Chapter 1

My name is Dalan.

I had another name once, one that was my birthright as first-born son to my father. It was a name he gave to me, and when the time came I would give it to my first born son. It was my destiny to be a part of a line that dated back to the time of the Warlords…if you believe in that sort of thing.

Of course, were it not for things turning out the way they had, my destiny would have been all nice and laid out for me. However, that's not the case, or else you wouldn't be hearing this now, would you? No; that name of honour is forever lost to me now, and the name I've been allowed to keep is little more than a death sentence if spoken in the right company.

My name is Dalan...and this is my story...

For twelve long, happy years I was Dalan Ch'ang Kalamar, Second heir to the Eldership of the Clan of the Tiger's Paw, beneath my father, Lucas, and again beneath his father, Won Ch'ang. From the age of three, I trained in the fighting art of Katu, one of a few fighting styles befitting a tiger like myself. When my father ascended to the rank of Elder, it would fall on me to become the trainer of future generations of my Clan. My siblings, their children, as well as my own would learn our way to fight through me. And when the time came, I would ascend and become Clan Elder, and would undertake the blessed curse that is family leadership.

Now, those hopes and dreams are gone.

It began a mere two months before my 13th birthday. At the time, the Tiger's Paw Clan was on the verge of making Clan history. You see, my father had become a finalist in the annual Kumal tournament of combat arts. Each year, Clans all over the country of Shonto would gather in Karalla City's Clan lands to participate. To the winner went the title of Ka'al Shera, or Clan Defender, and until the next Kumal, would enjoy several privileges thereto. For some it was money, for others women, and even for others men. The Ka'al Shera's very whim was equivalent to a command from the High Elder Himself.

This year, though, the stakes had been raised considerably. Lars Rondoki, Elder and Master Trainer of the Clan of the Midnight Fang, had wagered his Clan's possession of the Ka'al P'ack in this year's tournament. While the Grand Council applauded such a noble gesture, those not immediately awestruck by the Rondoki Clan knew the real reason behind the wager: Intimidation.

Lars had won the Kumal for ten consecutive years, and had used that influence to maintain several ancient practices in the name of building a strong family. While some new blood was introduced into the fold on occasion, it didn't take a genius to figure out the amount of rampant incest going on behind the estate's walls. They were selective in their quest for new blood as well. Only panthers with all black fur were permitted, and there had to be no defects or deviations in their bloodlines. Many all-black panthers typically bleach parts of their fur in an effort to dissuade the Rondokis from outright kidnappings, but more often than not the ruse is found out and they are taken as fresh genetic material for their line.

It's said that the moment a Rondoki pantheress came into heat she has three choices: Mate and bear a child, hide and be beaten, or take their own life. Typically, they merely accept their duties and snag the first male they can find. The mating is constant too; they carry on throughout their cycle in hopes of conceiving, lest they be the victims of an even more vicious beating afterwards.

As a result of this behaviour, the Midnight Fang Clan has a small standing army composed entirely of family members. In their defence, their licentious behaviour is the extension of an ancient Clan way of life. During the time of the Warlords, Clans were compelled to do anything to amass a strong army for their Masters. If that meant a father would bed his wives, daughters and granddaughters all in one night, then so be it.

I digress, however.

The Ka'al P'ack or 'Clan Protector' (hey, it's not my fault ancient Bengalan translates so banally into Terran English), is an ancient religious icon; a statuette of the war god Ra'Tal. Legend speaks of this icon granting invulnerability to whichever Clan possessed it. For some that legend stood to reason, given Lars' continued victories in the Kumal every year.

There was an additional reason to celebrate this night, for my mother, Kira, was pregnant with her sixth child (by my father, just so you know...the Kalamars haven't practised 'army building' since the Ascensions). While my father moved into the final round of the tournament, Mother was enduring a rather painful labour. While the Clans normally employed the services of midwives, everyone agreed that she would be better off under the care of a doctor this time. As a result, my grandmother and two sisters kept watch at the hospital while my grandfather, two brothers, and I all remained at the Kumal to cheer father on.

The final combat to decide next year's Ka'al Shera was to take place between my father and Lars Rondoki, both of whom had all but crushed their opponents on their way to this point. Unlike the training in a War Hall, the Kumal was a First Circle, or full-contact contest. Over the years, many of its participants were sent home broken, bloody, and in some cases dead. While killing a combatant did not merit a disqualification from the tournament, it most certainly did nothing for one's honour. Any deaths in the past century had been the result of an accident and usually resulted in a rather large payment made to the victim's Clan on the part of the offender.

The fight was long and downright bloody between my father and Lars. The Rondoki fighting art of Saras involved the use of nearly every edged weapon in known history. From a kitchen knife to the heaviest of the ancient Rakshi blades, the Midnight Fang soldiers knew how to use it and use it well. For this contest, Lars had armed himself with what appeared to be a Talafna blade. It was a dagger-like weapon with an edge on one side only. In any case, it proved rather effective given the number of bleeding cuts my father was suffering.

I was amazed at how resilient my father was. In spite of the blood he'd lost, he barely faltered and gave as good as he got. Lars' left eye was already swollen shut, and he was spitting out bloody globs of phlegm every few moments, a sign that his muzzle had been severely injured. If nothing else, I would say Lars was beginning to reel from Father's attacks. He seemed to stagger around like a drunkard after a time, and his attacks were both slow and sloppy. At this point I was sure even my youngest brother could have finished him off.

There was no need for that, though, for my father had finally had enough. With a last surge of fury he all but pummelled Lars into the ground. The image of my father, a bare-chested tiger, both arms raised in roaring triumph over the fallen panther would forever be burned into my mind as the single proudest moment in my life. The judges all agreed that it had been a clean battle and that my father had indeed beaten Lars Rondoki fairly.

At long last, the reign of the Midnight Fang as Ka'al Shera was at an end.

Funny how things suddenly descend from their highest highs to the lowest lows. I could see my father begin to waver and he eventually collapsed on the mat due to loss of blood. We all rushed to his side to make sure he was all right. The on-site medical teams indicated that he would have to be transported to the hospital for a much-needed blood transfusion. My pride turned to guilt as I thought of all my father had done for his Clan, only to nearly die from it.

As he was being loaded onto a stretcher, he turned to me and, with a weakened yet still strong voice, said, "My son...I leave it to you to finish the rite. Make me proud."

"I...I will, Father," I stammered out. He smiled and I watched him being loaded into the aerial ambulance for transport to the hospital. I bade my grandfather and brothers to accompany him; I would call Nerel (our estate driver) to drive me to the hospital after the rite had been performed.

That one selfless moment turned out to be the worst mistake of my life.

An hour later, I was speaking with Nerel via portcom unit. I would wait outside the Great Hall of the Clans for him and we would head for Karalla City with all due haste so I could be there when Mother gave birth. He indicated that he would be there shortly.

Thinking nothing of it I switched off my communicator and gazed up at the night sky. It has never ceased to amaze me how, even though science and physical evidence have revealed all but the deepest mysteries of the stars, they still enthralled people with wonder. A night sky, filled with millions of violent primordial nuclear reactors was still the perfect setting for evening stroll, the embrace of a lover, or mere self-reflection. They seemed to shine a bit brighter this night...perhaps the Patrons were pleased at how the contest ended...perhaps, like many of us, they had been cheering for Father, and were celebrating as much as we planned to.

I suddenly heard some rustling from some nearby bushes and tensed. My whiskers stretched outwards, tasting the electricity in the air and trying to detect what was going on. I could feel my small muscles tense and my fists clench and unclench. My claws also flexed, but they were so neatly trimmed they would be useless in a fight. Strike one against societal hygiene.

Out of the bushes emerged four beings, each wearing swords on their hips and black masks over their muzzles. In the darkness I could see no discernible marks to identify who they were, but the weapons they carried told me volumes about their intentions.

"Give us the statue, boy," snarled one of them. He stretched his hand out as if by merely uttering this command, I would obey. "Hand it over and you may yet live to see another day."

"T...The Ka'al P'ack is the property of the victor," I said, doing my best to mask my growing fear. "It is not for thieves such as you." They weren't fazed by my threats...why would they be? Instead of stopping, the four of them drew their swords and charged me.

I turned from them and ran as fast as my legs would carry me. I crashed into the brush and after a few moments began to turn towards the main road. With any luck I'd reach it and would either intercept Nerel on his way here, or possibly flag down someone for help.

As I ran I could hear them behind me, shouting orders to each other. I felt thankful that in such low light even a tiger like me could easily melt into the undergrowth and disappear from sight. When I think about it now, had my head not been so filled with the images of those swords, I would have found a place and kept covered...perhaps then they would have given up on their chase and let me be. Ah, the clarity of hindsight.

Instead I ran through the brush for what felt like an eternity, trying to avoid capture by even one of my four pursuers. My clothes were all but shredded at this point, and my body was covered in scratches...not enough to break the skin, but enough to be felt even through my fur. I'd be feeling them for a few days after if I survived this ordeal.

I could feel my strength beginning to wane far too quickly as I ran. I was only a cub, unused to this kind of exertion. I was fast becoming too winded to continue. My arms and legs burned but I couldn't stop. There was no way in all Seven Hells that I was going to let those four packlas take from me that which I'd been sworn to protect. They'd have to take it from my cold, dead fingers.

Finally I broke through the bushes and began a flat out run across an open field. I could see the main road just ahead of me...just a handful of metres separated me from my salvation. Just the thought that I was so close seemed to re-energize my aching muscles and I summoned up every ounce of strength I had. I pumped my arms and let a low growl escape my muzzle as I scrambled for that stretch of road just ahead.

I never heard them crash through the brush mere moments later. I never bothered to look behind me...nor did I ever chance to look down and see that depression before me. Suddenly my left leg sunk down, and the momentum of my body changed too quickly for my mind to process. I felt my left ankle twist and, with a yowl I crashed hard to the ground. All at once the adrenaline faded from my young body, and the pain came on in wave after wave of agony. My ankle throbbed violently, and my legs and arms burned from their recent workout. My mind was still racing...still trying to urge me onward, but with a bum ankle and muscles already pushed past any sane limit, there was no escape.

I turned and faced my attackers, dropping into the fighting stance my father had taught me. My heart was pounding and my mind screaming to run, but I knew whether I fought or ran, I wasn't going home this night...or any night for that matter. Better to show the Patrons that I'd sooner die fighting than be cut down running from four cowards who fought behind masks.

The four of them caught up to me in mere moments and fell upon me like a plague. I swung and kicked for all I was worth...even felt a few punches connect, weak as they were. I did manage to land one solid kick to an attacker's groin, but when his comrade's sword slashed at me, any measure of satisfaction I'd taken from the kick was gone.

The blade bit deep, scraping against bone and turning my thigh muscle into a useless blob of tissue. Gouts of blood spurted from the opened wound, and entire universes of pain exploded in my head. I screamed, I think...or maybe I just roared defiantly and kept swinging, trying in vain to beat back my attackers. I threw a punch at one of them, only to have another slice into my arm, severing my tricep muscle from the tendons that held it to the bone. Again, I can't remember if I screamed....though I do remember falling when my calf muscles were severed on both legs.

My ears were ringing so much that I couldn't tell if they were laughing as they rolled me onto my back. Their swords flashed again and again, cutting through flesh and muscle, but never severing the bone. By the time they were done with me my muscles hung off my limbs like mere slabs of Twaro meat. I heard no final words or threats as they took the satchel containing the Ka'al P'ack from me and melted back into the night.

I remember staring up at the sky, straining to keep my eyes open in the wake of the growing darkness around me. I felt deathly cold, but there was nothing I could do about it. It didn't matter anyway, though...I was going to die out here...alone.

I didn't even have the strength to whisper a plea for forgiveness to my father, or to the Patrons. All I could do was listen to my own shallow breathing, and my ever fading heartbeat until finally, that one excruciating moment hit when my mind screamed its last. My vision filled with a white light so intense I thought my eyes would be burned away to nothingness. My body tensed and I uttered a final, pathetic whimper...

Then...all was darkness...