Wrath of the White Tigress
Other Books by David Alastair Hayden
Tales of Pawan Kor
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.
Reader Advisory: This book may not suitable for readers of young adult fiction.
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.
Tales of Pawan Kor
Wrath of the White Tigress
David Alastair Hayden
Published by Typing Cat Press
at Smashwords
Copyright © 2011 by
David Alastair Hayden
All Rights Reserved
Version 2.0
|
January 2013
Cover illustration by
Sandara
Graphic Design by
Pepper Thorn
CHAINS OF A DARK GODDESS Excerpt
Copyright © 2013 by David Alastair Hayden
All Rights Reserved.
Cover illustration by Leos Ng "Okita"
WHO WALKS IN FLAME Excerpt
Copyright © 2012 by David Alastair Hayden
All Rights Reserved.
Cover illustration by Pepper Thorn
THE STORM DRAGON'S HEART Excerpt
Copyright © 2012 by David Alastair Hayden
All Rights Reserved.
Cover illustration by Leos Ng "Okita"
In Hareez, the golden age of prosperity was long forgotten. The gods had fallen into a deep slumber, unaware that demons roamed their lands, and the Palymfar Order no longer protected their people. In those days all men feared the palymfar while the palymfar feared only their Grandmaster, and his Slayer.
~
The Saga of Pawan Kor
~
"Hear me, O Goddess! What must I do?"
There was no response, no sound at all except 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."