Wrath of the White Tigress Read online

  Table of Contents

  Blurb

  Title Page

  Map of Southern Pawan Kor

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Please Review

  Other Books by David Alastair Hayden

  Chains of a Dark Goddess

  Who Walks in Flame

  Storm Phase

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  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.

  Chains of a Dark Goddess

  Wrath of the White Tigress

  Who Walks in Flame

  Storm Phase

  This enchanting Asian-inspired fantasy series delivers fast-paced adventure for readers young and old.

  The Storm Dragon's Heart

  Lair of the Deadly Twelve

  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 ap
pear.

  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.

  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.