Wrath of the White Tigress

Chapter 9

Salima's Pass meandered for sixty miles through the jagged Wedawed Mountains. At the widest point, the pass measured a hundred feet across. At the narrowest, a small cart could barely squeeze through. Along the sides of the pass, rust-colored rock cascaded downward like melted candle wax. According to legend, when Taal Eos the Sun King set the giant Epros Bull on fire for trampling his grandson, the maddened beast had plunged through the mountain to scorch the land of Hareez before expiring.

Later, the people of Hareez had named the pass after Salima, a Prophet of the Pale Lords, who had fled religious persecution in Epros only to attain martyrdom at the hands of savage nomads on the opposite side.

Jaska led them into the pass, keeping to himself and saying nothing more than he must. When he wasn't brooding about the past robbed from him or the evils he had done, he thought about Salima's sigils. At regular intervals, the prophet had carved intricate symbols whose meaning had been forgotten after two centuries.

When they stopped at one of the many springs that ran along the wall, springs Salima was said to have created with her tears, Jaska examined one of the sigils up close. The circular pattern seemed haphazardly carved but was strangely familiar to him.

Zyrella approached. "Can you read them?"

"No, but somehow they speak to me. The Pale Lords that Salima worshiped, do you know what they're supposed to look like?"

"According to the stories I've heard, the Lords of Retribution wear silver armor, ride horses of fire, and wield swords of silver flame which seems right since most believe them to have been Avida-djinn, children of the Bright Moon, hunters of shadows."

"I have felt powerful beings riding on the winds above us, and sometimes out of the corners of my eyes I will catch a glimpse of beings like you describe. But when I look, they're gone."

Zyrella furrowed her brow. "I haven't experienced anything like that or sensed any presences."

Jaska shrugged. "Perhaps I've lost my sanity."

"Maybe it's the mark of the Tigress. Some of her essence flows through you, transferred there when she revived you. I can see it when I open my witch-sight, and when I peer into the Shadowland, you glow with a brilliance twice my own."

Jaska traced the symbol with his index finger. A trickle of power flowed into him. He could feel the presence of the Pale Lords, like whispered secrets he felt he should know. And they sparked his desire for defeating Salahn, for destroying the tyrannical order he had helped to create.

"The symbols seem so familiar to me."

"You have been through here before many times," Ohzikar replied. "You said so yourself."

"But I never really paid any attention to the drawings. To me, these were the marks of demons. I'm surprised I didn't try to destroy them."

"They can't be harmed," Zyrella said. "Many zealots have tried over the years."

Jaska traced the sigil one last time. "The depth of the carving varies, seemingly with purpose. I know I have seen them somewhere else." Jaska stared at the mark for a while longer then shook his head. "We should keep moving."

~~~

Their wan firelight flickered within the traveler's niche, one of three natural, bow-shaped hollows cut into the walls. Cold winds howled through the narrow pass as always, but the niche provided some shelter. Ohzikar and Zyrella huddled upwind from the fire. Jaska sat downwind near the horses, oblivious to the smell of burning dung. With his arms around his knees, Jaska stared through firelight and darkness, eyes focused on one of Salima's spiraling signs. Faint sparks meandered through his qavra.