royal lineage as he lacked wings. Only a smattering of black feathers shielded his shoulders. It had been many seasons since he had seen the carrion birds of lesser rank that had cleaned the carnage of battle left by the Reptilians. Shaktar'ri shuttered, remembering the crunching of bones.

The vulture cawed, "Finally awake, mystic!"

The white tiger cast a furtive glance around the chamber, a tomb of rock dimly lit by glow balls. This was clearly not Castle Plundarr, for a great explosion had destroyed it many moons back. Nothing living had been found in the ruins. It was now obvious that this malodorous creature had survived. But what was this place? And where was Mara?

A sob shifted his attention to the adjoining cage. The lamb cowered in the far corner of her cell, seemingly shrinking into her soiled white shift. Furious, Shaktar'ri leapt to his feet, and threw himself at the bars of his cage. The world spun about, and he sank to his knees. What little he had eaten that morning soon pooled on the stone floor of his prison.

"Time," muttered the vulture. "Time." Reaching through the bars, he grabbed the lamb, who screamed. With a small knife, he cut her wrist. Mara fainted. He threw her toward the shared bars of the two cages.

Shaktar'ri roared, and the vulture retreated, a mixture of fear and desire filming his yellow eyes. The mystic reached through the bars, and grabbed the lamb's injured wrist. His white fur stained red as he called upon his healing power. Violet rays of light danced over the wound for a few moments, then sealed it. Shaktar'ri loosened his grip, then slumped against the bars. Like a great wave crashing upon the seashore, searing pain in his head made him double over.

The vulture shouted in victory, "It works!" Moving swiftly, he cut the lamb again.

Shaktar'ri cursed. He attempted to summon his gift, but pain kept him from succeeding. He pushed against the wall of resistence until a thin stream of violet light pulsed through to seal the second wound. Fearful of what would come next, he managed to send the lamb into a deep sleep before his power failed under the agonizing onslaught. "Mrísena protect Mara," he whispered as he lost consciousness.

*****

Veezmar drooled with hunger. The white tiger stank of urine, feces and decay, and his heart leapt with the thought of the meal he would provide. The great campaign on the Blue Mountain was the first time he had eaten white tiger flesh, and he had found it to be deliciously sweet.

He studied his victim with a strange fondness. That peak has spawned this one, most certainly, the avian decided, as he removed the sensitive probe he had placed against Shaktar'ri's forehead. He wondered for a moment how someone so obviously strong had become a mere healer. He cast aside his musing with a snort. "No matter. I give you 3 days before the dissolution of your brain begins in earnest," he chirped to the unconscious mystic. At the moment of your death, I will feast on your sublime entrails directly."

The avian set his measuring device back on the work bench. Not for the first time in his life had he wished his egg had been laid into the nest of a royal family. To have preened his fine feathers to a high gloss, and then to have flown into the mountain villages of Thundera to strike absolute terror in all who beheld him, that was the great unmet wish of his life.

The avian glanced at a small mirror set on his work bench. He was old now. Even the measly, black feathers on his shoulders had lost their sheen. He would always be a simple carrion eater, not a warrior vulture, no matter the brilliance of his mind.

Veezmar hissed with derision. The warriors had always eaten last.

*****

When? Shaktar'ri thought. The sound of hammering against metal had brought him back. His bound brain could not reason the day or the hour. He took small breaths, hoping the distracted vulture would not hear him. He looked to the other cage. The lamb still slept.

"My greatest experiment! They are doomed," the vulture spat excitedly. From his work bench he lifted an orb, and threw it aloft. With a soft hum it floated, a pearly white weapon. "Do my work!" he commanded.

"Spirits of the Blue Mountain come to me!" With the strength he had remaining, Shaktar'ri rammed the bars. The door to his cage burst open. He reached for the sphere, but it vanished before him, a nightmare he could not capture.

The pipe the vulture wielded made a sharp crack as it battered his skull. "Sri'rin" he whispered, then knew no more.

******

Tygra stared at the ceiling of his empty chamber, still wishing that his tenira had returned from the city. He always slept better with Talitha by his side. No matter, he thought. Tomorrow we are both free to enjoy the day, and gather all the cubs back under one roof. So much for a parent's relaxation.

Flapping shutters banged against the window. It had become quite blustery, yet he debated whether to close them. The breeze had lessened the heat of a summer night, but the stone floor would grow cold before the dawn arrived.

The tiger yawned. He despaired of sleep ever coming, but he thought it best to at least attempt it. A little quiet might help, he decided. With a soft snarl, he left his bed, and padded across the room. Beyond, a light mist had settled on the temple grounds. He took a deep breath. Surprisingly sweet, he decided. Is it lavender or sage that perfumes the air? He shook his head, uncertain of the pleasant fragrance that began to make his nostrils tingle unpleasantly. Odd, he thought as he closed the shutters. He ran his hand through his tousled mane. Dah'ri would know the substance, he deciding, considering the priest of Dandara whose knowledge of plants was vast. He stretched. The air seems too dry for even a light fog, but I was never one to predict the weather. I leave that to those among us who study the atmosphere. Tygra settled back upon his bed, not noticing the tendrils of mist that had seeped into the chamber.

*****

Sprawled across his bed, Tygra slowly open his eyes, his mind still bathed by dissolving dreams. He shivered slightly. Sometime during the night, the bedding had fallen to the floor. He sat up, and to his astonishment was dizzy. He squinted, his eyes struggling to adjust their focus as he scanned his room. Something was clearly amiss. "But I have endured all the local fevers," he said to himself, perplexed. He considered whether he should summon his mystic power for a scan, or confer with another in the Halls of Healing. Donning a light linen robe, he decided that Talitha would know the best course of action. He shifted his thoughts to his tenira, but a bolt of pain ripped across his brain. "What in the seven hells!"

Before he could puzzle out what had afflicted his mind, a shout diverted his attention. His left hand reached for a bolo-whip that no longer existed. "Gods of Thundera!" he cried, propelling himself toward the door. Flying into the corridor, he collided with the wall, both his balance and vision off.

"Tygra!" The voice that called his name still possessed the intonations of youth. Katren was suddenly beside him, while others ran past in a swirl of chaos.

He grabbed the small cat's shoulder. "Wilykat! What is happening!"

Before his strained eyes, Katren's features shifted wildly. "The mystics are sick!" the youth exclaimed.

"Impossible!" Tygra gasped, gripping him so tightly that his claws rent the green sleeves of the tunic of one he had watched change from a playful kitten to a serious apothecary.

"You must not use your mystic gift, Tygra. It will only sicken you further. That is what happened to those who tried to heal themselves and others."

"Help me up!" Tygra growled. "Are only mystics affected?" he asked, his hampered brain racing through a list of possible etiologies, and finding no solution.

"Yes, so far. That is what we relayed to the mystics at the annex. We have sealed the temple because we do not know if this disease is contagious, and will eventually spread to those who do not channel Mrísena's light."

Not for the first time did Tygra offer a grateful thought to Panthro who had installed at his request a communication system in a chamber also set aside for scientific medical treatment.

"During the sunny day, we prepared for the storm," he murmured with satisfaction. "Mumm-Ra taught us well in that regard." He grinned fiercely at Katren. "Get me to the lab!"

*****

Water dripped, rhythmic as a heartbeat. The pain in Shaktar'ri's head and the persistent ringing in his ears squeezed tears from his eyes. The stench of his own wastes, and the dried blood on his hands, made him gag.

"Still alive!" the vulture declared, his expression registering some measure of admiration. His pointed to the sleeping lamb. "She at least will be tender to eat. As for you, you are probably as tough as any boot. Your meat will boil for a long time, but will keep me well fed."

"Savar strike you down, filth!" The vulture sat by a writing desk on a wooden chair that possessed the subtlety of Tabbot artistry. The mystic wondered if it had belonged to some ill-fated merchant.

The vulture turned his attention away from a bound tome. He picked up an object which appeared to be a metal dragonfly. "My little bug has shown me that there is much chaos at your temple. Your companions are feeling the full effects of my work by now. The infectious agent in the gas I dropped upon your compound induces a creeping blockage of the psionic circuits unique to mystics. Use of healing speeds up the obliteration of that power. That telepathic ability also ceases after exposure is a delightful, additional result. In the end, each mystic will die slowly as the brain itself begins to erode, its light extinguished one neuron at a time. Indeed, those of the greatest power will scum the fastest." He chortled manically. "I am quite pleased. Tygra will never find a cure in time, no matter how many blood samples he studies in that poor, makeshift lab he has set up at your compound. Without brain tissue, and the more refined instruments located in the city, he will know defeat."

"Lord Tygra will beat you, filth!"

The vulture cawed, "If Tygra knew that he dealt with an infectious protein he would surrender. Every exposed mystic will die before he can create a neutralizing agent."

There must be a way out! Shaktar'ri thought with dismay, but he could discern no exit.

"Gather some more intelligence my little bug," the vulture commanded. The metallic device hummed, then disappeared with a popping sound. The vulture took a bracelet off a shelf, and slipped it over his bony wrist. "You simple-minded Thunderans never mastered teleportation technology. It is easy for me to flit from place to place with this. All I have to do is name the location I have programmed into it. Reports of mysterious disappearances always amuse me. Many wind up in my stew pot." The vulture stood. He added one last item to his person, slipping a slim dirk into the worn leather belt that encircled his narrow waist. "I think a few insect ridden vegetables would add to the meal. The fields of the Balkins should provide some nice tidbits." He raised his shackled wrist high, and opened his mouth to utter the words that would teleport him from the chamber.

But the vulture held his command. A chance? the mystic wondered, alert to the possibility.

The mutant's claws clicked hollowly on the stone floor as he approached the cage. He bent down slowly until his foul breath once again blew against the white tiger's face. "There was once fine eating on the Blue Mountain," he hissed.

Mrísena could not help him now. Savar's path ran before him, and it was only his father's words that kept the mystic calm under the vulture's baleful glare. The warrior knows the right moment, he kept repeating to himself. Always the right moment.

The vulture turned away, his throaty laughter rebounding across the chamber.

Now! Shaktar'ri leapt up, and grabbed the vulture by the neck, and pulled him against the bars. The dirk from the creature's belt slipped neatly into his hand. "Mrísena forgive me!"the mystic cried out. He slid the blade into the back of the vulture's soft skull, just as his father had taught him so long ago.

Pain blasted the mystic back into darkness.

*****

Tygra reclined on a cot in his small laboratory, his thoughts snared by a knot of theories. It was delivered by the mist, so it entered into the lungs by breathing. It traveled in the bloodstream to the brain, then crossed the natural barrier. Routine medicines and herbs have not been effective to combat symptoms. The agent was not traceable by any signature in the blood through instrument readings. Primary cultures have not yielded bacterial or fungal organisms. The agent must be viral or a chemical toxin of some kind specific to mystics, as non-mystics have not sickened.

His vision went black once again. Holding back fear, he slowly recited things that his tenira enjoyed doing. "Swimming. Playing the harp. Making--" He grew silent as his sight returned. Only one course remained to him. It was only a matter of time. It had been 48 hours since the mystics had suffered exposure to the mysterious agent. The first mystic that died would provide the clue he needed. Only then could he harvest lung and brain tissue, places where traces of the agent would exist.

Tygra turned on his side, burdened with the knowledge of the autopsy to come. Yet he possessed hope. He had also sent blood samples to the city once he had determined that the malady had not spread beyond the mystics. With the superior instrumentation at Cats' Lair, he knew that they might eventually find something that he had missed.

The tiger sat up. Time was not his friend. The latest reports indicated that all the mystics within the Halls of Healing had grown weaker since the initial exposure to the agent. Few remained conscious, let alone standing. But although plagued with dizziness, he seemed to have withstood the onslaught the best. Not for the first time did he wonder if his mixed race afforded him some measure of protection.

He ran his hand through his sweat soaked mane, then stood. "Those who are not sick have also breathed in the contaminant. Their immune systems might have some response by now, although the time has been so short. My only remaining option for treatment rests in collecting and using their blood."

He looked at his cabinet of medical tools. He would start with the snarfs in residence at the temple. Their race overall possessed superior immunity, and rarely became ill. He would have to chance a transfusion reaction across species.

The door to the lab opened. The white tigress who entered strode with dignity, although her weary blue eyes betrayed her illness. "Have you found anything?" Te'sara asked, her voice colored with misery.

"No," he said curtly, his face warming with shame at his failure.

Te'sara eased herself onto a chair.

His mother's sister. Their relationship had been tense, but much of that had been his fault.

Te'sara suddenly raised her right arm, and implored, "Mrísena! We are dying! Save the light within us that helps all! Burn away this evil!"

Tygra grabbed the edge of the work table in surprise. A vision of his father came to him as unexpectedly as his aunt's outburst. Siberan grimly wielded a torch as he stood near a forest engulfed with flames.

"By all the gods!" Tygra sank back down on the cot as his aunt slowly lowered her arm. When he was merely a cub, his father had used fire to defeat fire. He had sacrificed part of his estate to attack an inferno with a back burn. It had been the only way to save a nearby village that was in danger from a conflagration caused by lightning. "Fire with fire," he murmured to himself, but at what cost?

The tiger crossed the room. He knelt beside the chair, and took Te'sara's hands into his own. She gave him a questioning look.

"You must tell me how a mystic can harm with his power."

His aunt pulled her hand away, repulsed. "The red energy is an abomination!"

"But, possible. Talitha suggested as much to me once."

"Yes," she answered weakly. "And dangerous. Neural pathways can be destroyed, and give the mystic slow death as a reward."

"This mystery agent becomes stronger with the use of the healing power of mystics, and accelerates symptoms. Perhaps we can burn it away by sending harm."

Her eyes grew darker as she held his gaze. "Such a gamble."

"Tell me!"

"A mystic who knows so little of healing, and a priest who does not pray. What chance do you have of success if I were to teach you that which should not be taught, but is often learned!" she admonished.

The assessment stung. His recent lack of wisdom made him wonder how he had ever remained an advisor to the Lord of all Thunderans.

Perhaps sensing his distress, Te'sara gave him a sympathetic smile. "I will do this thing to myself, Tygra. I will be your test specimen. I will burn in my own fire."

"My ra'zia," he said, his voice breaking with the truth. "How can I ask--"

"With Sri'rin, I am a leader of our mystic council. You need not ask because I have decided this for the benefit of us all, as is my right." She set her hand upon his mane. "My ta'nevi. You are all that remains of my twin, Servalla. You still have so much to offer Thundera."

Tygra took her hand, and kissed it gently. "Te'sara, Thundera is long gone."

"But we endure."

When had her dark umber stipes lightened with silver? Tygra sighed. So few had survived Thundera's destruction and some had fallen on Third Earth. I must give all of my remaining kin more attention, he decided. Life is heartbreakingly brief.

"Shall we begin?" Te'sara asked, making the question a command with the strength of her deep voice.

He held her life with a nod of his head. "Do so," he said, his heart wounded as he moved back to his cot.

Te'sara placed her fingers against her neck. She closed her eyes, took a long, deep breath, then held it for what seemed to be an eternity. Suddenly, she threw her head back, her mouth open in a wordless cry.

A flood of red radiance poured from her hands, and covered her. Her face contorted with pain, but still she kept silent. It took all of his discipline not to interfere. Do not take her from me, Mrísena! he prayed fervently, his eyes locked on the spectacle before him.

The light finally faded. Te'sara pitched forward.

She was in his arms before she hit the floor. Tygra carried his aunt over to the cot. Her eyes blinked infrequently. Her fully dilated pupils did not respond to the passing of his hand over her face. Has her soul fled? he wondered. Is she truly gone? "Te'sara, come back to us," Tygra whispered into her delicately pointed ear, unable to bear what he had witnessed any longer. "You are the last link to my parents. I need you. My cubs need you. You are the hope of the mystics. In Mrísena's name, I summon you back to your duties!"

Seconds passed into minutes, then an hour. His aunt closed her eyes; her breathing ceased. It is over, Tygra decided. After all we have endured with Mumm-Ra and the Mutants, and all the other evils of this world. To be felled by such an insidious, invisible enemy! He gently brushed the strands of her fine ivory mane with his fingers. "Good journey, Te'sara," he choked. He covered his face with his hands, and wept.

"You cry as she did."

"Seven hells!"

"They did not want me there either, " Te'sara said with smirk as she sat up. Her blue eyes sparkled with clarity. "We both have work to do, my ta'nevi!" she proclaimed.

*****

He had survived, although Mrísena herself should have struck him down for his attack. Leaning against the bars of his cage, Shaktar'ri had no idea how long he had watched the paralyzed vulture who stared at the ceiling in terror.

Summoning what little strength remained to him, he finally crawled over to the mutant, and whispered into his ear hole. "Being trapped in your own head is far too easy a punishment for you, filth."

Tears began to stream down the beaked face, yet he possessed no sympathy for his victim. The moment he had acted, Shaktar'ri the healer had vanished. Shaktar'ri of the Blue Mountain, youngest son of the his clan's best warrior, had fought and won. But what have I gained? the white tiger thought, his brain on fire, and his eyesight failing. He looked to the sleeping lamb. He had gained a chance for her, not for himself. A exhausted sadness covered him as he gazed upon his shaking hands which once commanded vibrant violet light. And for you, my dearest Sri'rin, I must take one last action.

He clasped his hands, and prayed, "Most blessed Mrísena!" Show mercy to me, who have not shown mercy to my enemy, so that I may save this little one."

He felt nothing.

The white tiger looked back to the fallen mutant. Reaching through the bars, he removed the vulture's bracelet. It barely slipped over his land hand, and tightly pressed against his muscular wrist. Crawling, he pulled the mutant along the floor until he reached the corner of his cage. He sat back on his legs. He kept one hand on his enemy as he wrapped the fingers of his other hand around the lamb's leg.

Shaktar'ri took a deep breath. For a moment, it seemed that everything that he had experienced in his life howled and swirled in his brain. He roared in frustration, the sound reverberating his agony. "The Balkin village!" he shouted, and for an instant wondered if these, perhaps his last words, would be effective.

The space around him folded with a sickening lurch. Fresh air blew over him. He looked down upon grass, not stone. That the lamb still slept peacefully beside him eased his heart as he removed his hold upon her leg.

A shout made his head snap up. A group of Balkins and Sri'rin came running toward him.

Shaktar'ri swiftly released the vulture in revulsion. The mutant's eyes widened with fear. "They have come for you, filth," he taunted.

A ram farmer bellowed, and launched himself at the fallen mutant. The spade he wielded neatly decapitated the vulture.

Shaktar'ri slid into Sri'rin outstretched arms.

*****

Tygra sat in the solarium, and watched the drifting clouds. A rumble of thunder promised that a summer shower would soon come, a blessing of predictability after a span of days riddled with uncertainly.

"I have brought some tea," Cori announced cheerfully as she entered the chamber with a small tray that held two mugs. She placed the tray on a side table near him, then pulled another chair next to his. It creaked under her weight as she sat, and for a horrifying moment, Tygra feared she would crash to the floor if it broke.

People often dismissed Cori because of her size and her breezy manner, but he was not fooled. Her cobalt eyes coolly registered every nuance of those in her care, and ascertained the proper treatment. That she had decided to keep him company irked him, for he both wanted to wrap himself in self pity, and yet be comforted by another. Only a return to the noisy city with his young, vibrant family would cure the heaviness that persisted in his soul. But he needed her permission to go home. That would be better than tea, he thought wearily, as he took a steaming mug. He managed a weak smile. "Thank you," he said politely to the ri'sar'ri.

"Lion-o wished for your report on the outcome of this attack upon the mystics, but we advised him to wait," she said absently.

Anger darted across his consciousness, because the decision had been made for him. But his weakened body rejoiced. "Sri'rin has Shaktar'ri's account of events. That his companion survived his ordeal attests to the strength of the Blue Mountain line. The scientists in the Lair are compiling all of my biological findings. The antibodies we recovered from our donor snarfs kept us from using red energy as a treatment in many cases. Talitha is quite capable of presenting this information."

Perhaps it was the longing in the way he said his tenira's name. Cori placed her hand against his arm. The inherent energy in the ri'sar'ri made his fur rise. "Just give it time. Your mystic ability will return. A door once opened never truly closes."

"I wonder if that is possible, Cori. I required neither snarf antibodies nor red energy to become free of this strange affliction. My red tiger defenses healed me as well as the others, but also resurrected the barrier to my mystic gifts. Even the mighty Tir'shan could not restore me. My condition remains an unfolding mystery. And after this calamity, I am reluctant to predict my future."

Cori regarded him pensively. "Your red tiger gifts and your bond with Talitha are intact. We must trust in Mrísena to return you to us completely."

But is it what I wish, Tygra thought guiltily.

*****

The firm push against his back muscles made him gasp. "Are you making an effort to kill me?" Shaktar'ri complained weakly.

Sri'rin chuckled. "Given what you endured at the mercy of that vulture, it seems to me that you are quite invincible, and can take a little deep tissue massage." His companion slapped his buttocks. "Done! We will go and sit in the solarium for awhile."

"I'd rather go into the garden," Shaktar'ri protested. "I have no mind to be in the company of that maudlin tiger lord."

Sri'rin tossed him a light linen robe of pale lavender. "Tygra saved your Blue Mountain hide because he had the sense to use the antibodies he found in snarf blood against your ailment. You would have never survived treatment with red energy. You must thank him."

Shaktar'ri raised his hands in a gesture of peace as he rose from his bed. "For that I am grateful. However, those that had to use red energy need as much spiritual cleansing as I."

"No one died because of it, or had their healing channels destroyed. I am sure that Mrísena watched over us in our time of trial. You should carry no guilt, Shaktar'ri. You did what you had to do in order to survive and to save Mara."

Shaktar'ri nodded in agreement. But I still feel unclean and unworthy, he thought. Only prayer and the mercy of the Goddess will help me now. I must trust to her judgment. He glanced over his shoulder at his companion, who had lit several small candles. He took a deep breath, then managed a smile. Their room smelt surprisingly of apples. His stomach rumbled in agreement. "Intoxicating Tabbot perfumes, really, Sri'rin, you do not play fair."

A small triangular pillow with exquisite embroidery hit him squarely in the face. "The healer uses all the tricks he has," his companion purred as he approached. He offered his hand. "Come, my beloved warrior-priest."

Shaktar'ri folded his hand into companion's. The first law of the Blue Mountain was never to look to the past. "May our days together be long," he murmured.

*****

Silence. Darkness. Calm. How can oblivion be so comfortable? Veezmar thought, amazed that in death something of himself still existed.

A orb of gold breached the blackness, and a shining, jewelled figure emerged. A vulture female stood before him, tall and fully feathered, her great black wings reaching out into eternity. Shifting pulses of silver energy outlined her form, clearly marking her divinity, but she was not a goddess of his people. Malevolent V'rika had wings that dripped blood, not light, and she smelt of death, not life.

*You did much harm, Veezmar,* the great vulture broadcast sternly to his mind like a chiding parent.

It was what I was born into and trained to do, he thought wondering if she heard his answer.

*That is true. You were only given one road, fledgling of a failed experiment. I offer another path that can make use of your talents.*

I am worthy?

*You are brilliant, but your light has been misused. You should be harshly cleansed, but, I, Nekhebet, offer the path of redemption. Be not a destroyer Veezmar. Do you dare to take this gift, and return to life?*

A possibility appeared where there had been none. A chance? he wondered, intrigued.

*The unknown is the adventure.*

He had been Veezmar, carrion eater, a vassal to the great houses of vulture kind. Only the notice of other Mutants had given him the opportunity to excel at science. Who and what would he become if reborn? Was punishment preferable to the unknown?

*The old door has closed. Do you wish to see what lies beyond a new one? That is all you really must ask yourself, Veezmar.*

A longing for the great cliffs and aeries of Plundarr suddenly consumed him. But among his own people, much had been denied to him because of his status. To discover things had always defined him. That was the underlying truth that had framed his existence beyond the restraints of culture, and that had made him proud. Yet savagery had always provided him with intense pleasure, as had befitted his kind.

Do I want to be different? Veezmar wondered.

The avian gazed into the mysterious, black eyes of Nekhebet, and found the answer he sought.