"Sweet mercy!" the man screamed, slamming the door in the face of that apparition, even as it lunged forward.
But there was no mercy left. Tarrin's paw exploded through the closed door, opening up and grabbing the man by his arm. The man shrieked in agony when that inhuman grip closed over his arm, crushing bones beneath it, but it turned into a whoosh as Tarrin yanked, shattering the door by pulling the unfortunate man through it. The sound of the imploding door echoed through the passages, and they were quickly accompanied by horrified, agonized shrieks and screams as Tarrin systematically savaged the guard. Unsatisfied with simply killing him, Tarrin unleashed his full rage upon the man's body, tearing, breaking, ripping, destroying, feeling the rush of flesh tearing against his claws, revelling in the sound of bones snapping within his grip. Tarrin's voice, a screeching roar of pure animalistic rage, drowned out the man's weakening screams and pleas, which were cut off when Tarrin grabbed the man's head between his paws and pushed, utterly destroying everything above his neck. Blood, bone, brains, and worse flew in every direction, spraying Tarrin and the walls with grisly ichor, and the smell of it drove him utterly mad. Even that was not enough. After the body fell to the floor, Tarrin continued to destroy it, sending gibbets and shredded bits of flesh, bone, leather, organs, and cloth in every direction, to stick to the walls and ceiling, to hang from Tarrin's body like grotesque jewelry, to slick the floor with blood and gore. When there was nothing even remotely human left to identify, when the remains of the man were spread all over the floor and the walls of the small cell, Tarrin raised his head to the ceiling and screamed, a raging howling roar of pure hate, pure rage, the purity of the need to survive at any cost.
Two more men appeared at the destroyed opening of the cell, and Tarrin whirled to face them, covered in the spoor of his defeated foe, and a look of pure rage, utterly devoid of rational thought, twisted his face into a fang-bared snarl.
"Holy Karas preserve me!" one of them gasped, but it was too late. With a roar, Tarrin sprang forward, killing one instantly when his paw found the man's face, and drove that head back and against the wall behind it, where it crushed between the wall and Tarrin's paw. The other managed to draw his sword, just in time for it to fall from nerveless fingers when a full swipe of Tarrin's clawed paw ripped the man's head completely off his body.
Tarrin gave another howling roar, a scream of rage, but also of triumph. He would be free! Now he would leave, using the memories of his human half, memories of hallways and passages that would lead back to the top, back to the outside, out of that prison! A man spotted him, then turned and ran down a side passage, but Tarrin didn't give him any mind. The Cat inside him was trying to get its bearings, to decide which way it was supposed to go in order to find the way out, and it struggled to comprehend human conceptions to make that decision.
A sudden clamoring of bells startled the Cat, and it couldn't grasp that it was an alarm. Giving up for the moment, the Cat decided that moving was best. So Tarrin began stalking down the passageway, seeking something familiar that it could use to find the way out…a scent, a movement of the air, anything that seemed familiar. He turned a corner, and found himself staring at at least ten armed men, who immediately shouted at him and drew weapons.
But Tarrin had no fear. Snarling, he issued a raging howl, then rushed to the attack, totally oblivious to any danger. Swords pierced his flesh, but he felt nothing, ripping and raking and tearing, even biting, anything that he could get his claws on. He tore at faces, gouged out eyes, slashed throats and chests with his claws, raking with his feet to disembowel his adversaries. Skilled thrusts and swipes cut his flesh, drew deep blood, chopped off his left paw at the wrist, just below the manacle, but the enraged Were-cat felt no pain, no fear, nothing but the overwhelming need to destroy, to kill, and he had no mercy.
A brief episode of pain registered to him as his left paw grew back, almost as quickly as it had been severed. Their weapons were not magical, and the magical barrier that stopped magic seemed to be incapable of affecting his innate pseudo-magical abilities, such as his regenerative powers. But when Tarrin took that brief rest to allow it, it was because ten mangled bodies lay in various stages of dissasembly on the floor around him. He was standing ankle deep in entrails.
That began a pattern, as Tarrin randomly stalked the hallways of the underground complex, looking for the way out, killing absolutely anyone who got in his way. He did not chase them down, but anyone who challenged his forward momentum or failed to flee at the sight of him was instantly and savagely attacked. A trail of savaged bodies marked his path along the dark, shadowy tunnels, as the mercenaries and warriors and guards sought to locate the intruder and neutralize him. Tarrin attacked them all, no matter how many there were, and he was soon soaked in both his own blood and that of his victims, leaving swords and daggers protruding from his body as grim testaments of the attempts to slow him down, not feeling the pain in the haze of his utter rage. He killed them singly, in pairs, in groups, he killed anyone he could find, he killed them with utter ruthlessness. They were enemies, seeking to take away his freedom, and they had to die. In short minutes, dozens and dozens of the dead marked his grim, systematic passage along the winding, intersecting tunnels, creating a grisly path for others to follow to find him.
It came to a head in a wide passageway, almost like a gallery, with a set of stairs at the far end. A large complement of guards had gathered at the far end, at least thirty of them, and they all pointed and shouted as Tarrin stepped from the shadowy tunnel and into the brightly lit chamber, covered in blood and with a dagger sticking out of his shoulder. He narrowed his eyes and laid back his ears, then roared at the large gathering in a horrific scream of hatred and rage, and he hunkered down into a pouncing position.
"He's mad!" someone shouted as Tarrin gave out a harsh scream, and then charged.
"Go for the head!" someone else cried, drawing a sword.
It was a clash of rampaging, animalistic fury against desperate self-preservation. Tarrin attacked the men headlong, swatting away only what weapons came in for his face and head, and destroying anything he could grab hold of. Screams of pain and the dying quickly echoed up and down the passages as Tarrin killed anyone that came within reach of his paws, driving forward with such savage ferocity that the score of men remaining were unable to wrap around him, unable to take him from behind. They did eventual fold in around him, and he became a lightning-fast whirlwind of death, killing anyone foolish enough to try to stab at him with a weapon, grabbing swords and hands and arms and yanking their owners within reach of a decapitating blast from the other paw. The men between him and the stairs melted away under his mindless fury, and the others quickly began to spread out further and further. After more than half of them were dead, the remaining men finally realized that they had no chance against him, and they broke and scattered in every direction. The unfortunates that tried to flee up the stairs died swiftly as Tarrin caught up to them and dispatched them with decapitating rakes and head-crushing blows, sending bodies and body parts tumbling back down the stairs.
The young, robed woman at the top of the stairs, immobilized by the sounds of death and pain from below, was the first to see the Were-cat emerge from the dark stairs, covered in gore and eyes blazing with an unholy greenish aura that preceeded the outline of his body as it emerged from the darkness. She was a thin thing, small, pretty, and she stared at him in a horrified gape, seemingly unable to move, paralyzed by his appearance. Others began to appear, armed men and even women, shouting and pointing and rushing towards him. But the pretty young lady was right there, mesmerized in some macabre fashion by the Were-cat's approach. She was unmoving, she was trembling, and she was helpless.
She was the first to die.
They were in place. Lilenne nodded to Keritanima, who tapped Manx on the arm, who gave a signal to his men. They rushed forward quickly with their swords drawn, their boots making little noise on the cold cobblestones of the large paved plaza surrounding the hammer-shaped building. The Wikuni Marines moved quickly and efficiently, covering each of the six entrances in four-man squads. Six Knights advanced over the fence for each team, and they quickly reinforced those Marines at the doors to prevent anyone from coming out or going in. A larger group rushed the massive main doors of the cathedral, which opened into the Nave of the church, where even now the High Priest of Karas was conducting the Service of the Ending Day, the last day of the ride, before a large congregation.