Wrath of the White Tigress (39 page)
Eventually he realized that it was time to move on from Hareez. Certainly Ohzikar would be better off without him there as a reminder of Zyrella and all the old tribulations. The new grand master was a silent, brooding man, but as more young recruits came in, his mood steadily lightened. Smiles would sometimes creep upon him, once or twice laughter. There were female recruits now, and not a few of them sought him out. Eventually, one would snare him.
Jaska was surprised when the White Tigress agreed that it was time for him to go. They had spent much time together, sharing a bond neither spoke of. But the bond had become a weight on her. She needed to part with him to clear her mind.
Jaska was doubly surprised when Hyrkas showed up the day after he had announced his intentions to the White Tigress.
"The Farseer told me when to leave," the Arhrhakim warrior said as they embraced. It was the first time they had seen one another in the four and a half years since Hyrkas had returned to Vaalshimar.
"You're here to see me off?"
"No, my friend. I'm going with you."
"What! Why?"
"The mountain … It's not the same any longer. My wife passed away last year, and my children are grown. There was no reason for me to remain. And before death, I would like to see more of the world. If you don't mind me accompanying you."
"It would be good to have the company of an old friend. Perhaps we can find peace together and see the things of this world we have both missed."
~~~
Sighing winds tugged at Jaska's burnoose and whipped dust into the air. He pulled the scarf from his face as Ohzikar approached. They stood at the edge of the scrublands, a few miles outside of Kabulsek. He had already said his parting farewell to the White Tigress, a farewell that had wrenched his soul and brought rare tears to his cheeks.
Ohzikar sighed. "You are truly leaving then?"
"Always resisting what must be, that's what Zyrella would have said now."
Ohzikar smiled. "Without doubt."
"As I've told you before, my friend, I just can't stay. I have too many terrible memories here."
"Where will you be if I should need you?"
Jaska shrugged. "I have no destination in mind."
"What should I say to our palymfar brothers?"
"It matters not to me. Except for you and what few other friends I have, nothing else matters to me anymore."
"Jaska, she has been gone nearly five years. Even I do not mourn as you do, and your time with her was so short."
"But she was more than a companion to me. She was … the unattainable … She was hope that I could be free of my past … somehow."
Jaska embraced Bakulus and Caracyn who had also come to see him off. "So, the two of you won't travel onward with me? I thought you joined our crusade seeking a great man who would lead you onward to your destiny."
"True," said Bakulus, "but I think we made a mistake."
Jaska chuckled. "It's a little late to realize it."
"Actually," Caracyn said with a glance to Ohzikar, "we found the right man. It just wasn't you."
"I thought as much," Jaska said. "Though I didn't realize it until the last couple of years. The work you're doing with the order and for the city is more than admirable. You are good palymfar and better men. I shall miss both of you."
Jaska embraced Ohzikar. Then he stepped away and pulled his scarf across his face. Their eyes met one last time.
Jaska took the lead of a small camel-train weighted with weeks of water and supplies. With Hyrkas at his side and Kyshaiar gliding on the currents above, Jaska stalked out into the swirling dust, heading toward the horizon. His gait was leisurely for a man so accustomed to danger. The white-steel sabers in their black scabbards dangled from his hips.
"I hope our friends find peace," Caracyn said.
"I doubt it," Ohzikar replied. "In any land he comes to, Jaska will be the scourge of corruption. He will never rest until he feels that he has purged all the evils that stained him. And I don't think that day will ever come."
Sign up for David's Newsletter at
tinyletter.com/dahayden
or visit
Typing Cat Press
to stay informed about upcoming releases.
Other Books by
David Alastair Hayden
Tales of Pawan Kor
The
Tales of Pawan Kor
series can be read in any order.
Storm Phase
This enchanting Asian-inspired fantasy series delivers fast-paced adventure for readers young and old.
Chains of a Dark Goddess
Betrayed by friends and abandoned by his goddess …
Back from the dead and hellbent on saving his beloved.
In life, Knight Champion Breskaro Varenni zealously served the bright goddess Seshalla. He was a hero and a legend, the greatest knight of the age. But his most trusted friends betrayed him to the swords of infidels, and his goddess abandoned him, denying him Paradise.
In death Breskaro refused to fade into Oblivion, like lesser lost souls.
Instead he wandered the Shadowland for seven years until the dark goddess Harmulkot offered him the one thing only she could give, the one thing that still mattered to him...
A chance to save his precious Orisala from a fate worse than his own.
Returned as a wreck of embalmed flesh animated by sorcery, with a host of the desperate and the undead under his command, Breskaro will do whatever it takes to save Orisala, no matter the odds and no matter the consequences.
David Alastair Hayden returns to the exotic land of Pawan Kor, first seen in
Wrath of the White Tigress
, with this seductive epic of swords and sorcery in the tradition of Brent Weeks, Robin Hobb, Michael Moorcock, and David Gemmell.
Reader Advisory: This book may not suitable for readers of young adult fiction.
For Purchasing Information Click Here
Chapter 1
The desolate ravine lay deathly quiet in the perpetual twilight of the mist-draped Shadowland, seemingly empty of the demons that preyed on the lost souls trapped there. A man shambled into the gorge. Listless eddies of dust trailed his feet. Head drooping and shoulders hunched, he moved like a sleepwalker, unaware of his surroundings. Once-fine armor hung on his tall frame limply — its bright shine lost to the teeth and claws of countless demons. The sword he drug carelessly behind him bore the nicks and scars of many pointless battles.
A scaly shadow slithered into place behind a basalt outcrop. It flexed razor talons and flicked a ropy tongue over its rows of jagged teeth. With a hopeful spark dancing in its giant black eyes, it pounced — swift, silent, unseen...
Expected.
The man raised his battered shield a heartbeat before the demon landed on top of him. He twisted and deflected the blow, tossing the startled fiend onto the rocks. It scrambled to get back up. It was too slow. With a swift lunge and one smooth motion, the man sliced his blade through the creature's corded neck.
The demon faded into Oblivion.
The man's clouded eyes cleared as they stared at the spot where the demon had been. He could do that ... let go ... fade into Oblivion.
No. He shook his head, trying to remember. He was waiting. He had been promised something. He had been promised ... Paradise.
Sighing, he scanned the charred, mist-draped landscape. His eyes turned ashen and cold again like the dead sky above. His body lost its fighting stance and he wandered deeper into the ravine.
Hours, maybe days, passed. Time had no meaning in the Shadowland, not to him, not to anyone trapped there. A terrified scream shattered the silence. The man ambled forward without urgency. He rounded a bend and spotted the attack.
A young woman cowered at the back of a shallow crevice. She would have been beautiful in life. Now she was as washed out and grey as everything else here. Only her fear tied her to what she had once been.
A demon with the body of a huge, decaying leper and the head of a wasp loomed over her. By the patterns left in the settling dust he could tell it had herded her there, playing with its prey.
He charged. The monster was so intent on its victim that it didn't even notice him coming. But she did, and her eyes filled with hope. That the fiend did notice. It turned to face the man just in time for him to sink his blade deep into its chest. The demon pawed uselessly at the hilt as it faded.
The woman scrambled to her feet and threw herself into his arms with a sob. "Oh, thank you. Thank you. It was so awful. You saved me. Thank you, thank—"
Her hysterical muttering ended with a surprised gasp as his sword slid into her side.
"This is better," he said in a distant, monotone voice. "You don't belong here."
She jerked free and staggered back a step before slumping to the ground and fading away.
He rubbed at the dull ache in his chest and sat on a nearby boulder. The young woman reminded him of something ... someone. A terrible, nightmarish reminder. His eyes glazed back over, and the pain faded. He stood and started down the ravine.
"Breskaro Varenni!"
He spun, his sword already poised to strike. A woman unlike any other stood several paces away. She smiled at his slow-witted surprise. Even here, in this impossible place beyond death, he had never seen anything like her. She reached one hand towards him and took a swaggering step closer, her anklets of bone clicking. Silver winged-snake tattoos slithered against the unnatural jet-black of her skin, seeming to dance up her arms in a starless night. Her amber eyes trapped his and looked through them into all he had ever been. The alizarin-orange gem embedded in her forehead, her qavra stone, flickered as if filled with torchlight.
Mesmerized by her, he didn't even react as she walked right up to him and touched him between the eyes.
"Awake, champion, your services are needed."
He stumbled back and shook his head. All the gray numbness and mental exhaustion slipped off him. His eyes cleared. He sheathed his blade and ran his hands over his battered breastplate, until he reached the deep hole over his heart. Not all these scars and punctures were the work of demons.
His jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed as he remembered — infidels looming over his broken body, their bloody swords flashing in the sun ... pain ... death ... then this.
"I remember. How — how long have I..." He gestured weakly at the dead land around him.
"Seven years."
"I have wandered this — this hell for
seven years
? Why?!"
Her voice was sibilant, seductive. "Those who do not pass into either Paradise or Torment roam the Shadowland until they fade into Oblivion. Most last no more than a few weeks, if they do not fall to demons first." He nodded as the knowledge came back to him. "But not you, Breskaro. You are not done with life."
He fingered the rose-stamped Eternal Sun medallion still attached to his remaining shoulder guard. A symbol of Seshalla, goddess of love and wisdom. His Goddess. He had been her Knight Champion. He had died crusading for her. But she had refused him Paradise. Even the lowliest recruit steeped in a lifetime of sin earned Paradise if they perished fighting for her. She should have given
him
a drink from the Cup of Eternity with her own hand as the Matriarch had promised.