David Alastair Hayden

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 the 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 golden leaves crack­ling in a bra­zier on the altar. Their aro­matic smoke swirled through the ancient shrine and coiled around Zyrella Anthari, the last true priest­ess of the White Tigress, as she lifted her hands beseech­ingly towards the statue of the god­dess on the dais before her. She had begun her rit­ual upon arriv­ing with her tem­plars but still had no answer to the dream that had led her here. Her knees ached from hours spent on the flagstones.

As she called on the god­dess again, des­per­ately now, faint sparks danced in the amethyst chan­nel­ing stone that hung around her neck. Instinc­tively, she now knew 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 witch-sight spell that allowed her to see into the Shad­ow­land. Her azure eyes turned milky white and she gazed intently into the smoke, her mind focused on the Tigress and the future. 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. Zyrella had never seen him before, but his amber eyes were lit by zeal­ous fire, and by those eyes she instinc­tively knew who he was. 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.

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A sin­gle tear of blood streaked down her face like a drop of burn­ing oil as a dull pain grew in the front of her brain, a swelling tumor of agony that she thought would make her head burst. Her limbs trem­bled and ached as with a flu. Chills ran beneath a sheen of sweat. And yet with her voice still strong and clear, Zyrella held her­self together as the pow­ers she sum­moned rav­aged her body and soul.

Because she was winning.

For the first time in all these years, she held the advan­tage. She could feel Salahn’s pres­ence, vague and yet almost over­whelm­ing, bat­tling back against her, but he was con­fused by her counter-spell. There was no way he could have antic­i­pated the trick the White Tigress had con­cocted, using the newly awak­ened link between her­self and Zyrella to chan­nel the counter-spell over a dis­tance of three hun­dred leagues. And Salahn’s bind­ing spell was com­plex. He would have to be fatigued after months of sor­cer­ous prepa­ra­tions, which Zyrella sus­pected was why, from time to time, the strength of his spell would lag.

Sud­denly Zyrella con­vulsed. Her heart raced. A scream threat­ened to break her chants, but she held it in check, lock­ing down her pri­mal fear with all the willpower she could muster.

For the Slayer entered the shrine.

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Jaska tum­bled through rag­ing waters, scrap­ing the canyon walls. Though wide hori­zon and starry sky appeared at the canyon’s end, he gave up. Much of his blood now flowed within the Gas­rah and willpower could carry him no further.

But as he sank, the White Tigress shot from the muddy north bank. Water surged around her as she nav­i­gated the cur­rents. She reached Jaska, grabbed his arm gen­tly, despite her mas­sive jaws, and pulled him ashore.

The White Tigress licked his face and pawed at his chest but to no avail. So she chan­neled some of her spirit into him until he breathed again, hop­ing her gam­ble would pay off.

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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? » Read the rest of this entry «

A warm glow emanated halfway up a rock wall on the north end of a dry canyon. Along a nar­row ledge was a cave not vis­i­ble from the canyon floor. Fire­light flick­ered on the walls inside and illu­mi­nated hunt­ing scenes and ani­mal lords painted by tribes­men cen­turies ago. Many of the scenes depicted species long extinct from the region, their pop­u­la­tions dec­i­mated by the inex­orable approach of the north­ern desert.

Zyrella chalked her own sym­bols onto the walls: twist­ing runes that chan­neled the geo­man­tic forces in her sur­round­ings and called upon the divine pow­ers of the great deity Kashomae, the Gen­tle Sav­ior. After Zyrella fin­ished, Ohzikar fas­tened a sheet of can­vas over the cave entrance. Then he joined her at the back of the cave where water, shim­mer­ing like liq­uid fire, trick­led into a small pool.

“That should mask our fire­light.” He frowned at the small pile of brush, dung, and coal. “Not that we’ll be burn­ing much.”

“I’ll con­jure sun­light into a stone tomor­row.” Zyrella didn’t let on to Ohzikar that she was utterly spent. Mak­ing a sun­stone would tax her, and an appren­tice sor­cerer could han­dle such a task with ease.

Ohzikar turned his gaze to a pal­let set into a nook two-thirds of the way back into the cave. » Read the rest of this entry «

When Jaska next awoke, the dim sun­stone barely illu­mi­nated the cave. Zyrella slept on a pal­let along the oppo­site wall; Ohzikar was absent. Jaska’s stom­ach churned, demand­ing food. So with creak­ing joints and trem­bling mus­cles, he retrieved dried meat and dates from the sup­ply packs. He sat by the pool and ate.

Jaska was dressed in a grey shirt and pants that cinched at the ankles and knees. His pack, weapons, and uni­form lay stacked nearby. No, he thought, those weapons can’t belong to me. Mine fell into the river. These … must have belonged to my students.

He nearly wept as he thought of the young men he had trained for the last few years. But then what sort of men had they truly been? » Read the rest of this entry «

A horde of face­less chil­dren shuf­fled toward Jaska. He tried to back away, but Grand­mas­ter Salahn loomed behind him and whis­pered into his ear: “Kill many, Jaska, so that we may bathe in style tonight.” Jaska tried to resist, but his arms moved of their own accord and drew his weapons. Then, even with his eyes closed, he con­ducted his grisly task.

Hours later, he was in a shal­low, marble-tiled pool filled with blood. As he slid between Mardha and Salahn, gasp­ing in orgasm, Zyrella sud­denly appeared, chained to a col­umn ris­ing from the mid­dle of the pool.

Mardha left Jaska’s embrace and took a scourge from the pool­side. » Read the rest of this entry «