Who Walks in Flame (5 page)
A young woman cowered at the back of a shallow crevice. She would have been beautiful in life. Now she was as washed out and grey as everything else here. Only her fear tied her to what she had once been.
A demon with the body of a huge, decaying leper and the head of a wasp loomed over her. By the patterns left in the settling dust he could tell it had herded her there, playing with its prey.
He charged. The monster was so intent on its victim that it didn’t even notice him coming. But she did, and her eyes filled with hope. That the fiend did notice. It turned to face the man just in time for him to sink his blade deep into its chest. The demon pawed uselessly at the hilt as it faded.
The woman scrambled to her feet and threw herself into his arms with a sob. “Oh, thank you. Thank you. It was so awful. You saved me. Thank you, thank—”
Her hysterical muttering ended with a surprised gasp as his sword slid into her side.
“This is better,” he said in a distant, monotone voice. “You don’t belong here.”
She jerked free and staggered back a step before slumping to the ground and fading away.
He rubbed at the dull ache in his chest and sat on a nearby boulder. The young woman reminded him of something ... someone. A terrible, nightmarish reminder. His eyes glazed back over, and the pain faded. He stood and started down the ravine.
“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.”
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 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.”
