Wrath of the White Tigress

by David Alastair Hayden

  "Please don't go," he pleaded. "You can't leave me."

  "Always the same, Ohzi. Arguing against what must be. But you will learn to live without me." A few tears streaked down her cheeks. "Embrace me in these final moments. Many years will pass before we see one another again."

  "You will wait for me in death?"

  "Of course. I won't be whole without you."

  They embraced for several minutes. Then Zyrella spoke once more to Jaska. "For all your days, remember me and join with us in death."

  "I don't think such a realm exists where we both can meet, tainted as I am, but if there is, I will find you."

  Ohzikar kissed her one last time as her spirit fled her body. He continued to hold her until her body grew hot from gathering energies. He let her slide from his arms, and she began to glow until she was so bright that none could look at her. The heat was so intense that Jaska was forced to back away, pulling Ohzikar along with him.

  When the brilliance faded, they turned back and saw a hazy apparition of the White Tigress, not solid but like a ghost. And of Zyrella's body, there was no sign.

  The dress she had worn, however, remained. Ohzikar crawled over and scooped it up into his arms. Clutching it, he sobbed with what little vigor remained within him.

  Jaska bowed before the White Tigress.

  "I owe everything to you, Jaska Bavadi. I am sorry that I could not save Zyrella. You are my wrath no longer. You are free of that burden."

  "I have others."

  She kissed his brow. "You may see to them with my aid in the coming months. Now follow me."

  "What about Ohzikar?"

  "He will be all right once his wounds are bound, but we must look to Lharro first. His time has come."

  Hyrkas was leaning over Lharro who smiled and gestured toward the twins. Bakulus was binding Caracyn's injuries. Caracyn was still dazed but fully aware of the sacrifice Lharro had made for him. He had already thanked him and apologized a dozen times, until Hyrkas had forced him away to be tended. As for Lharro, Hyrkas could do nothing.

  "There are millions of them, Hyrkas," Lharro whispered with a chuckle. "So few of us, but I gave my life to save one of them. Ironic, eh?"

  Hyrkas looked to the withered corpse of Salahn. "No, Lharro. We defeated the evil one. We saved millions of them, and our own people, too. But even if you had saved just one of them, you would be no less a hero."

  "We have our pride and honor still," Lharro said. He looked to the White Tigress. "My lady … it is a pleasure … to meet you at last."

  "You were a true palymfar," Jaska said, gripping his arm. "And we wouldn't have made it without you."

  "The priestess?" Lharro asked, for it was like him to think of others even at a time like this.

  "She died that I may exist," the White Tigress said. "Great was her sacrifice, though no less than yours. I shall honor you for all the many days given to me."

  He bowed his head to both of them. Once more, he looked to Hyrkas and squeezed his hand. "Tell my wife my last thoughts were spent on her. Farewell, my brother. I will see you in the Underworld."

  "At the Shrine of Heroes with sword and shield. We'll fight the dark powers of the next world, too."

  Lharro lay back peacefully. Hyrkas watched him breathe sputteringly, eyes still blinking, no doubt thinking of his wife as he'd promised. Of the Arhrhakim, there was no finer specimen. With a long sigh, Lharro passed into death. Hyrkas bent his head back and howled a sob that echoed through the sanctum.

  "If I could have saved him," the White Tigress said, "I would have. But his injuries were great and my strength is little."

  "I understand," Hyrkas replied. "And I don't think he would've wanted to cheat death. A man cannot exit the world any better than that."

  A thump sounded against the inner door. Jaska retrieved the other white-steel saber. "How long, Kyshaiar?

  "It doesn't matter," the Tigress answered. "We shall go to them. Hyrkas, stand with us. Bakulus, if you would please open the door."

  "Wait," Jaska said. He went to Salahn's corpse and hacked off the head.

  Jaska stood at the doorway with the Tigress on one side, Hyrkas on the other. Kyshaiar flapped up to Jaska's shoulder where he clutched harder than normal. He was obviously quite weak, but as Bakulus pulled the bolt free he deactivated the spell of holding he had placed over the doorway and began to glow.

  Nearly three-dozen palymfar had crowded into the hallway leading from the great sanctuary into the inner sanctum. They surged forward but stopped. Every eye fell onto Jaska and the withered head he held, and then the White Tigress who stood beside him.

  "Your master is dead," she growled. "Leave if you value your lives."

  "I shall forgive all those who repent of their evils," said Jaska, his eyes blazing. "All others shall taste the steel of the magic blades which slew Salahn."

  Murmurs spread among the palymfar as they began to back away. Most wanted to flee, but a few officers near the front saw a chance to claim power for themselves. They knew that after a battle such as that, Jaska and his allies must be fatigued.

  "They're weak!" shouted one. "If we rush them, they can't defeat all of us."

  Jaska tossed Salahn's head into their midst. An instant later, one of his throwing blades knifed through the space between a half-dozen men and embedded in the ambitious officer's eye.

  "Anyone else? I know you all, your strengths and weaknesses. I will defeat you."

  Some still hesitated, so Jaska strolled forward and attacked the first man he reached. The palymfar raised his sword to block, but the white-steel cut through the blocking sword and beheaded the palymfar with one clean strike.

  The other palymfar near Jaska began to struggle backward as Hyrkas and the White Tigress leapt forward. Kyshaiar flared up like a white-burning phoenix, and this last was too much. The palymfar fled then, spreading word throughout the city that Salahn had perished.

  With the gauze-wrapped body of Lharro slung over his shoulder, Hyrkas stood before the Shrine of the White Tigress on Mount Barqeshal. He set Lharro down reverently and placed a hand on his forehead. "I am sorry, old friend, but I cannot take you back to Vaalshimar. The heat is terrible and there is no one here who can do a spell to preserve your body." A tear rolled down onto his muzzle and dripped onto the gauze. "I know how much you disliked the outer world, how much you valued home, but this is the best I can do. It is a mountain at least."

  The White Tigress crouched beside him. "Friend Lharro, in honor of the sacrifice you made for us, the tomb meant for Zyrella's mother, the tomb of a high priestess, shall be yours. We will chant hymns in honor of you every time we pass it."

  Hyrkas bowed to her. "I will be ever grateful, goddess."

  "Nonsense," the Tigress hissed. "I shall forever be indebted to you. Tell your Farseer that not only has her debt been repaid but I owe her now."

  The White Tigress padded off. Hyrkas knelt beside his friend, talking of old adventures and better days. A cool breeze blew across the mountain, rustling a few dry shrubs and several patches of limp wildflowers. The Gasrah River below flowed serenely out into the desert. "It is dry here in this land, Lharro, but you will have a cool, damp tomb deep within this mountain, and if you let your spirit flow down the river and into the gulf, it will make its way home."

  Jaska stared over the cliff silently, hardly aware of those around him. He thought of the moment his qavra had been severed and his plummet down into the river. He recalled his first glimpse of Zyrella and thought about how she had nursed him back to health and sanity, how she had cooled the passions and torments that ravaged him. Standing here on the precipice, he realized that without her his life was about to change yet again.

  With leaden steps, Ohzikar approached the White Tigress. In his arms he cradled Zyrella's clothes and a few personal items that he knew she valued. "What of her effects, my lady?"

  "Zyrella Anthari was the greatest of all my priestesses. No tomb could honor her enough. Keep the qavra for you
rself. Her effects, however, will go into an altar here which holds a few special relics belonging to me. Their placement is a secret ceremony that only you shall witness."

  "What about Jaska?"

  "It is not for him that I do this. His loss is not the same as yours. Zyrella meant something different to him than she did to either of us." The Tigress focused her gaze on Jaska for a moment and then shook her head. "We will give to Zyrella a full and proper funeral service when time permits. Her memory and sacrifice will be worshiped here for as long as I exist."

  ~~~

  Six months later, Ohzikar and four thousand rebels seized the Grand Temple. Through the White Tigress, they gained the support of the populace. Three months before that, the remnants of Karphon's officer corps and leaders of the palymfar had started falling, killed by an assassin they all feared but could not stop.

  Within a few weeks, the rebels took control of the entire city. No longer spending her days blinded by luxury and slumber, the White Tigress chose a new leader for Hareez and helped the citizens elect a legislative council.

  In the following years, Ohzikar became the Grand Master of a new order of palymfar, and all the recruits studied ethics at the Grand Temple, taught by the White Tigress herself.

  ~~~

  Jaska hunted down every former palymfar he could find, but this didn't satisfy his need to atone for what he had done. He still suffered nightmares about the evils he'd done as Salahn's creature and had yet to recover from losing Zyrella.

  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."

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  Other Books by

  David Alastair Hayden

  Tales of Pawan Kor

  The Tales of Pawan Kor series can be read in any order.

  Chains of a Dark Goddess

  Wrath of the White Tigress

  Who Walks in Flame

  Storm Phase

  This enchanting Asian-inspired fantasy series delivers fast-paced adventure for readers young and old.

  The Storm Dragon's Heart

  Lair of the Deadly Twelve

  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 a
nd 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.