Wrath of the White Tigress (11 page)

~~~

Jaska dreamed of Mardha. With her eyes lit by dark passion, she straddled him. He entered the smooth warmth between her legs. She arched backward, and he admired her unusually pale skin and ornate tattoos. She rocked back and forth with increasing intensity, matching the rhythm of his thrusting hips. Her full breasts swayed and bobbed. He thrust his head back against the pillows. His eyes rolled back, the lids closed.
 

Moments later, still thrusting, he opened his eyes. The tattoos had disappeared, but the skin tone remained unchanged. The same athletic build, the same charged presence, but it wasn't Mardha.

He lost his rhythm. His hands slipped from her breasts.

She leaned forward and dark hair fell over her shoulders and onto his chest. Her face was less angular than Mardha's. Her eyes were larger, her lips fuller. Wickedness didn't twist her features, and wisdom softened her eyes.

Zyrella…

She playfully raked her nails down his chest and whispered, "Please don't stop."
 

She teased his ears with her tongue. His mind whirled with the scent of her hair, like lavender in the summer heat. He thrust again but with greater vigor while his hands explored her back.

He kissed her with a desperate urge to pull her into himself, to merge their bodies into one pure orgasm. Their climax built into a series of raspy shouts followed by release. Trembling, she slid down into his arms. He met her smile and words of love crept into his mind, neared his tongue. His eyes closed again.
 

He opened them…
 

Blood stained a lush courtyard. Children wailed. Crows cawed from the trees, demanding their feast. Four naked women lay in a pile, broken and silent. A living woman fell onto them. Jaska loomed over her. She whimpered and begged to be killed. Jaska didn't know her, didn't know any of them. Bruises and cuts marred her smooth, aristocratic skin. The other palymfar stood behind Jaska and cheered him on.

A smile was plastered across Jaska's face. No matter how he tried, he couldn't remove it. He gripped his bagh nakh and towered over the woman. Dozens of children watched nearby, destined for slavery. On the walls of the fortified manor, their fathers hung by nails, torn and writhing but alive and forced to watch. The woman wailed as he plunged his bagh nakh into her belly, ripping and tearing.
 

Slowly her features shifted.
 

He was killing Zyrella.
 

Jaska awoke, uttering a tortured scream. He stood and drew his saber carelessly, with a scraping that rang through the pass. His knees threatened to buckle. Despite the cold air, sweat drenched him. He struggled to catch his breath.

The nightmares must end. His evil must cease.
 

He reversed the saber and pressed the tip against his stomach. But before he could plunge the blade inward, strong hands seized him.
 

"That will solve nothing."

Ohzikar's calm gaze met Jaska's wild eyes. Jaska wanted to cut the templar's head from his neck. His heart pounded. His muscles tensed. Yet he allowed Ohzikar to pull the saber from his hand.
 

And with that, his strength faltered and he fell to his knees.

"No, it won't," Jaska said in a soft whisper, coming to his senses. Ohzikar squatted beside him and sheathed the saber. Jaska sucked wind and stared at his trembling hands. "The nightmares overwhelmed me. I was willing to die to be rid of them."

"I can't let you do that. Zyrella says we need you."

"Don't ever trust me as she does, templar. I can't promise that madness won't overtake me."

"You need not worry about me trusting you."

Zyrella joined them, a blanket wrapped around her body. She put her hand on Jaska's shoulder to comfort him. He recoiled and moved several steps away. Jaska knelt again and refused to look at Zyrella. And now Ohzikar could imagine what sort of terrors Jaska must have dreamed of.
 

Zyrella frowned and handed Jaska a cup of warm tea. He took it apprehensively without meeting her eyes. "Are you all right, Jaska?"
 

"I am now."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I never want to speak of any of my nightmares. I only wish to write my reply to them in the blood of my enemies, then I will deal with myself."

Jaska finished his tea then stalked to the back of the niche and curled up on the ground. Zyrella gathered his blanket and started to follow but Ohzikar stopped her.

"I think he needs to be alone."

"I was only going to cover him up and see if I could do anything else for him."

"He can comfort himself now. The tea is enough, and I think he wants to keep you as far away as possible."

"Why?"

"Ella, think of what this man has done to innocent women and what sort of nightmares must have plagued him that he would recoil from you."

Zyrella shivered. She felt empty inside but ached to comfort him.
 

Seeing her frown and bite her lip, Ohzikar said, "I'll give him the blanket for you."

"You're a wonderful man, Ohzi."

"No one is perfect."

~~~

On the close of the twelfth day, they reached the western slopes of the Wedawed Mountains. The pass had grown dark from shadows cast by the descending sun. One sliver of light caught the last sigil. When he saw it, Jaska was mentally rehearsing palymfar katas and attack maneuvers to keep his mind occupied.
 

Jaska reined in his horse sharply and vaulted from the saddle. He rushed to the first sigil Salima had etched and traced the lines with his finger. He tried to envision a three dimensional version laid out on the ground.
 

He was right! He did know the sigils from somewhere else. He even knew their sequence, only he'd been seeing it in reverse by riding through the pass westward.

"What is it?" Zyrella asked as she and Ohzikar rushed to his side.

"I do know the sigils after all. In fact, I know them well." They stared at him in amazement. "Do you know the origins of the palymfar?"

Ohzikar shook his head, and Zyrella replied, "No, I don't."

"Neither do I. Neither do any of the palymfar, save perhaps Salahn, though he has never spoken of it."

Jaska stepped out into the middle of the pass and lowered into a stance. He began the first kata of the palymfar martial art. Each form followed a precise spiraling course. The practitioner could begin at any point and then end upon completing a cycle. The silent moves drew in energy from the environment and focused power within the practitioner. The katas also instilled meditative calm and prepared the body for physical rigors.
 

"Watch the pattern of my movements," he said, noticing Zyrella and Ohzikar were mystified. "Then compare them with the sigil on the wall."

After some time Ohzikar replied, "The gods be damned."

Zyrella shot him a stern look for cursing. "What does this mean?"

Jaska shrugged. "The original palymfar must have based their forms on these sigils. Even the height variance during each kata matches the depths of the carvings. Of course, the match of katas to sigils isn't exact with all the ones I've seen."

Ohzikar stroked his chin. "You know, that actually makes sense to me. The palymfar styled themselves as saviors of the people and stood for justice, just like Salima did. Only they were aggressive while she was passive."

Zyrella asked, "But why hasn't someone noticed this before?"
 

"Salahn may have suppressed the information," Jaska replied, "and I can only assume the spirit of the White Tigress within me has given me this revelation denied to others. It couldn't be mere chance."

"You said some of the forms are different from the sigils," Ohzikar commented. "I would think that mirroring the forms precisely would be better for bringing the power of the Pale Lords into the martial artist, especially if one understood the meaning of the symbols."

"Over the years," said Jaska, "various grandmasters must have adjusted the forms to improve their effectiveness, probably in combat."

Jaska looked back into the depths of the pass. "I wish that I could go back, trace each, and learn the original forms. I feel it's important, but we can't afford to go back."

"The library in Hectyra will have catalogues of sketches depicting all of them," Zyrella said. "Some may even have depth measurements. You need only hire a scribe to make a copy, though that would take some time."

"Halskari may already have one," Ohzikar said.

"Halskari?" Jaska asked.

"A book merchant," Zyrella replied. "And a friend."

"Then we must speak with him when we get there."

The lavish port of Hectyra shimmered on the horizon. The wealthiest and strongest of the five city-states that made up Epros, she was guarded by a massive wall and a fortified harbor. Marble stallions capped pillars on the city's four corners. A fifth pillar towered over the others in the city's center. At the top stood a forty-foot golden statue of Hectyros, divine husband of the city and Lord of the Realm Below the Waves.

Jaska, Zyrella, and Ohzikar were traveling a dusty back road that wound its way toward the city through golden barley fields and verdant vineyards. Passersby gave them a wide berth and sometimes outright fled when they spotted Jaska. Even this far into Epros, palymfar conjured fear within a populace who could identify them by their uniforms and gear. Each time this happened, Jaska's face froze into a defiant mask.
 

On a hill shaded by three large elms, they shared a lunch of stale flatbread and goat cheese. Ohzikar and Zyrella engaged Jaska in conversation, clearly to his displeasure. Along the way, he had kept to himself and spent every free moment either sleeping or exercising.
 

Ohzikar said to him, "You're far too conspicuous. Why don't you wear some of my clothes."

"I won't hide who I am. I will never again become someone else."

Zyrella pleaded, "Jaska, you're frightening people. And the palymfar aren't welcome in Hectyra. The Archons will have you arrested and executed."

"I'm not going to enter the city until nightfall."

The look in his eyes caused Zyrella and Ohzikar to drop the argument.
 

Zyrella repacked the leftovers of their lunch while Ohzikar checked the horses. "We have a little money in a bank here, but I suspect the best we can afford will probably be a the deck of a small trading vessel. And we'll need one that doesn't plan on making any stops in Hareez."

"Money isn't a problem. I have connections here. Several rich businessmen were receptive to the palymfar cause. They won't know that anything is different about me. I will approach the least powerful and demand a ship with a crew and mercenaries. He will give me whatever I ask to earn favor over his rivals."

"Are there palymfar within the city now?" Zyrella asked.

"Three elite operatives."

"Can the Grandmaster send a message to them over this much distance?"

"He couldn't before, not even to me."

"Could he relay messages out here," she asked, "bouncing them between operatives?"

"Within Hareez, relaying a message is feasible but all the way through Epros would be nearly impossible. And Hectyra itself is guarded from sorcery."

"Yes," said Zyrella, "but the barrier provided by the towers isn't strong."

"It doesn't need to be against sorcery performed from such distance."

"What should we do while you're securing a ship for us?" Ohzikar asked suspiciously. He didn't like Jaska going it alone. He didn't trust the man to stay true to himself.

"Find any texts you can for me on Salima's sigils. Otherwise, keep out of sight, in case word about us has somehow reached here. Do you know a secure place to stay?"

"The military quarter," Ohzikar replied. "At the home of an old tutor."

"Then I will send word to you there when everything is ready. Until then, I'll stay with our benefactor to see that he complies with my wishes."

As they rode onward, Jaska thought of Mardha and Zyrella, of the dream he'd had, of how similar the two women were. It was one more curse to torture him. He slowed and allowed Zyrella to draw even with him. As he spoke, he avoided eye contact.

"Zyrella, have you ever seen Mardha?"

"No, I haven't. Why?"

You're much like her, he wanted to say. But he shook his head and rode forward. "No reason."

~~~

Because he feared the night and lurking assassins, Lord Ezaras kept a lantern burning in his bedchamber. Before retiring, he checked the oil level. Satisfied, he questioned the guards in the hallway. Captain Telerus confirmed that the grounds were secure. Ezaras locked the door then undressed, feeling as safe as he could. Guards with hounds patrolled his walled urban estate. Wards drawn by priests shielded him from sorcery. Well-paid and trusted bodyguards stood watch throughout the house. Money couldn't buy better protection for a private citizen.
 

He crawled into his silken bedcovers, stretched, and closed his eyes with a contented sigh. Then the locked balcony door creaked open and the voice of death struck him.