Chains of a Dark Goddess, page 1
part #2 of Pawan Kor Series
Contents
Blurb
Title Page
Preface
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Epilogue
Please Review
Other Books by David Alastair Hayden
Wrath of the White Tigress
Who Walks in Flame
Storm Phase
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Tales of Pawan Kor
Chains of a Dark Goddess
Betrayed by friends and abandoned by his goddess …
Back from the dead and hellbent on saving his beloved.
In life, Knight Champion Breskaro Varenni zealously served the bright goddess Seshalla. He was a hero and a legend, the greatest knight of the age. But his most trusted friends betrayed him to the swords of infidels, and his goddess abandoned him, denying him Paradise.
In death Breskaro refused to fade into Oblivion, like lesser lost souls.
Instead he wandered the Shadowland for seven years until the dark goddess Harmulkot offered him the one thing only she could give, the one thing that still mattered to him...
A chance to save his precious Orisala from a fate worse than his own.
Returned as a wreck of embalmed flesh animated by sorcery, with a host of the desperate and the undead under his command, Breskaro will do whatever it takes to save Orisala, no matter the odds and no matter the consequences.
David Alastair Hayden returns to the exotic land of Pawan Kor, first seen in Wrath of the White Tigress, with this seductive epic of swords and sorcery in the tradition of Brent Weeks, Robin Hobb, Michael Moorcock, and David Gemmell.
Reader Advisory: This book may not suitable for readers of young adult fiction.
Tales of Pawan Kor
The Tales of Pawan Kor series can be read in any order.
Chains of a Dark Goddess
Wrath of the White Tigress
Who Walks in Flame
Storm Phase
This enchanting Asian-inspired fantasy series delivers fast-paced adventure for readers young and old.
The Storm Dragon’s Heart
Lair of the Deadly Twelve
Tales of Pawan Kor
Chains of a Dark Goddess
David Alastair Hayden
Published by Typing Cat Press
at Smashwords
Copyright © 2013 by David Alastair Hayden
All Rights Reserved
Version 1.0 | January 2013
Cover illustration by Leos Ng "Okita"
Graphic Design by Pepper Thorn
WRATH OF THE WHITE TIGRESS Excerpt
Copyright © 2011 by David Alastair Hayden
All Rights Reserved.
Cover illustration by Sandara
WHO WALKS IN FLAME Excerpt
Copyright © 2012 by David Alastair Hayden
All Rights Reserved.
Cover illustration by Pepper Thorn
THE STORM DRAGON’S HEART Excerpt
Copyright © 2012 by David Alastair Hayden
All Rights Reserved.
Cover illustration by Leos Ng “Okita”
“The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones.”
— William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar
Chapter 1
The desolate ravine lay deathly quiet in the perpetual twilight of the mist-draped Shadowland, seemingly empty of the demons that preyed on the lost souls trapped there. A man shambled into the gorge. Listless eddies of dust trailed his feet. Head drooping and shoulders hunched, he moved like a sleepwalker, unaware of his surroundings. Once-fine armor hung on his tall frame limply — its bright shine lost to the teeth and claws of countless demons. The sword he drug carelessly behind him bore the nicks and scars of many pointless battles.
A scaly shadow slithered into place behind a basalt outcrop. It flexed razor talons and flicked a ropy tongue over its rows of jagged teeth. With a hopeful spark dancing in its giant black eyes, it pounced — swift, silent, unseen...
Expected.
The man raised his battered shield a heartbeat before the demon landed on top of him. He twisted and deflected the blow, tossing the startled fiend onto the rocks. It scrambled to get back up. It was too slow. With a swift lunge and one smooth motion, the man sliced his blade through the creature’s corded neck.
The demon faded into Oblivion.
The man’s clouded eyes cleared as they stared at the spot where the demon had been. He could do that ... let go ... fade into Oblivion.
No. He shook his head, trying to remember. He was waiting. He had been promised something. He had been promised ... Paradise.
Sighing, he scanned the charred, mist-draped landscape. His eyes turned ashen and cold again like the dead sky above. His body lost its fighting stance and he wandered deeper into the ravine.
Hours, maybe days, passed. Time had no meaning in the Shadowland, not to him, not to anyone trapped there. A terrified scream shattered the silence. The man ambled forward without urgency. He rounded a bend and spotted the attack.
A young woman cowered at the back of a shallow crevice. She would have been beautiful in life. Now she was as washed out and grey as everything else here. Only her fear tied her to what she had once been.
A demon with the body of a huge, decaying leper and the head of a wasp loomed over her. By the patterns left in the settling dust he could tell it had herded her there, playing with its prey.
He charged. The monster was so intent on its victim that it didn’t even notice him coming. But she did, and her eyes filled with hope. That the fiend did notice. It turned to face the man just in time for him to sink his blade deep into its chest. The demon pawed uselessly at the hilt as it faded.
The woman scrambled to her feet and threw herself into his arms with a sob. “Oh, thank you. Thank you. It was so awful. You saved me. Thank you, thank—”
Her hysterical muttering ended with a surprised gasp as his sword slid into her side.
“This is better,” he said in a distant, monotone voice. “You don’t belong here.”
She jerked free and staggered back a step before slumping to the ground and fading away.
He rubbed at the dull ache in his chest and sat on a nearby boulder. The young woman reminded him of something ... someone. A terrible, nightmarish reminder. His eyes glazed back over, and the pain faded. He stood and started down the ravine.
“Breskaro Varenni!”
He spun, his sword already poised to strike. A woman unlike any other stood several paces away. She smiled at his slow-witted surprise. Even here, in this impossible place beyond death, he had never seen anything like her. She reached one hand towards him and took a swaggering step closer, her anklets of bone clicking. Silver winged-snake tattoos slithered against the unnatural jet-black of her skin, seeming to dance up her arms in a starless night. Her amber eyes trapped his and looked through them into all he had ever been. The alizarin-orange gem embedded in her forehead, her qavra stone, flickered as if filled with torchlight.
Mesmerized by her, he didn’t even react as she walked right up to him and touched him between the eyes.
“Awake, champion, your services are needed.”
He stumbled back and shook his head. All the gray numbness and mental exhaustion slipped off him. His eyes cleared. He sheathed his blade and ran his hands over his battered breastplate, until he reached the deep hole over his heart. Not all these scars and punctures were the work of demons.
His jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed as he remembered — infidels looming over his broken body, their bloody swords flashing in the sun ... pain ... death ... then this.
“I remember. How — how long have I...” He gestured weakly at the dead land around him.
“Seven years.”
“I have wandered this — this hell for seven years? Why?!”
Her voice was sibilant, seductive. “Those who do not pass into either Paradise or Torment roam the Shadowland until they fa
He fingered the rose-stamped Eternal Sun medallion still attached to his remaining shoulder guard. A symbol of Seshalla, goddess of love and wisdom. His Goddess. He had been her Knight Champion. He had died crusading for her. But she had refused him Paradise. Even the lowliest recruit steeped in a lifetime of sin earned Paradise if they perished fighting for her. She should have given him a drink from the Cup of Eternity with her own hand as the Matriarch had promised.
“I dedicated my whole life to Seshalla. I died in her name and this — this is how she honors me?” Throwing back his head, he clenched his hands into fists and roared. “Seshalla!”
He crumpled to the ground. “Why?” The plea was soft but his voice quickly hardened with slow, cold hatred. “How could you abandon me?”
“She cannot hear you.” The exotic woman gave another secretive smile when he glared up at her. “Perhaps Seshalla abandoned you, and perhaps she did not. Wiser men than you have placed their faith in lies.”
“Who are you, witch, and what do you want with me?”
Her smile only deepened as she touched the telltale qavra. “I am Nalsyrra, of the Ojaka’ari. I have come to take you back.”
“Back? Back to the land of the living? Why? How?”
“I represent a goddess, one who still has power. Though not enough to save her people. For that she needs you. As to how, I can lead you to the Keeper of Death who guards the Way of Return. But you must face him and defeat him alone.”
Breskaro laughed bitterly and climbed to his feet. “I am done serving fickle goddesses, Nalsyrra of the Ojaka’ari. I have learned my lesson through pain. Tell her to choose another warrior to fight her battles.”
“If all she needed were a warrior, do you think we would have gone to the trouble to raise you from the dead? You were the Knight Champion of Seshalla and the commander of the legendary Valiants. You were a mighty warrior, a brilliant tactician, and an inspiration to every man in Issalia’s army. You struck fear into the hearts of your enemies. You survived impossible quests. You are the one we need.”
“I am no hero, not anymore. That man died seven years ago. I am nothing but a shadow now.”
He turned his back on her.
“Reborn you would have the strength and vitality of several men. A shadow? Perhaps. But one with powers you have never even imagined.”
He shook his head and started to walk away.
“You could see Orisala again.”
Breskaro stopped.
“Orisala.” The name rolled off his tongue like a caress. He said it again, with more strength, as if simply hearing it brought him closer to life. “Could I hold her?”
“You could.”
His hand strayed to his war-ravaged face. “And would I be whole again? Would I look like myself?”
“Your body was well preserved and most of your wounds mended, but it has been dead seven years. I cannot undo that damage.”
“Orisala.” He whispered her name to himself as his brow furrowed in thought. “No. A walking corpse can bring no comfort to the living.”
“Comfort? Perhaps not. But what about salvation? Orisala needs you, Breskaro.”
“What do you mean?” He spun around to face her. “I made certain she would be taken care of, surrounded by loved ones. My squire, Kedimius, pledged his life to protect her. What has happened?”
“She is alive, but barely. The priests who pulled her from the River Ayre saved her life. She cannot move or speak, though her mind is intact and alert. They have no idea who she is. They care for her out of religious duty but can do no more to heal her. She is all alone and trapped inside a broken body.”
“How could this happen?!”
“That is a tale only she can tell. But if you come back and serve her, Harmulkot can heal her.”
“Harmulkot? You expect me to trust Harmulkot? You expect me to serve that wicked old goddess?”
“You have no choice. And neither does she. You are her only hope, Breskaro Varenni. Just as she is your only hope of saving Orisala.”
Breskaro straightened his back. “No deceptions. If I return, I will see Orisala healed, and if Harmulkot betrays me, she will regret it.” He ripped the Eternal Sun medallion from his breastplate and tossed it away. “I will serve Harmulkot, for Orisala’s sake. Now take me back.”
“It is not so simple a task.” Nalsyrra drew her sword and handed it to Breskaro. The hilt was onyx, the blade long and thin. “The Sword of Shadowed Light. It is the only other help we can give you.”
“We? Is anyone else involved besides you and Harmulkot?”
“There is one other. A benefactor who wishes to remain anonymous is performing the spell to prepare your body for your spirit’s return. It is a demanding ritual and she has made a tremendous sacrifice to get you back.”
“Even though I could have said no?” Breskaro asked. “There was no guarantee that I would return with you.”
“Your benefactor never doubted that you would return to save Orisala. See that her faith is not in vain. Everything depends on you. Come. Follow me.”
Chapter 2
Nalsyrra crooned an archaic song. The mists parted, revealing a circle of tall, adjoining standing stones. A single archway led inside.
“The Way of Return,” Nalsyrra announced.
Breskaro nodded and readied the sword Nalsyrra had given him.
“You will meet the Keeper of Death within,” she told him. “Defeating him is said to be nearly impossible.”
“I’ll find a way.”
“I will see you on the other side then.”
Breskaro walked inside the circle of standing stones. In their midst, a column of black smoke shot up from the ground. The smoke dissipated, revealing a seven-foot tall being with lean muscles, expansive multicolored wings, and the head of a falcon. He wore only a loincloth and a choker of gold. In one hand he held a book, in the other a curved dagger.
The being said, in a hollow, stilted voice, “I am the Keeper of Death. You are not welcome here.”
Breskaro’s face was a blank mask. “I am Breskaro Varenni. I would return to the world of the living. Let me pass.”
“It is not good for the dead to return to life, friend Breskaro Varenni. I urge you to turn back. Embrace Oblivion and pass on from this bleak place.”
“I must return.”
“You would be a wraith with no a physical form.”
“A friend has repaired my body through sorcery and can return me to it. I’m not concerned.”
“You died seven years ago, my friend. Much has changed in the world. It is not the place you left behind. You may not like what you find there.”
Breskaro grew irritated. “Let me pass, demon! I go there to save one I love.”
Birdlike, the Keeper cocked his head to the side. His piercing eyes locked onto Breskaro, who met his gaze with a fiery intensity.
“Returning to life cannot bring you happiness. The part of you that enjoyed the pattering of a spring rain, the scent of rich, fertile earth, or a lover’s kiss is gone. Your humanity has withered. Your virility shall never return. Are you certain you wish to go?”
Breskaro tried to remember breathing, laughter, blue skies, warm sunlight on his skin, his body dripping with sweat after a forced march. But those things were lost to him.
And they didn’t matter.
“I’m certain.”
“If you perish again in life, your soul will assuredly fall into Torment. There you would long for your years here in the Shadowland. Is this love you profess worth eternal damnation?”
“I don’t care what happens to me. I must return for Orisala. She’s all that matters.”
“I think you will find, even if you do succeed and return, that the price you must pay is higher than you bargained for. What can I say to change your mind, friend Breskaro Varenni?”
