Wrath of the White Tigress

Chapter 4

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.