Temple of Cocidius

by Maxx Whittaker

  She folds her hands. “You both amaze and confuse us.”

  “I have that effect on everyone.” I throw her a sly look. “Do I get a boon for it?”

  More humming. “This time, your boon is wisdom. The next four chambers will be unlike the first. Now, your true challenge begins.”

  Images of dying over and over in Freya’s realm, of Fenrir’s teeth, of a swamp that stole my mind come unbidden. Those weren’t the true challenges?

  Wonderful.

  “For each upcoming trial, you are allowed a partner from among the artifacts you have collected, but the realms will be a struggle. Little is what it seems, and forces will work against you; forces from which you’ve been shielded until now.”

  That sounds ominous. “Like Helreginn?”

  “The temples were created to test, to exist outside of the influence of the mortal realms they inhabit, and the powers that oversee them.” She turns, movements slow, deliberate, looking away. “But Gods are fickle, and rules are changeable when you have the power to change them.”

  I appreciate the secrets she’s sharing, even if they bode ill for my chances. But something is odd, wrong, after how buttoned up she was when I arrived. Now, she’s positively chatty. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “However conflicted or confused you become, your companions are bonded to you, and trustworthy. Rely on their skills and opinions, when in doubt.”

  This sounds obvious, almost simplistic, but thanks to the temple’s lessons, I know better. “How did the Mad God come into these artifacts?”

  Humming. Long humming. I don’t think she’s going to answer. Then: “Cursed beings congregate together, in hopes of freeing each other as much as themselves.”

  Cocidius; the Gardener. The women. For all the threads I can see, so many are hidden.

  “Come to the terrace when you are ready to set out.”

  And she leaves, not exactly floating over the garden anymore. She has a gait now similar to a walk. The temple doles out questions by the heap and so few answers. But I’ve made peace with that. So long as I defeat the next four realms, I’m okay with some ignorance.

  I stand, and I’m naked, and I know I was not when I fell into bed. Whoever did it, it didn’t wake me, though I’m not surprised. Both days of trials thus far have left me exhausted beyond anything I’ve ever known. How else can I explain sharing a bed with the four most exquisite creatures I’ve ever known and falling asleep instead of exploring the options.

  I even told them to behave.

  I shake my head, put on leathers that I don’t remember being removed. I’m not sure how they did it, but I suspect a certain slime girl was involved.

  I strap on my blades, grab the bottomless bag, and step into the sunlight, admiring my companions.

  The Gardener hovers near the women, waiting to attend. Freya sits in the center, reading, half-smiling at Meridiana, whose leaned around Finna to say something to Kumiko. Whatever it is, Kumiko’s head is turned the complete opposite direction. It doesn’t surprise me that, as to-the-point as she is, Kumiko has no patience for succubus’s antics.

  I stand a moment, just observing. The astratempus is heavy in my pocket, but I can spare a few moments. The last few days have been a whirlwind, an unstoppable avalanche of violence, and sex, fear, exhilaration; watching them giggle and flirt and relax is deeply satisfying.

  And gods, they’re beautiful. Images of bouncing tits, my cock buried in slime, a tail flicking my balls, angelic wings; it’s impossible not to remember as they sit at ease. They’re a mosaic of teeth and tails and flesh and grins that heat my blood. I want them, each of them.

  But it’s more than that. I trust them, care for them in a way I don’t quite understand, yet. When I came to the temple, I thought I’d find magic swords, or gems that granted impossible powers. I’d imagined many advantages the temple could grant me that would give me an edge in my vengeance. What I’ve found instead are companions, lovers, sisters in arms. They want to escape this place as much as I want to get them out, and again I realize this is no longer entirely about revenge.

  I’m not sure when that changed.

  “Don’t you four get tired of sitting around here?”

  Freya raises her book, eyes raising to rake me. “Nothing to read while I was bound in Niflheim.”

  “No more aspirants,” exhales Meridiana, falling back onto her couch as I descend to join them. “For now.”

  “Hey, thanks! Your confidence is bracing.”

  “I suppose I miss my lake, but the pond here is lovely. And I’m not alone.” Finna leans forward to make eyes at Meridiana, who licks her lips. A tail twitches up, pushes against Finna’s tensile skin.

  Which parts, allowing Meridiana in.

  My breath comes faster, and I turn, desperate for a distraction. “Kumiko?” She’s been silent so far.

  She takes in the garden a moment. “I like the quiet. I used to run through the forest, and only the wind was my equal. It was beyond exhilarating. And then, I ran because I had no choice.” Her ears droop. “I’ll run again. Not for a long time, though. For now, I want to sit and get used to the feeling of safety.”

  This makes up my mind in a second. If I can avoid taking her on the next trial, I will.

  The Gardener gestures beyond the copse. “There is little I can tell you about each realm. You must choose the best partner based on your instincts.”

  A sideboard is laid, and everything on it is fit for a king’s table, but I’m more interested in the next trial. “What can you tell me?” I stuff my mouth with everything I can get my hands on, barely tasting it, while the Gardener answers.

  “Environment. Weather. Nature of the trial. Little else,” she emphasizes.

  “I’ll take it.”

  “Water and ice. Damp and wind. Fiercely martial...mostly.”

  I stop chewing. “Mostly?”

  “Who will you choose as a companion?” she asks.

  “Mostly?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  Finna looks at the others. “I could help with water, even cold. But combat?” She shakes her head.

  “I’m fast, but not strong,” says Kumiko, sounding relieved.

  Meridiana sighs and sinks deeper into her cushions. “Intensely boring.”

  Freya gives her a look, gives me a look, and arches a brow. “Healer it is, then?”

  I’m almost inclined to bring Meridiana, because her empathic abilities are worth gold, and because she’s so stubborn about going. But Freya is right. If this is pure, brutal combat, healing may be the way to go.

  “Freya,” I tell the Gardener.

  “You cannot take her on another trial,” she warns.

  Freya nods, reassuring me. I remember what the Gardener said about trusting my companion. “I’m taking Freya.”

  Light flashes above the copse, from the south wall. “You may enter.”

  “I’ll get my things,” says Freya, whacking Meridiana with her book before handing it to Kumiko.

  The others shower me with a volley of goodbyes as I walk between them, their hands squeezing mine, giving me strength, reassurance. Until a tail whips me in the ass, scooting me along.

  I laugh, shake my head, but don’t give Meridiana the satisfaction of looking back as I make my way towards the entrance.

  I’ve never been through this part of the garden, except during the sacrifice trial. The next four portal entrances are already in place, iron-banded plank doors. The first one glows white, while the others look like ordinary fortified archways.

  Between them sits an alcove. On the pedestal inside is a man’s bust.

  Cocidius Vernostonus Tribunus

  The alcove’s inscription is worn, but the bust looks well-preserved. This is the face of a god? I don’t know what I expected. Maybe a face of the ancients, with wild hydra curls and a severe bearded face. Instead, this looks more like my father, but a little younger. Close cropped hair and a clean face lined by a bold nose. His expressi
on is resolved, but something in the shape of blank stone eyes and a set mouth speak of fierceness. His carved mantle is fixed at one shoulder with the insignia clasp of the old Legions. Faint gold gilding shows in its intricate knotwork carving. The bust reminds me of the Gardener, with a thin hint of color giving it some life.

  She appears behind me, conjured by my thoughts.

  “Is this really him?” I can’t quite believe it. I’ve seen a bust of my grandfather, and I’ve met my actual grandfather. The sculptors were kind to both his weight and age.

  “In his mortal form. His ethereal form is similar, though no sculptor could properly craft it.”

  Something about the clasp mesmerizes me. “He was a soldier, once?”

  “A warrior. The Legions knew him as Tribunus, but he carried the war god’s flame in his heart. He could spare or destroy. Benevolent but ruthless. A hero of the old Epics.”

  I swear her voice softens when she says ‘hero’. “Have you ever met him?”

  “I’m ready!” Freya comes out of the copse, staff in hand, and the Gardener backs away. She’s not going to answer.

  “I bid you a successful trial, Tamlir Kynthelig. If you do not–”

  “I’ll return. I promise you that.” What I said about being okay with a little ignorance? That was a heap of shite. I rest my hand on the bust one last time.

  I have to know.

  -The Coast of Vallespir-

  Callista

  My eyes adjust to a night that’s both dark and bright, moonlight blinding on snow. Slipping on smooth blue ice, I have a flashback to Freya’s realm. But the land ahead is completely different. Night sky is painted with the diamonds of a million stars and swathed with bands of pink, blue, and green. As I watch, the aurora moves, undulates, as long as the sky, each ribbon a highway of light. I’ve never seen anything like this, magic and energy rippling across the sky’s dome. Its color and movements reflect in fragments along open patches of dark water between an ice floe.

  Freya gasps. The lights dance in her eyes. Her face is raised, expression serene. “Beautiful.”

  “Yes,” I agree, no longer looking at the sky.

  She quirks a grin, swats me. “Onward, hero.”

  Just ahead of us is wall of ice, deeply pitted. Falling from the top would be a quick death, but there are enough handholds and cracks that I’m not worried. I nod toward it, and Freya’s eyebrow peaks. “Cold.”

  “Not a problem.” I reach into the bottomless bag. Gloves. They appear in my hand, wool with leather grips for purchase, or grip, if I need my blades.

  I hand them to Freya. “Very gallant. But what about–”

  I hold up a finger, smirking. Reach into the bag. Gloves. A second pair springs to my hand, and she laughs. “Really?”

  “Hey, I had no idea what I’d find here. Have to be prepared.”

  She shakes her head, giving me a small grin, and starts to climb, leaving me a view of her swaying backside – a view I’m good with appreciating for a long moment.

  Freya glances down, rolls her eyes. “Coming?”

  I let her see me looking; we’re long past being coy. “When I can climb again.”

  Her laugh drifts down from above as she leaps upward, her entire body airborne a moment before latching onto an entirely new set of handholds.

  I clap in appreciation, of her athleticism and the view.

  “Stop!” She laughs again, and I follow.

  Kumiko’s gift gets me to the top with ease. We crest and pause to survey the land ahead.

  Between the glacier cliffs and a near endless stretch of calm sea disappearing along the dark horizon sits a cluster of lights. They set tideline ripples on fire and give shadow-puppet shapes to roof peaks, overturned longboats, and crates.

  “A village,” says Freya, sounding just as surprised. There are maybe thirty or forty small buildings; it’s hard to tell beyond the shadows. In the lights I can just see colors as diverse as those in the sky; dark red, forest green, and an occasional yellow clapboard house, high and sharp-topped like spear heads. People move between the buildings. At least, I think they’re people. Their gestures are human-like, but their bodies are bulky, and fur covered from head to foot.

  Coats and leggings; I can see more clearly as we come down the mountain face. Everyone is bundled up thick – against damp more than cold. Wet sea air works beneath my mantle and armor like smoke.

  The houses are wood and so is a thick timber fence surrounding the village, a barricade that looks new, unweathered by storms that must at least occasionally hit a place like this. Or maybe not. I guess I should know better than to apply any rules of the mortal world to these trials.

  That thought doubles up as we approach the village gate. “There isn’t a single tree anywhere in sight,” I say to Freya, who’s already surveying the land around us.

  “Maybe they bring the wood from up the fjord? There’s a battlement and a gate…”

  Or, what had been a gate. Despite thickness to its planks and heavy iron hardware that also defies the obvious geology of this place, the top three boards are splintered; shattered wood well above my eyeline. A battering ram? A projectile? It brings back memories of a siege in Eddja, how the fortifications looked after two nights of our pounding. But the housetops are whole, and the perimeter in general.

  Who, or what, did this? There isn’t a soul I can see out here, beyond the wall. Nothing for miles into the blue-black landscape.

  Freya’s fingers tighten around the length of her staff. She turns a slow circle, searching the darkness, maybe feeling more than seeing. Her breath fogs out around us onto air that feels taut. Hair on my neck pricks up. I draw my cold steel.

  “Anything?” I whisper.

  “There’s an energy…” She frowns, looking out along the shore. “That’s not quite right. But something; a dark current. Old magic; evil, maybe.”

  “It’s a place to start.”

  It’s not until we’re a few yards away that more clues reveal themselves. The gate’s halves stand ajar, wood peeled like potato shavings from the shattered planks almost down to the packed snow path. And it’s not shadows that shape ice beyond the posts, it’s blood. Swaths of crimson in short strokes, smears, and one long trail that leads around the wall and into the night.

  I draw my other blade.

  Freya crouches and takes a scoop of blood tinged snow on her finger. “There’s no essence left. Mortal wounds, all.”

  “How many? Any guess?”

  “No. After death there isn’t much unique left to intuit.”

  I never measured blood on the battlefield. None, some, a lot, and my own; I had only a few metrics I used on the severity scale. That’s about as scientific as it ever reached. This...this definitely qualifies as a lot.

  A discarded hook-spear lays among the wood shards, handle broken and nested in torn hunks of fur; boots or coats. Someone guarded the gate, but no one comes to stop me when I slip ahead of Freya between the broken doors.

  Not all the illumination we saw from the ridge was lamplight. There’s plenty of that sort, oil burners hung from iron stakes in the ice, set neatly between the houses like any city of the west. But some of the blaze, and the black smoke and sweet-savory stench, comes from a bonfire in a wide clearing beyond the gate. Men in thick furs strip a pile of bodies, salvaging gear, clothes, whatever the corpses bear of value, before swinging them into licking flames.

  Enemy soldiers? A war party? Men, and women, I see now, on the pile, dressed the same as those around the fire.

  Each doorway I can see stands open. Round-faced, wide eyed women and children watch the scene. One hunches on her knees, yellow head bowed, sobbing.

  Someone near the fire shields his eyes, takes us in and starts toward me through the carnage.

  He’s massive, even minus heavy clothing, half a head taller than I am. His pale skin makes the ruff of his hood look like his own fur, and along with his deep-set blue eyes he looks almost more animal than man. He slows
when he’s a few feet away, knees bent as he creeps in on me. “An...an aspirant?”

  Bringing up my blade, I nod, eyes on him and on others who move hesitantly in my direction.

  “And who is this?”

  I don’t like the way he says it, like Freya is a piece of equipment or a child. But I get that they’re in the middle of some absolute shite, so I opt to hold my tongue.

  “Freya of Niflheim.”

  His eyes widen. “I am Genrig, chieftain of Verdajln.”

  I nod to the fire. “What is this? What’s happened?” Introductions are nice, but I want to know what’s waiting out there in the dark. Or in here with us.

  He looks back at the fire, the others, and meets me with red-rimmed eyes. “Artaois.”

  “A creature?” Maybe the artifact.

  “A what?” Freya doesn’t sound confused, like I am. She sounds stunned.

  He spits. “A curse. Our village is cursed, forced to exist here in perpetual night and fight the artaois to the last. And we’ve come to those last, the clever, canny ones who can survive the longest. And now...” Genrig hangs his head. “There are so few of us left.”

  Doesn’t sound much like the artifact, especially not if the village bears the curse. “What kind of creature?”

  “A snowbear,” breaths Freya, watching the gate over her shoulder as though our words can summon it.

  That’s it? A white bear with a hunger for fur clad men? Genrig must see this thought on my face.

  “Do you know the berserker, in your lands?” he asks.

  “Uh, they’ve made the northern tribes of the Wastes famous.” Infamous. But I’ve never had to fight one, thank Heijl. Until Mynogin came to power, we kept a tenuous peace with the raven and dragon clans. After, the clans didn’t bother us. The threat of the Oryllix was enough to keep them well behaved.

  “Artaois grow in size and hunger along with their rage. By the time we fought it off tonight–” He swallows.

  I need to catch up fast. “Where does it come from? How the hell do you fight it off?” I’m starting to see the real kicker of this curse. The shadows, even under a full moon, are dense, thick, and almost eager to come on the second a lamp flickers or dims. The Verdajln have to fight this beast in a darkness that feels sentient, antagonistic.