Wrath of the White Tigress (5 page)

Salahn had lived eleven years beyond a century and appeared to be in his sixties. But he would look old no longer. His forked grey beard blackened to the tips, and had he wished it, his bald head would have grown new hair. The wrinkles in his swarthy skin smoothed away. His scars disappeared. Bones strengthened. Muscles and tendons healed of old injuries and grew stronger than ever before.

Blood poured away to reveal on his chest and back, realistic tattoos of the White Tigress within which she was trapped forever. "Now, I am a god!" Salahn shouted. "Victory will be ours across Pawan Kor and throughout the world. Whatever we wish, we will have. You shall all live as kings, and I will be the King of Kings!"

The palymfar cheered and chanted their leader's name. Salahn stalked around, reveling in his new body. With his physical and sorcerous capabilities doubled, no man could match him now, not even Jaska.
 

Mardha took his arm. "You're more handsome than before, Father."

"It is the beauty of power that attracts you," he said, smiling. "And as we spread the White Tigress cult through every land we conquer, that power will grow stronger. In a few years, I will be able to bestow immortality upon you as well. And soon, the Gates of the Underworld will open at my command."

He began to tremble, and Mardha grabbed his hand. "You should rest now."

She led him to the throne he had placed in an alcove behind the dais. Adynarh, a tall, dour man who ranked above all palymfar save Jaska, joined them.
 

While Mardha wiped sweat and blood from Salahn's body, he considered the sensations he had experienced as he absorbed the White Tigress, trying to figure out what she had done during her brief freedom.
 

"Jaska was near to the White Tigress when she broke away," Salahn said, "but she has hidden the knowledge of what she did deep within her mind."

"Can you not force her to give up the information?" Mardha asked.

"Yes, but if I fully open myself to her thoughts and experiences, her personality could corrupt me. This may be a trap to that end. For now, let us concentrate on finding out what Jaska knows. Whatever plans the White Tigress initiated must be stopped, and her priestess must be killed, if Jaska has not seen to this already."

"I will signal him to make contact," Mardha said, and she went off to the high tower chamber they used specifically for that purpose, where finely attuned crystals enhanced their sensing capabilities.

Adynarh brought Salahn cold meats, bread, and cheese. By the time he finished them, Mardha returned with vexation on her face and trepidation in her normally precise movements. She said in a distant, stricken whisper, "I couldn't find him, not even a trace."

Adynarh's jaw fell. "Is that possible?"

"Anything is possible," Mardha said. "Even that."

Salahn sat upright. "You made no mistakes?"

"I performed the contact ritual three times with as much power as I could wield but found no signature. Either his qavra is destroyed or Jaska . . . is dead. I couldn't find his students either, but since I don't have a bond with them, the distance is probably too great."
 

"The White Tigress must have killed him," Adynarh said.

Mardha paced. "But what would that gain her?"

"I will search for Jaska myself," Salahn said. Hands arranged into complex mudras, he entered a deep trance. As he strained, the signature of his qavra's sibling came to him faintly. Jaska's spirit did not resonate through it. Salahn broke off his trance. "Just his qavra," he said in disgust. "Nothing else."

"Maybe he took it off," Adynarh said.
 

"Jaska would never remove it." Salahn locked eyes with Mardha and through their qavra sent a message to her mind. "
My sorceries prevent him from removing the qavra and even if he did the magic would call him back. He cannot resist it.
"

"
Perhaps if he were injured
," she thought back. "
A blow to the head or the neck.
"

"
Perhaps, but he would want it back quickly.
" Aloud he said, "I am afraid that they have somehow, as impossible as it seems, defeated Jaska. Adynarh, contact the groups closest to Mount Barqeshal. Send them to find out what happened."

The eastern sky brightened as dawn approached while the west remained dark with retreating storm clouds. Along the riverbank, the swollen waters sloshed as they receded. Wind sighed through brakes of reeds and the leaves of three stunted palms. In a nearby stream, Jaska caught two fish barehanded, despite the pain that tunneled deep within his mind and the limited range of motion in his neck and left arm. His barely sealed wounds burned with punctuating waves of needle-sharp stabs.
 

With cold-numbed fingers, he ripped the flesh from the bones of the fish. He swallowed more than chewed for his jaws would barely open. He was exhausted, but he wouldn't let himself fall asleep again. He couldn't bear to face more nightmares of carnage and torture.
 

He needed to get help. Lying here for days would only expose him to enemies and predators. It might also mean succumbing to his injuries. Jaska splashed his face and drank from the stream. Then he gathered a few half-rotten dates that had fallen to the ground and stuffed them into a pocket.
 

He was ready to move on, but where to? He thought of the White Tigress and his promise to seek the truth. He would go to the legendary Farseer of Vaalshimar. But first, he needed his qavra. Not having it exposed him to danger and hampered his abilities. There was no evil within the stone. It was simply a tool. And with it, perhaps the confusion that fogged his brain would lift.
 

Yes, he would return to the shrine and recover the qavra before speaking with Grandmaster Salahn whom he trusted above all other people. Salahn loved him and deserved a chance to defend himself against the accusations of the White Tigress.

Jaska staggered no more than a hundred paces toward the shrine before he thought of the priestess Zyrella. She would be there still. The qavra would likely be in her hands. Zyrella numbed his logical mind while arousing a part of his instincts he had always kept in control. He couldn't face her again. He couldn't look into her eyes and hear her voice. She affected him like a mind-altering opiate, and he feared that she would prove equally addictive.
 

Jaska would have to go on without the qavra. His need to avoid Zyrella overwhelmed all other needs. He couldn't stand against the templar and the priestess now, and he didn't believe they would spare him as their goddess had.
 

~~~

Two days passed as Jaska stumbled along the road to Kabulsek, toward the base of the foothills where he had left horses and supplies. But he soon forgot about them, just as he forgot about the Farseer and seeking the truth. Led by delusions, his feet carried him back to his master, back to Salahn.
 

The sun burned him, and cold nights left him trembling. Fever overtook him. The pain from his injuries increased. He staggered and swayed, raved and ranted. In confusion, he stumbled off the road and into the wilderness. He ate whatever he came across, drank where he could, often draining the stems of succulents. His condition worsened without supplies and medicine. It was only his years of rigorous training that kept him alive.

~~~

A new day dawned ill on a small family as they traveled the Alkrahar Road, a well-worn caravan route that ran from the northern reaches of the lush nation of Epros through craggy Jabalar Pass in the Wedawed Mountains to Ytas, a small river-port on the Gasrah. Fleeing Grandmaster Salahn's reign of terror and its new religious restrictions, they traveled without choice and without guards.
 

When bandits ambushed them, the aging father and his two teenage daughters stood little chance of surviving.

Since he made his living by preying on refugees, Mad Armas, the bandit leader, loved Grandmaster Salahn. He immediately called dibs on the younger, more voluptuous daughter and promised his three underlings the tall, thin one. The girls would satisfy them until they became a burden. Then their screams would delight Armas for many hours.

Armas shoved the old man to the ground. The older daughter begged Armas to spare him. Armas grinned.
 

"We'll do whatever we want, girl. As you'll soon find out." He turned to his comrades. "I've decided I want some of this one, too."

"Hey, Armas," said Rebys, his most trusted companion. "Reckon we can force 'em to make with each other like we did the last pair?"

"That would be entertaining."

A husky, unexpected voice called out, sending chills up Armas's spine. "What would be entertaining is to see the four of you run from here and never look back."

For a moment, Rebys and the others panicked and nearly fled. Armas put the three refugees between him and the newcomer so he could be sure that they didn't stab him in the back or make a run for it.

A man with a stubble-covered head tramped toward them, dust kicking up around his dragging feet. He wore the uniform of a palymfar but without the qavra choker. An ugly, half-healed gash fell across his cheek and neck and continued down his chest, visible through his torn bodysuit. Though he carried no weapons and looked to be on the verge of death, power oozed through his voice. And his eyes. Something terrible burned within those golden orbs.

"You don't look well, palymfar," Armas said. "If that's what you really are."

"I am a palymfar. Perhaps you've heard of me. My name is Jaska Bavadi."

"The Slayer!" Rebys cursed. "By all the devils, we gotta get out of here, Mad."

Armas' gut wrenched and his throat closed, but he gathered his courage. What would the famed Slayer be doing out here, wounded and alone, without weapons or his magic stone? He glanced over and saw that his two newer underlings had taken a step back. With a flare of anger, Armas noted that the merchant and both daughters feared this newcomer more than him.

The man claiming to be the Slayer kept walking toward them, never stopping, and Armas' men continued to edge away. Armas figured it was a bluff and refused to be cowed. "This man is a fake. And regardless, he's wounded and exhausted. Look at him! What is there to fear about him?"

"Sorcery," Rebys whispered.

"Bah! He doesn't even have a qavra."

"Death is your choice," Jaska said.

Armas stepped past the refugees and said to them, "Move and you'll regret it." Then he shouted, "Kill him!"

Rebys lifted his short sword, yelled, and launched into a wild charge. The other two bandits followed a few steps behind with Armas farther back, moving at a more careful speed. The palymfar leapt forward and grabbed Rebys's sword-wielding hand in mid-swing. Then the palymfar pinned it against his shoulder, rotated the arm forward, and slammed his palm down on the back of the hyper-extended elbow. The joint snapped with a sharp crack.
 

As the short sword fell, the palymfar plucked it from the air and spun away from the lunge of the second bandit. He completed his spin and sliced the third across the stomach, spilling intestines. The palymfar ducked another attack by the second bandit then whipped the sword around and slashed him across the throat. Finally, he stepped to the side and chopped into the back of Rebys's neck as the bandit climbed to his feet.
 

The Slayer twisted his torso to the left and adjusted his grip on the sword. Armas skidded to a stop and backed away. All three of his companions had fallen within seconds, killed with Rebys's own blade. "Look, there's no need--"

The Slayer's torso snapped back to center, adding momentum to the swing of his arm. The released sword sped toward Armas and plunged into his stomach. Mad Armas clutched at the blade, collapsed, and then died.
 

Jaska panted. Fire burned within his wounds. Blood trickled from his chest where he had torn open a section of half-healed flesh. He stumbled toward the merchant and his daughters.

"You are saved."

They bowed before Jaska. "Thank you, my lord," said the father. "All our money and goods are yours. We didn't mean to cause trouble."

Barely able to stand, Jaska sucked wind and with perplexity eyed the man. "That's not what I want. I am palymfar."

Grief marred the bearded face of the aging man, and tears welled in his eyes. "Of-of course, my lord."
 

The younger daughter wailed and took up a knife one of the bandits had dropped. She raised it to her throat. "I'll die before you touch me."

Before Jaska could respond, the elder daughter wrenched the knife from her sister and threw it away. "No. Take me, my lord, and I will give you any pleasure you ask, even if it brings me pain. Just let my father and sister go."

The merchant stepped forward. "Don't do this, Charay."

"What choice do we have? I am brave, father. Do not worry."

The merchant choked back his next words and bowed his head. Jaska stood swaying, trying to figure out why these people were acting as they did and wishing he had his qavra. Charay dropped the kaftan from her shoulders, exposing her sinuous, naked form. She lay back onto the kaftan and spread her legs.