Finished with the ritual, his men walked around and stretched. Jaska started to join them, hoping to dispel the lingering effects of the witch's sorcery. But as the scene raced through his mind, he cursed to himself. Zyrella had distracted him from an important detail, one he now pictured as an afterimage: the statue of the White Tigress standing complete. Years ago he had visited this shrine and had seen the statue toppled and broken into pieces. Now it was whole again.
"Master, what's wrong?" Kasap asked.
Looking at Kasap and the others, all recently students of his, a brief worry flashed through his mind. These young men were not experienced enough for anything like this. But this was all he had to work with. There was no other choice.
"Great forces are working against us, and the witch is far more powerful than I thought. Come, we must hurry."
~~~
Zyrella knelt on a cushion before the altar and arranged the elements she needed: incense and fresh leaves in the burner, more holy water, and henna for drawing diagrams upon the altar and wide tiger stripes on her body. She deepened her breath and gazed up at the form of her goddess: a marble statue of a large mountain tigress with curving, black marble stripes fused into the white.
An identical statue stood in the Grand Temple of the White Tigress in Kabulsek. This one, however, was greater in power. Though this original shrine had waned in prestige, it yet held more power than Salahn knew. A high priestess could tap this power through secret rites, and Zyrella now knew those rites.
Long ago the White Tigress had stalked these barren foothills of the Wedawed Mountains as an ordinary albino tiger until the great deity Kashomae lifted her to godhood on this very spot. But like all the other lesser deities in Hareez, the Tigress had fallen to Grandmaster Salahn who trapped them in the Shadowland and leached their spirits to increase his power. The White Tigress was the key component in his quest to become a god because he needed to absorb the spirit of another entity who had made the same transition.
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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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, t
his 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.
“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.”
“Well, I had intended for you to stay. However, I think your punishment for impudence—this time—will be to go away and leave me in peace.”
Turesobei bowed sullenly then stalked toward the door. Outside, the soldiers continued to practice. “Haiyah!” Clack, thud, clatter!
“Oh, by the way, could you tell Arms Instructor Kilono to move elsewhere? All that noise is very distracting.”
Turesobei clenched his fists, restrained a yell, and began to storm out of the tower.
“Sobei,” Kahenan called.
He spun around. “What!?”
“You are forgetting your books.”
When he’d arrived for his studies, Turesobei had placed his spell books on a table beneath the open east window. He stomped over, swept the books into his arms, and rushed out. But without realizing it, he took one book too many, a book
that wasn’t supposed to be there, a book that hadn’t been there until a few moments ago. It was, in fact, a book unknown to Lord Kahenan or any other living wizard.
Awake for the first time in centuries, the arcane runes embossed on the cover shimmered beneath Turesobei’s touch, and if not for his anger, he might have felt this subtle pulse of magic.
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About the Author
David Alastair Hayden scribbles tales of fantasy adventure for young and adult readers. He lives in Alabama, along with his delightful wife, Pepper Thorn, and three lovely cats.
David studied history, literature, and religion at the University of Alabama. He practices Yang Taijiquan, and he enjoys playing and designing roleplaying games. David is also an avid collector of vintage manual typewriters, mostly from the 1950's. He sometimes composes fiction on these machines.
To learn more about David's upcoming projects or to leave him feedback about this book, please visit dahayden.com or sign up for his newsletter at tinyletter.com/dahayden.
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