Who Walks in Flame

by David Alastair Hayden

  “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

  Wrath of the White Tigress

  He thought he was a hero.

  She showed him the truth.

  Now he'll do anything to stop the man who made him a monster.

  For twenty years Jaska Bavadi has faithfully served the Palymfar Order and its Grandmaster, the powerful wizard Salahn, but an encounter with Zyrella Anthari, last high priestess of the White Tigress, shatters the spell that chained Jaska’s mind.

  Now faced with the horrors he unknowingly committed against people he swore to protect, Jaska must put Salahn's reign of cruelty to an end. Together, he and Zyrella race to save the White Tigress and stop Salahn from opening the Gates of the Underworld. An army of palymfar warriors stands in their way, but the dangerous secrets that cloud their destinies threaten to doom them first.

  In the tradition of Michael Moorcock, David Gemmell, and Glen Cook, Wrath of the White Tigress delivers a thrilling tale sword & sorcery fans will love.

  For Purchasing Information Click Here

  Chapter 1

  “Hear me, O Goddess! What must I do?”

  There was no response, no sound at all exce
pt for the crackling of leaves in a censer on the altar. The aromatic smoke that poured from the silver burner swirled through the ancient shrine and coiled around Zyrella Anthari, the last true priestess of the White Tigress.

  Zyrella's knees ached from hours spent on the flagstones. She had begun her ritual upon arriving with her templars but still had no answer to the dream that had led her here.

  Zyrella lifted her hands towards the statue of her goddess. She called on the Tigress again, desperately now. Sparks began to dance in the amethyst channeling stone that hung around her neck. Only through these rare gems could one convert willpower into magical force. Intuitively, she knew now what she must do. Unbidden dreams and unexplained urges—this was all she had ever had to guide her. It would have to be enough this time as well.

  With a gesture and a few arcane words, Zyrella activated the spell that allowed her to see into the Shadowland. Her azure eyes turned milky white as she gazed intently into the smoke, her mind focused on the White Tigress.

  She expected to see a vision that would give her instructions for a ritual that could free the goddess from bondage. Instead, her spell uncloaked an enemy spying on her through the Shadowland.

  The man wore the rust-colored garb of a palymfar assassin, and at his neck was a jet qavra stone pulsing with malefic energy. His mask was lowered, revealing a scowling, hawk-like face and amber eyes lit by zealous fire. Zyrella had never seen him before, but everyone knew the Slayer.

  Her muscles tensed. Her heart pounded. If he could observe her in this way, then he was near, no more than a few hours away.

  Zyrella ceased chanting and clutched her own channeling stone. The energies she had summoned slipped away but the vision didn’t end. Neither did she dismiss it. She fixated on this assassin as a soldier might stare at his own severed hand, or a mother at a stillborn child.

  She stared at Jaska Bavadi, more commonly known as the Slayer.

  Minutes passed, and through that time Zyrella experienced the pain of a broken heart and the joy of a lover’s touch upon her breast, grief that only death could bring and the contentedness of feasting with loved ones. But most of all, she experienced fear. For this man drew her as a moth to flame, and this strange and unexpected attraction frightened her more than the deaths his arrival would bring.

  Heart pounding, body trembling, Zyrella harnessed that fear, and though it felt as if she were tearing away part of her soul, she dismissed the image. Then she buried her face within her hands and fought backs tears of frustration.

  Her templar guards could handle a half-dozen palymfar, but not the right hand of Grandmaster Salahn. She couldn't guess how Salahn had known to send Jaska here, but she wasn't surprised. For years, she had hidden from Salahn, biding time for a day when his powers would wane. She now knew that day would never arrive. Unless she stopped him before sunset, he would absorb the life force of the White Tigress and become immortal and invincible.

  “I will not fail,” she muttered, refusing to remain discouraged. “I cannot fail. Not after all these years.”

  Zyrella breathed through a series of calming meditations and cleared her mind. She chanted and peered into the smoke again. This time, she directed the magic with more care, concentrating on her spirit-link to the White Tigress, who was imprisoned by Salahn inside a remote pocket of the Shadowland. The bond that would normally be hers by right as a high priestess had only formed recently, despite the magical barriers set by Salahn, during the prophetic dream that had led Zyrella here, through parched scrublands, to desolate Mount Barqeshal.

  This time Jaska Bavadi didn't appear.

  Zyrella fell into a deep trance, learning every nuance of the complex ritual she needed. When she finished, she cleansed her hands with holy water and doused the smoldering leaves. She drank one swallow and splashed the remainder into her dry, stinging eyes. Then she walked outside and joined her templar captain and faithful companion of twenty years.

  ~~~

  Dressed in a chainmail hauberk overlaid by a travel-stained, white burnoose, Ohzikar Sanwared stood guard between a pair of cracked columns that supported the decaying roof of the shrine's entrance. In his memory the place had shone with purity. Now returning two decades later, he found it just a ruin.

  For the last two hours, Ohzikar had looked out across the wide vista of jagged hills and scrub plains, worrying about the storm clouds gathering along the horizon. Except during spring, rain rarely fell in Hareez. However, occasional storms plagued hot summer days like this. Such a storm could be torrential, and it could cover the approach of assassins.

  Zyrella took his arm, and they walked through the remainder of the shrine's courtyard. Over the centuries, most of it had crumbled into the river canyon below. In the space that yet remained grew a dozen lethargic shrubs, two stunted trees, and several trails of limp vines. It was no longer the lush garden in which they had played together as children.

  The deep lines of Ohzikar's contemplative face eased into a strained smile. “Well, how did it go? Can you free her?”

  "I saw what I must do. The goddess has conserved all her energy, waiting for this moment when Salahn is most vulnerable, but I’m not sure I’ll be strong enough to help her."

  Frowning, he brushed bits of ash from the limp strands of her ebony hair. Worry and fatigue, even an aura of hopelessness, weighted her features. He'd never seen her like this before.

  "There’s something more that’s bothering you. Tell me."

  "The Slayer is coming for us. I caught him spying on me from the Shadowland, so he can’t be far away."

  Ohzikar blanched and his jaws quivered, but then he stood erect and clenched his teeth. "Bavadi is only one man. We can stop him. At the least, I will delay him long enough."

  "There may be others with him, Ohzi. I don't want to lose you."

  Ohzikar took her into his arms. "Do not fear. Trust in my strength." He stroked the back of her neck. "Ever since we were children, we knew this day must come. We have trained and endured many hardships. We are ready. This is our destiny, and our goddess needs us."

  Zyrella brightened, if only a little. "I would be lost without you, Ohzi." She stood on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. "I must prepare now."

  Ohzikar escorted Zyrella to the shrine entrance. Halfway to the altar, she let slip her robe. The silk slid from her smoothly muscled, olive skin like a cloud through thin mountain air. For some moments, Ohzikar admired her. Then he sighed and marched off to prepare his templars for Jaska's arrival.

  ~~~

  Four palymfar advanced along a rugged trail that twisted up Mount Barqeshal. The warrior-assassins wore their traditional rust-colored burnooses with deep hoods and saffron veils over an umber bodysuit reinforced with studded leather and padded cotton. The colors allowed them to blend with the deserts and mountains of Hareez. Each man also wore around his neck the signature palymfar device: a leather choker bearing in the center a jet qavra stone.

  Jaska Bavadi lifted a hand and the group paused. His men wiped the grit from their eyes. Jaska blinked hard once and looked around. The sun was dipping behind the mountain while storm clouds loomed in the east, growing ever stronger. It was going to be a rough night. A grim smile flashed across his face.

  His second, a towering man named Kasap, stepped up beside him. “Will we make it in time, master?”

  “We will get there before the Grandmaster begins the final stage of his ritual. It is the best we can do.”

  “Do you really think she could stop the ritual?”

  The witch had proven capable of avoiding them for a decade, despite their best efforts. And no one else had ever successfully evaded Jaska. With his jaw clenched, he hissed, “Yes, I do.”

  Grandmaster Salahn believed Zyrella unable to interfere, but for months, the preparations needed to bind the demonic White Tigress had consumed his attention. A dream had convinced Jaska otherwise. A disturbing dream of striped fur and olive skin, of whispered messages in a language he couldn’t speak. But
in the dream he had understood one thing quite clearly: Zyrella had arrived at the abandoned shrine on Mount Barqeshal, determined to stop Grandmaster Salahn. Jaska had immediately abandoned a mission in progress and set out with the five warriors accompanying him.

  “Come, Kasap, we’re close enough now to scry the enemy’s position.”

  He led the five warriors accompanying him behind a large outcrop where they could work in hiding. Jaska said to them, "Link your qavra with mine and concentrate on the temple."

  "What should we look for, master?" Kasap asked.

  "Nothing. Simply hold the connection. I will observe the enemy alone. The witch is sure to have scrying wards set up and one individual backed by greater power is more likely to break through unnoticed."

  Jaska dropped into a meditative state and opened his inner sight. Shadow tendrils snaked from the others' qavra to Jaska's larger stone. Jaska's eyes clouded as he projected his spirit into the murky Shadowland that draped reality like a burial shroud. In that between-realm, he raced ahead to the shrine.

  Inside he discovered Zyrella kneeling at an altar and peering into a cloud of smoke. Her olive skin and raven hair shone in the sunlight streaming through cracks in the ruined temple’s roof. He had never seen her before, but he recognized her aura through a talent given to him by Salahn.

  A sudden attraction toward her sent chills down his spine. Jaska shook his head, trying to regain his focus. He would not fall prey to her enchantments. Unexpectedly, she peeled away his scrying cloak and their eyes met. It felt as if their souls touched and he could do nothing but stare at her, helplessly.

  Abruptly the connection severed. Jaska retreated to his body, deeply disturbed by her presence. Body and mind, he burned with a passion that left him feeling spent, as if they had already made love.