Wrath of the White Tigress

by David Alastair Hayden

  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.

  "I dedicated my whole life to Seshalla. I died in her name and this — this is how she honors me?" Throwing back his head, he clenched his hands into fists and roared. "Seshalla!"

  He crumpled to the ground. "Why?" The plea was soft but his voice quickly hardened with slow, cold hatred. "How could you abandon me?"

  "She cannot hear you." The exotic woman gave another secretive smile when he glared up at her. "Perhaps Seshalla abandoned you, and perhaps she did not. Wiser men than you have placed their faith in lies."

  "Who are you, witch, and what do you want with me?"

  Her smile only deepened as she touched the telltale qavra. "I am Nalsyrra, of the Ojaka'ari. I have come to take you back."

  "Back? Back to the land of the living? Why? How?"

  "I represent a goddess, one who still has power. Though not enough to save her people. For that she needs you. As to how, I can lead you to the Keeper of Death who guards the Way of Return. But you must face him and defeat him alone."

  Breskaro laughed bitterly and climbed to his feet. "I am done serving fickle goddesses, Nalsyrra of the Ojaka'ari. I have learned my lesson through pain. Tell her to choose another warrior to fight her battles."

  "If all she needed were a warrior, do you think we would have gone to the trouble to raise you from the dead? You were the Knight Champion of Seshalla and the commander of the legendary Valiants. You were a mighty warrior, a brilliant tactician, and an inspiration to every man in Issalia's army. You struck fear into the hearts of your enemies. You survived impossible quests. You are the one we need."

  "I am no hero, not anymore. That man died seven years ago. I am nothing but a shadow now."

  He turned his back on her.

  "Reborn you would have the strength and vitality of several men. A shadow? Perhaps. But one with powers you have never even imagined."

  He shook his head and started to walk away.

  "You could see Orisala again."

  Breskaro stopped.

  "Orisala." The name rolled off his tongue like a caress. He said it again, with more strength, as if simply hearing it brought him closer to life. "Could I hold her?"

  "You could."

  His hand strayed to his war-ravaged face. "And would I be whole again? Would I look like myself?"

  "Your body was well preserved and most of your wounds mended, but it has been dead seven years. I cannot undo that damage."

  "Orisala." He whispered her name to himself as his brow furrowed in thought. "No. A walking corpse can bring no comfort to the living."

  "Comfort? Perhaps not. But what about salvation? Orisala needs you, Breskaro."

  "What do you mean?" He spun around to face her. "I made certain she would be taken care of, surrounded by loved ones. My squire, Kedimius, pledged his life to protect her. What has happened?"

  "She is alive, but barely. The priests who pulled her from the River Ayre saved her life. She cannot move or speak, though her mind is intact and alert. They have no idea who she is. They care for her out of religious duty but can do no more to heal her. She is all alone and trapped inside a broken body."

  "How could this happen?!"

  "That is a tale only she can tell. But if you come back and serve her, Harmulkot can heal her."

  "Harmulkot? You expect me to trust Harmulkot? You expect me to serve that wicked old goddess?"

  "You have no choice. And neither does she. You are her only hope, Breskaro Varenni. Just as she is your only hope of saving Orisala."

  Breskaro straightened his back. "No deceptions. If I return, I will see Orisala healed, and if Harmulkot betrays me, she will regret it." He ripped the Eternal Sun medallion from his breastplate and tossed it away. "I will serve Harmulkot, for Orisala's sake. Now take me back."

  "It is not so simple a task." Nalsyrra drew her sword and handed it to Breskaro. The hilt was onyx, the blade long and thin. "The Sword of Shadowed Light. It is the only other help we can give you."

  "We? Is anyone else involved besides you and Harmulkot?"

  "There is one other. A benefactor who wishes to remain anonymous is performing the spell to prepare your body for your spirit's return. It is a demanding ritual and she has made a tremendous sacrifice to get you back."

  "Even though I could have said no?" Breskaro asked. "There was no guarantee that I would return with you."

  "Your benefactor never doubted that you would return to save Orisala. See that her faith is not in vain. Everything depends on you. Come. Follow me."

  Buy Chains of a Dark Goddess

  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.

&nbs
p; 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.

  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.

  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.

  For Purchasing Information Click Here

  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.

  "Kaiwen Earth-Mother!"

  He drew his hand away, letting the spell drop entirely. The dark-fire orb sputtered and disappeared as it fell toward the floor.

  Lord Kahenan scowled and offered no sympathy.

  "Haiyah!" Clack, thud, clatter!

  Tears welled in Turesobei's eyes. "By the gods, Grandfather! Tell them to practice somewhere else. The orchard isn't a training field. Kilono should know better."

  He wouldn't have dared to address any other adult that way, but Kahenan insisted that he always speak freely. Kahenan thought such behavior befitting of a prince of the Chonda.

  "But Sobei," he said, calling him by his familiar name. "I asked them to practice there. For your benefit."

  Turesobei clutched his wrist as a giant, puckered blister rose on his palm. "What?!" he said through gritted teeth. "Why would you do that?"

  "Because the world does not know you need peace and quiet. And magic, I am afraid, must be worked in the world."

  "Arrrgh! I give up. I don't even want to be a wizard."

  Kahenan laughed. "What nonsense! Of course you do."

  "No, I don't. No one ever asked me."

  "No one asked me either, Sobei. But it is what you were born for, to succeed me as the High Wizard of the Chonda."

  Turesobei blew on his burned palm. He could have soothed it with a minor healing spell, but he was too upset to even think of the proper words.

  "You never tortured my father with all this training."

  "He could not even summon a normal flame, much less dark-fire. That's why he's a knight of the clan. Now come, let me heal your hand so you can try again."

  Turesobei stood. "I refuse."

  "To have your palm healed?"

  "No!" Turesobei stretched out his hand. "I refuse to try the spell again."

  Kahenan grabbed Turesobei's forearm and studied the burn. "Ah, then you should have said so. A wizard should always say exactly and only what he means."

  "You know what? You're an infuriating old man!"

  Unmoved by Turesobei's insolence, Kahenan laughed and replied: "Old people are supposed to infuriate the young."

  "Well then, you're the worst of them all."

  With a twinkle in his eye, Kahenan replied, "That is because I am also your teacher. A good teacher always infuriates his students."

  After his dramatic sigh turned into a wince of
pain Turesobei said, "Please, Grandfather, this is starting to hurt really bad."

  Kahenan turned serious. His eyes fell into creased slits. With a voice that always reminded Turesobei of rushing water, Kahenan chanted. A tiny golden cloud condensed from the air and drifted down onto Turesobei's palm. The cloud felt like cool, dense fog on an autumn morning. Kahenan's tongue licked at the corner of his mouth as he focused the healing energies.

  The blister disappeared and the skin healed. The pain faded to a dull ache, like a bruise. And it would feel like that for several days.

  Kahenan stood and belted Yomifano, his legendary sword, to his waist. His emerald robe billowed out, and he drew his hands into its voluminous sleeves. "You may go now, but I expect you back early this evening."

  "I already told you: I'm quitting."

  "Yes, but I neglected to tell you that you cannot quit. I will never allow it, your parents will never allow it, and the King will never allow it. The clan's future depends on you."

  "I'm not the only one here who can do magic," Turesobei said. There were other apprentices and four more wizards, too. But Kahenan spent very little time with them. All his efforts focused on Turesobei.

  "None of them have even half your talent, Sobei. You know that. Besides, I have invested nine years of intensive training in you. I will be lucky if I live that many more. I cannot start over." Kahenan smiled warmly at Turesobei. "And I would also like for my grandson to succeed me, just as I followed my grandfather."

  Turesobei muttered curses at his fate as Kahenan nodded toward the door. "Now, go. I have important rituals to conduct."

  Turesobei became interested in his apprenticeship again. "Um … Perhaps I could stay, after all … You may need my help."