Chains of a Dark Goddess (42 page)

Thunder boomed in the distance, and a warm breeze whipped hair into Zyrella's face. Sparks scintillated within the amethyst qavra that dangled between her breasts on a golden chain. As her senses sharpened, she heard the faint resonance of screams uttered years ago when the palymfar had attacked the shrine. Her grandmother and two aging templars had led Zyrella, Ohzikar, and the other children to safety. 

Today those distant echoes stoked Zyrella's desire for vengeance. Picturing lost family and friends, she desperately channeled this emotional force into the ritual, hoping it would give her strength enough to free the White Tigress.

~~~

The Gasrah River cut a canyon through the foothills beneath Mount Barqeshal and wound through the lowland scrub. Gusts of wind brought the rich scent of the stirred loam along its verdant riverbanks all the way up to the mount's summit. Dark clouds and a rushing wave of rain followed. Rivulets formed in the dry dust, swept around the jagged rocks, and poured from the mountain. Within minutes, the Gasrah swelled to twice its normal size. 

As best as he could in night and storm, Uurta Kalara scanned the terrain as he scratched through his beard. Having drawn the longest straw, he stood sentry along the path going up the mountain, just out of sight from the shrine. Every sixty-count each called out to signal that all was clear. 

The unwelcome rain slid from the oiled cloak Uurta had donned over his burnoose. Often the wind sprayed this runoff into his face. He couldn’t wait until his turn was up. He was suffering from a cold and felt miserable. He was getting too old for this and had already lost his edge. He had considered retiring, but like the others, he had forfeited a peaceful life when he vowed to serve the White Tigress and avenge his murdered family.

Something moved within the shadow of an outcrop. Chills ran across Uurta's skin. His hand fell to his sword hilt. His orders were to sound the alarm as soon as he even thought he spotted an enemy. But he delayed, not wanting to look like a frightened fool, as he had a month ago when he had nearly beheaded a washerwoman who caught him by surprise.

Suddenly, a mesmerizing voice whispered through the rain. "You cannot move, and you will do nothing to resist me."

Uurta stood dumbstruck as the rust-red shadow of Jaska the Slayer closed on him. He called on his training but couldn't break free of Jaska's mind control. His only peace was in knowing that when he didn't call out in turn, the others would be alerted. Thunder struck and lightning illuminated murderous eyes as the steel claws of the Slayer's bagh nakh tore through Uurta's throat. 

~~~

Jaska placed his left hand over the dying templar's throat and chanted a spell before dumping the body into the canyon. In the back of his mind, he began counting. It was a technique all palymfar mastered, that they could count even while talking, sneaking, or fighting. Only spell casting could disrupt his counting.

His students rushed past him and moved into their attack positions, following a narrow trail he’d spotted when scrying, a trail their enemy apparently didn’t know about, or had forgotten. Most of these templars had probably been children when the temple was destroyed.

Fifty-seven, fifty-eight, fifty-nine… "Uurta Kalara!” yelled Jaska using the voice he’d stolen from the templar. “All's clear!" 

Jaska did not follow his men. Instead, he took a different, more difficult route. Using a spell of darksight, which allowed him to see through the night’s veil as if it were early twilight, Jaska scurried over boulders and talus with ease. 

On the backside of the shrine's courtyard, he reached a sheer rise the height of three men. Jaska spoke another spell. The magic crawled down through the tendons and muscles of his legs. Once he felt the muscles tighten until it felt like they might burst, he knew the spell was ready. 

He leapt up and caught the ledge.

Quickly, he glanced into the sparse courtyard. To his left, twenty yards from the shrine, the mountain's flattened summit fell into the Gasrah River Canyon. To his right the shrine melded into the surrounding rock. Opposite him, a gap in the crumbling defensive wall marked the location of the former gate. 

Two templars paced the cliff edges, but currently, neither patrolled close by. The remainder waited in the courtyard's center. Within the shrine, the priestess chanted her profane rituals. He didn’t see the templars’ captain anywhere. A sixty-count passed with no reply from Uurta and the templars stiffened. 

Suddenly an arrow whistled on the wind then punctured a templar's eye. The victim writhed and moaned as he died. A second arrow thunked against a readied shield as the templars took defensive positions. 

Kasap and his brothers Denar and Tebyn charged through the gap and crashed into the nearest templars. Kasap swung a battle-axe in sinister arcs while Denar and Tebyn slashed with their sabers and tiger claws. The templars recoiled in surprise. 

After a few moments, the three palymfar retreated, as if they were overwhelmed, drawing the templars along with them. 

When the two patrolling templars rushed to join the others, Jaska climbed up into the courtyard. Blended with shadows and rain, he passed unseen and entered the shrine.

A short hallway opened into a torch-lit sanctuary thick with the dizzying smoke of burning leaves and incense. Jaska's breath caught in his throat. On the dais stood the pristine statue of the White Tigress. At the altar below knelt the priestess Zyrella. Her pale, naked flesh bore painted tiger-stripes that trailed from her onto the floor and up the dais to the statue. 

Though he needed to kill Zyrella swiftly, Jaska eased forward with lethargy. Already her presence was mesmerizing him. But he willed himself on, knowing he must strike before she turned this strange force directly against him.

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Who Walks in Flame

Millennia have passed since the witch-king Khuar-na last threatened the world of men. Now returned, he and his fiery behemoth have scorched the fertile fields of the West to desert waste. Only the Kings of the East can stand against him, and only if Bregissa the Skald can successfully lead them with her secret, stolen power.

An air-pistol-wielding priestess battles a sorcerous witch-king and a giant, flaming monster in this this sword & sorcery short story of truly epic proportions.

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Part One

With claws like sabers, a house-sized paw rips free from the earth and uproots a giant elm. Another bursts forth, sixty paces away. Between them, an angular head explodes upward and topples a stone granary. A scaled body the length of two villages snakes up after it, driven by eight powerful legs. Dirt crusts its scales of crimson, gold, and amber … until a dismissive shiver casts a cloud of dust so large it obscures the moon.

Flaming eyes open.

Ancient malevolence views the world once again.

A flick of its spiked tail decimates a stand of olive trees. Then the behemoth lowers its head, opens its razor-fanged maw, and out rolls a dark, oily tongue. Wrapped within that tongue is something like a man, a being not seen in three millennia.

This … man … of an old, forgotten race breathes. 

He remembers.

“Khuar-na,” he says, naming himself as he slides from the tongue. He rubs a scale on the lowered snout of the behemoth and murmurs: “Old friend.”

Khuar-na runs scarred hands along his body, touching the pockmarks where wounds once bled. Deep, deep within the hot earth, the magic of the Scorch-Walker healed them. Their gamble paid off. The nightmare has ended.

Khuar-na scans the lush fields around him. How many centuries have passed? he wonders. This was hot barren waste when we dug in. Our glorious homeland. The splendid sands are gone. It is naught but the stink of human fields and orchards now.

Faint footsteps, hushed cries. The Scorch-Walker snaps his head up. Khuar-na turns and a smile spreads across his reptilian face. 

A family fleeing a farmhouse: A panicked husband and wife urge their four children to run as fast as they can and stick together.

My sons and daughters. Where are they now? Dust of centuries. Murdered by the humans who overthrew me.

With one hand, Khuar-na caresses the rune-carved amulet of dark-iron hanging from his neck. I used to be merciful. There was a time when I would have regretted this. He extends the other and a gout of sulfurous hellfire springs from his palms and streaks unerringly toward its targets. The humans burst into flame. Their flailing limbs light the night like maddened fireflies.

Khuar-na is pleased, and into his mind, the Scorch-Walker laughs. They are one in their joy and united in their desire for vengeance.

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Storm Phase

A teenage wizard burdened with a mysterious destiny, a cat-girl ninja he can't help but fall for, and a bat-winged daemon that doubles as a diary embark on a journey of self-discovery in a world teeming with monsters and magic. Perfect for fans of Percy Jackson and Avatar: the Last Airbender, this enchanting Asian-inspired fantasy series delivers fast-paced adventure for readers young and old.

Book 1: The Storm Dragon’s Heart

Turesobei dreams of adventure and a chance to prove he's no longer a child. Wizards should be careful what they wish for.

Destined to become his clan's next and perhaps greatest ever high wizard, Turesobei feels smothered under everyone's expectations. And he's fed up with people treating him like he's still a child, especially his grandfather, the current high wizard. After foiling an assassination attempt on his treasure-hunting dad, his grandfather sends Turesobei on his father's expedition to find a powerful artifact known as the Storm Dragon's Heart. He's supposed to blow off some steam and get a dose of real world experience. 

But disaster strikes, and their quest becomes a race for survival.

Aided by a sassy ninja cat-girl and a mysterious diary that transforms into a bat-winged familiar, Turesobei battles sinister cultists, vengeful spirits, and a mad wizard from a rival clan who's determined to use the artifact to destroy Turesobei's homeland. 

To fail is to lose everyone he loves, but success carries a terrible price.

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Chapter 1

“Haiyah!” yelled dozens of Chonda Clan warriors. Their wooden practice swords clacked together, thudded against metal shields, and clattered against the interlocking rings of their mail armor. “Haiyah!” Clack, thud, clatter.

The noise rose to the topmost level of an elegant granite tower—the home of Lord Kahenan, High Wizard of the Chonda. There, in his workshop, his fifteen-year-old grandson Turesobei chanted ancient words of power and in his mind pictured the runes for darkest night and relentless fire. Sparks danced about in the amber channeling stone that hung from his neck.

Slowly, as Turesobei concentrated, a ball of dark-fire formed over his sweating palm. Around the orb’s black center crackled purple flames that burned hotter than any natural fire. But as long as Turesobei maintained his focus, the fire couldn't hurt him.

“Haiyah!” Clack, thud, clatter.

Beads of sweat popped out onto his face. His hands shook. His whole body trembled beneath his steel-gray outer robes. Across from him sat High Wizard Kahenan, bobbing his bald head and tugging at his braided white beard. 

“Excellent,” he said in a smooth, lilting voice. “Go on.”

“Haiyah!” Clack, thud, clatter!

Turesobei tried to shut out the noise that blared through the open windows. He lifted his opposite hand and willed the ball of dark-fire to fly across the space between them. The orb rose and began to move.

“Haiyah!” Clack, thud, clatter!

Halfway, the orb began to bounce and weave. He couldn’t control it much longer. Turesobei rushed the orb. But he overdid it. The orb struck his opposite palm so fast that he lost control and the dark-fire seared his skin.