Tyler's Dream by Matthew Butler

and sculpted. Its tail was already gone, and its other joints now clicked and snapped out of place, lengthening, twisting, and expanding. Short and stubby paws grew long and smooth.
    The snow lion rose to its feet – its two feet. An old man stood in its stead, and although he was completely naked and bent from age, he still somehow managed to retain an unquestioning dignity. His hair was the same white of the snow lion’s fur, and it tumbled down in a lengthy beard. His eyes were each the same hazel brown that Tyler had seen in the snow lion’s final gaze.
    “Greetings,” said the man in a steady voice. “My name is Haranio Winhund.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
UNEXPECTED COMPANY

    “Who are you?” asked Varkon, his aggression unaffected.
    Haranio seemed not in the least bit concerned that he was fully unclothed, and he turned to Tyler with confidence. “I think the boy knows.”
    But Tyler had never seen this man before, and he shook his head with bewilderment.
    “Strange. Surely Hargill must have mentioned me? Haranio? His dear friend?”
    “Oh!” Tyler stepped from behind Varkon before the ghatu could prevent him. “Hargill told me I should find you in the city of Ithrim, just before he … was killed.” Haranio frowned as Tyler hurried on. “I’m sorry – you must not have known.”
    “I know, child. I was there in his final moments,” said Haranio sadly. The comment caught Tyler by surprise. “But now is not the time to talk. The imps are bound to give chase.”
    “How could we possibly trust … whatever you are,” Varkon snarled.
    “You are not going to kill me now, are you?” asked Haranio. “So, at this stage, I think you have no choice.”
    They travelled with all haste, the thought of being captured and crammed back into their tiny cages spurring them on. Varkon lent the remainder of his torn shirt to Haranio, and Tyler gave up his jacket.
    Tyler laughed as he ran. His flapping shirt was ripped in half, Varkon had no shirt at all, and Haranio, an old man, donned a tight jacket and wore half of Varkon’s old shirt tied about his waist. And old man though he was, Haranio’s level of fitness was extraordinary; he appeared not to feel the snow under his feet, as though there was something more animal in him than human. Instead he pushed onwards without pause, and it was all Tyler could do to keep up.
    Night soon overtook them, and the company came to rest underneath a large rock overhang. Although the ground he sat on was rough and hard, Tyler found it a welcome improvement to the splintered boards he’d endured for so long.
    “Haranio, explain yourself,” said Varkon softly. The ghatu had kept a careful watch over the old man all day, eyeing him for any signs of danger and insisting that he walk ahead like a prisoner.
    “Explain myself? Yes, of course,” began Haranio softly and reasonably. He was seated on a low rock not far away. “First, I apologise for the rough words I spoke earlier. I said them with haste because speed was needed. Now, you may be wondering who I am. Some would call me a shamif, or shape-shifter. Do either of you know what that means?” Varkon and Tyler shook their heads. “That is understandable. It is a skill that is not dissimilar to wizardry, but unlike that brother art, years of practice and pain lie ahead to master even the most simple of shapes. Try, if you would, to imagine the agony of a leg bone setting hard in your stomach, or a layer of skin that does not form properly so that your whole body is exposed, raw flesh. But this is beside the point. You really want to know how I came to be here, not the history of what I am.” Haranio allowed himself a breath.
    “I have been searching for Hargill for longer than I can remember, for reasons that will become clear soon enough. For the moment, know that my search lead me to Ornick-hor, in the Klinha mountains. There I discovered that a large ghatuan army had marched to the west not a week before. I was intrigued;