Riposte.

For a moment I watched, slack-jawed. My mind just wouldn't comprehend, in this setting, the transformation taking place before me.

Paolo had his share of character challenges to be sure, but epilepsy wasn't one of them that I knew. In fact, until the last few moments I had thought his physical mastery super-human, if not coupled with reason and foresight.

His body was heaving, as if trying to be sick when, with a tremendous spasm, his features pulled wide in a rictus grin and began stretching around some horrific appendage emerging from deep in his throat. All at once, the face split noisily, his face literally tearing asunder at the joint in his jaw.

I backed away in horror as his convulsions grew, and all around the garden the crowd of onlookers cried out in bewilderment and terror. Many began to run. Others screamed—either at me in some supposition that I had bewitched my opponent, or simply in stark, mad terror.

"Pertuli..." I rasped. I had a really bad feeling about this; which, given that my hangover had not improved and that I was rapidly bleeding out through an improper tourniquet tied with my teeth, was saying something.

The black formation pushing up through Paolo's face resolved into an obscene, scaled muzzle of some sort, with twin rows of its own pointed, slavering teeth. It pushed forward through cracked and bleeding gums until an evil set of red, glaring eyes were just visible in what had once been Paolo's mouth. The beast looked for all the realm like a puppeteer's hand had pushed up through the Faranado and was wearing him like a boneless costume.

In the distance, a woman screamed over the rest of the panicking mob; a primal, horrible scream. I thought it might have been the Maid of Orluz.

"Oh gods!" Glassier groaned, somewhere behind me.

"Pertuli!" I cried again, hoping I would be heard. I am not proud to say that my voice lifted half an octave in nearly concealed horror. "He's cheating ...do you see this? I said he's cheating!" I scrambled backwards on unsteady legs, unable to avert my eyes.

"I see, I see!" Pertuli agreed in stunned amazement, suddenly at my side. He seemed to feel that the duel was over, because he hoisted my good arm over his head, ready to drag me away from Paolo. "Any idea what's happening?"

"Looks like shape-changing, maybe," I gasped, leaning onto Pertuli's shoulder but keeping my sword awkwardly between me and what used to be Paolo. "A curse? Possession? Whatever it is, it's not pretty."

Demis Faranado rushed toward his brother, concern prompting him to do the opposite of what any sane man might. "Poison!" He cried, yanking his own steel free and glaring murder at me. "Clasicant has poisoned Paolo!"

He tried to wrap an arm around his convulsing brother, but just as he came close Paolo flung an arm out in blind instinct and batted him away. The blow sent Demis sprawling on the paving stones several paces away, his sword and one boot landing a moment later. He didn't get up.

Pertuli dragged me over to the cluster of priests, with Stande, Glassier, and the other two Faranados right behind us, steel drawn and forming a tight ring of defense. The valet was nowhere to be seen.

"I believe we can declare this matter concluded gentlemen," Stande said quickly to the other seconds. As the transformation continued, it was clear that no poison on Terrok could have affected the startling changes overcoming Paolo, and that only the most powerful and vile of spells might have been responsible, although in that case the enchantment would certainly have been detected by the delvers.

"Agreed," said the elder Farranado curtly, "If Clasicant truly had nothing to do with this..." His suspicious glance sought confirmation from Glassier.

"The delvers are cold," the officiant confirmed. "Whatever this is, I must admit it was not Lord Clasicant's doing. At least not by magic." It didn't seem that anything less could have affected Paolo so completely.

His writhing began to subside, and Paolo now stood towering over us, at least half again my height, the hunched muscle of his shoulders rising above his head. He had burst through most of his clothes; his waist still slim enough that his leggings clung to him mostly intact, but his shoulders were far too wide now for the torn arming doublet, and his silk shirt hung about his neck in tatters.

Where his body showed, he was a mottled, scaly mass of hardening skin. And muscle. Lots and lots of muscle. Something had happened to his lower legs that caused his boots to fit awkwardly. As I watched he kicked them off, revealing large clawed feet with long scaly talons for toes.

"My cousin has been so distant for years," the remaining Faranado, closer to Paolo's age, said. Real terror was written on his face but his steel was steady and he looked determined to do his family proud and stand his ground. "He was obsessed with his prospects in the East before courting Maid Orluz. We thought he had settled down, but who knows what kind of witchcraft he ran afoul of?"

"Maybe Bessik knows," Pertuli suggested, presenting me before the Father Superior. The priests were chanting as one, calling for divine aid from their demiurge. I hoped cures for curses and possessions were among the many provinces claimed by the Order of The Heart.

"I-I have never seen anything like this," Bessik stammered when asked, peering ashen faced past the ring of steel made by the Faranados and blade masters.

"Oh gods, no," I breathed, and something in my voice caught Pertuli's attention.

"What? What is it?" he asked, his wary voice not anywhere near horrified enough for just how dead I realized we were all about to be.

"I have," I realized. "Seen something like this, I mean. Ages ago in another country and under very different circumstances."

Paolo now stood towering over us, at least half again my height, so all were able to see clearly the monster he had become. He no longer looked remotely human, but most terrible was what was left of his face. It was as if some toothy, snouted beast was wearing Paolo's flayed skin as a tunic, the torn and gaping face its grisly bonnet, ornamented with dangling bits of flesh and teeth.

"One preserve us!" The elder Faranado squeaked as it ceased its convulsions and turned hot red eyes on us, glaring out from inside dangling Paolo-skin forelocks.

And then it moved.

Before anyone could even react, Stande had been swatted across the garden with a grunt and the beast was sinking its irregular fangs into the neck of its uncle.

"Heal me!" I demanded, seizing a shocked Father Bessik's robe and tugging frantically.

"Y-yes, of course!" Bessik stammered, and laid his hands on either side of my head, lolling as it was.

The battle faded into nothing, then, as warmth spread through me, numbing me to everything but an all encompassing sense of health and love. I was amazed by the passion of it, as if everything that was good and pure in Bessik's soul was pouring into me, sharing with me his vision of everything that was his god.

I didn't let it seduce me; I'd been healed many times, and was continuously amazed that someone—anyone—could be so caring. For the Priests of the Heart, this flood of healing was a reality, and came from a wellspring of wholesome intent for the good and prosperity of all sentient beings. Without a priest's dedication to that reality, their god's power would not have made healing possible.

I knew this for a certainty; I had also run afoul of the righteous zeal of the Hand. Their ministrations were quite different.

All at once, my wounds were gone and the real world came screaming back around me, with all its horrors and savagery. This was the world I lived in. My stomach gnawed at my ribs, but other than the dreadful pounding of my hangover, I felt no pain.

Glassier and the younger Faranado were sticking their steel into the monster over and over, trying to drive it off the body of their comrade to very little effect.

"Rip, what is that thing?" Pertuli asked in astonishment, handing me back my sword.

"A weresaur," I grimaced, fighting off the heady shocks of warm, tingly healing still darting up and down my arm; the opposite of shooting pain, but nearly as distracting.

Glassier had gotten the monster's attention, to his instant regret, and it pounced on him. He saved himself by shoving the basket hilt of his saber into its mouth, lodging the beast's craw open, but also robbing himself of his only weapon. He staggered, pressed down under the creature's full weight, its claws rapidly pressing into his shoulders. He had moments to live.

Marshaling my will, I threw off the healing's afterglow and leapt into the fray, tackling the monster's legs—which now ended in long clawed toes—and tried to save Glassier without opening myself to return attack. Pertuli experimentally drove his blade into the monster's side, but other than a roar of annoyance around Glassier's iron-caged fist, the thing didn't react.

"What do I do?" the younger Faranado cried behind me. He had seen the uselessness of his sword thrusts but not escaped harm himself during the moments of conflict so far. A long four-furrowed gash down his chest laid bare and bloody his lower torso where the coat was cut away.

"We need magic," I grunted in answer, my head bouncing off the thing's leg as it thrashed about "An enchanted blade of some kind. Or silver. This is a sort of lycanthropy—they're the only things that will hurt it."

"We have nothing!" Bessik's younger acolyte wailed. "They would have set off the delvers..."

"We have our icons," Bessik corrected grimly, holding forth the silver bars chained about his neck. "And our faith." A shadow passed over his face in a form of determination I would have called war-like in a man less dedicated to peace.

He began chanting, and his acolytes loyally fell into pace beside him, mirroring his stance and speaking their holy words in the same commanding cadence. As one, the delvers and magic-detecting amulets the priests wore lit up like brightly colored candles.

"Forget it, Prior, just run!" I called around the tattered remnants of Paolo's leggings, hanging on with one arm and slashing at any hostile movement over my head, hoping to at least distract the thing from finishing the Carving Knife member. "It's not a possession and the curse is too far gone to be removed!"

Thrusting my rapier through the beast's forearm, I levered one clawed hand from Glassier's throat and he finally managed to give it the slip. Blood flowed from the wound, but as I watched, scales slid out from under the skin and closed around the blade, healing all but the flesh actively displaced by steel.

Enraged, the 'Paolo-saur' turned its seething evil gaze on me. There was something crocodilian in its appearance, although the analogy was hampered by the sickening flaps of Paoloface hanging from its head like an obscene hood.

Without Glassier forcing the saber into its craw, the monster was able to drop the slime coated weapon and free its long rows of irregular, pointed teeth. It darted a long, pointed tongue down at me.

"Uh oh," I gulped, congratulating myself on successfully getting its attention.

With a twist of its arm, it ripped away my sword. It snapped teeth at least half as long as fingers at me, and I tumbled out of range to avoid them. Think of something!  My mind screamed at me. Isn't that your job?  I evaded. 

The monster pinned me with hate filled eyes and bunched its legs, ready to strike. I was on my back, helpless, and I had seen how fast it could move. I didn't stand a chance. My alert eyes, trained for more than a century to react to a warrior's tells, noted as its haunches twitched in the first muscular movement of the lunge. I flinched in pure reflex, protecting my head with an upraised arm.

A ray of pure light shot over my head and struck the beast full in the chest. It froze. I don't mean that it hesitated. It froze rigid as if its body had gone into a kind of convulsive fit. 

Following the ray to its source, I was astonished to find the three priests holding forth their icons, rapt in a paroxysm of faith. The ray was a scintillating flow of radiance emanating from each priest and combining to hold the creature fast. They had bought us time, I realized.

I stood, thankful until I stumbled over something on the ground and froze in horror at seeing Demis' prostrate form, his neck clearly broken. His head lay at a bad angle against the lowermost of the garden's stone terrace walls. His eyes stared in jerking movements, full of tears; silently pleading. The rest of his body lay still, even his chest neither rising or falling.

Oh gods, I thought. He's still alive!  But not for long.

I turned back to Bessik, and my heart sank. Demis needed the healers even more desperately than the rest of us.