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 mind-altering lanthyzar, 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.”
Rebys and the others nearly jumped off their bones. 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, grabbed Rebys’s sword-wielding hand in mid-swing, and pinned it against his shoulder. Then he 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 shorts word 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.
Despite his depleted body, arousal flared through Jaska, followed by twisted urges to cause her pain. He stumbled and shook his head. When nothing improved, he summoned his willpower and mastered these strange, wicked impulses that felt disturbingly familiar.
“I am Jaska Bavadi … a palymfar. Do you know what that means?”
“Yes, my lord, I have heard of your ways and your appetite. Now come and take what is yours in exchange for the lives of my father and sister. At the least, be merciful with them.”
Realizations struck Jaska in rapid succession, followed by recollections of the nightmares he had suffered when sleeping the last several days.
The White Tigress had spoken true.
“Get up … put your clothes back on. I only want food and drink. I’m not sure what you think I am … or what you expect me to be. In fact, I’m not sure what I have been, but today I am a true palymfar and no harm shall come to you.”
All three stared incredulously, until he said, “Please, I am weak … I need help.”
As if waking from a dream themselves, the merchant Elanzar and his two daughters Ysemi and Charay shook their heads. Then they rushed about, retrieving hard tack and dried meat strips from their packs. Devoted worshipers of Selial Earth Mother, they didn’t think of refusing help, even to one such as Jaska Bavadi.
Charay started a dung fire and prepared herbs in a bowl for a healing tisane. Ysemi arranged the food for him and poured fresh water and wine into a wooden bowl while her father set blankets on the ground and made a pallet. They helped Jaska eat, for his hands trembled and his condition was worsening. He could hardly chew, so they softened his food in water. Then he allowed Charay to remove his burnoose and torso armor.
“She knows the healing arts,” Elanzar explained.
“What healed this wound?” she asked. “The scabs are strange.”
“Divine magic … but the goddess didn’t have the strength … to fully repair the tissues.”
Charay accepted his strange answer. After all, it was no more bizarre than anything else that was happening. “How long ago was this miracle performed?”
“Perhaps five days. I’ve walked with little food or water since, little sleep.”
“How are you still alive?”
“Willpower. I must survive. And now I must learn the truth.”
“What truth?” Ysemi blurted out. Her father scowled but said nothing for he was also curious.
“I must learn about … about the palymfar, about what they’ve done. What I’ve done.”
The three glanced at one another in astonishment, then the old man began. “The palymfar have brought a wondrous age of prosperity to Ha-”
“No,” Jaska snapped. “I must know how it really is. Don’t tell me Salahn’s lies. He has deceived me for too long.”
Wide-eyed, Ysemi said, “You are infamous for the torment you visit upon your enemies. You are the Slayer, and there are so many stories that I don’t know which ones are true. They are all terrible though.”
Elanzar interrupted his daughter, and as tears fell from Jaska’s eyes, he described the palymfar’s reign. Before Elanzar could finish, Jaska fell into a raving stupor. Charay calmed him by stroking his brow while Elanzar and Ysemi held him down. Eventually, he fell unconscious.
“What’s happening here, father?” Charay asked.
“I don’t know, but it’s as if the man has woken up and all his life before belonged to someone else or was all but a dream.”
“Is that possible?” Ysemi asked.
“I don’t know, child.”
Charay frowned. “We may never know. His wounds are taking him. The strain he placed on his body was too much. I can do no more.”
“I can help him, though,” said a woman walking down the road toward them.
The three turned to see a white-robed priestess escorted by a fully armed templar. Judging by her attire and the templar’s insignia, they were adherents of the White Tigress.
“I am Zyrella,” the woman said. “The last true priestess of the White Tigress. With your help, child, I can heal him.”
“But are you sure we should?” the templar said.
She turned to her companion. “Ohzi, we must learn what the White Tigress wanted from him.”
