Trinity slips from his grasp and sternly pats him on the cheek, leaving a glistening print on his skin. “Was that so hard to ask of me? Now that Stephen is dead, nobody will ruin my own plans to kill Nyx and prove I’m the strongest channeler. I’ll even bring you back her aura as a trophy to do with as you will. There won’t be much of a body left when I’m done with her, so that’s really all I can deliver.”
The Baron leans in close enough so that his breath tickles Trinity’s neck. “That is exactly what I was hoping to hear.”
*****
The amphitheater on Ambervale shakes from the bellowing voices and stomping feet of those inside, every outburst strong enough to crack the earth if the deity wishes to do so. With their emotions heated, the gods and goddesses ignore the figure standing in the center of the circular structure. A few of the ruder attendees throw garbage at the slender man, who is raising his hands for silence and attention. The projectiles splatter against his amber cloak and slough onto the ground where they become piles of dark soil. With a muttered plea, the God of Knowledge tries again to get his brethren under control. It is a feeble attempt considering the deafening crowd is upset enough to call a council without inviting Ram the War God. For a brief moment, Gar considers leaving the amphitheater and letting the chaos continue rolling out of control. As far as he knows, fear of being sealed will keep the fighting contained within Ambervale’s borders. He decides to stay when a brick strikes him from behind and shatters against his head, the impact doing nothing more than mussing his hair. A wave of energy erupts from his mouth and he absorbs the intelligence from the others, leaving them drooling husks that can only listen.
“I think that was too much,” Lorvis mentions, the decaying God of Necromancy rising from the soil in front of Gar. The rag-wearing corpse grins as he takes in the sight of the dumbstruck immortals. “Yet there is something oddly appealing about this sight. Do you think we would get in trouble for leaving them in such a state for a few days?”
“No, but being turned into idiots won’t stop them from acting recklessly,” the Knowledge God replies with a tired sigh. He releases enough of the stolen intelligence to give his fellow deities the ability to understand his words. “This childish arguing does nothing, my friends and family. We gathered here to discuss a way to present our concerns to Gabriel, Zaria, and those who support them. The child of Yola Biggs is a dangerous creature, especially given who the father is. That is not up for debate because it is an undeniable fact. Even the most dimwitted and oblivious of our kind have sensed the threat. I recommend that we ask Gabriel about the situation because it is likely that this is part of his plan. Such a creature being born cannot possibly be an anomaly, no matter how much free will is given to the parents.”
“And yet I’m as baffled and angry as all of you,” a musical voice says from the top of the amphitheater.
Adjusting his gloves and collar, Gabriel the God of Destiny floats over the other deities and lands next to Gar. The handsome figure’s polished armor catches the light, which mesmerizes his easily distracted audience. A smirk appears on his face at the sight of the enchanted faces that refuse to look away from his splendor. With a gust of wind, Gabriel’s ebony cape detaches from his shoulders and transforms into a beautiful chaos elf woman. Her cobalt skin quivers before getting covered by a dress of blooming flowers, their red petals merging as if made of sparkling blood. She stretches her arms and spins in a circle to release the faint scent of wildflowers into the air. Ambrosine licks her orange-painted lips and eyes the helpless gods and goddesses, but their intelligence is returned before she can inflict any delicious pranks on them.
“You’re no fun, Knowledge Lord,” she pouts while making herself comfortable on a broken column. The goddess claps her hands to create a boom of sound that silences the enraged audience. “If you keep shouting, I’ll steal your tongues. Of course, I’ll give them back when you calm down. Though the real question is if I will put them in the correct mouth. So act your ages and let us speak. That way we can get on with our lives.”
“Thank you, my love,” Gabriel whispers as he kisses her hand. The black-haired man nods to Lorvis and Gar, the pair taking empty seats in the stands. “I know many of you are upset that I allowed Yola Biggs to roam free after she relinquished her title and power. In fact, a few of our brethren have attempted to reclaim her. You will notice that they are now spending the next year in the sealing yards. Under the Law of Influence, Yola and her child are to remain untouched by our power. It pains me to even say those words, but that is the truth.”
The crowd explodes into a roar of curses and complaints with only a handful of deities remaining calm. At the height of the chaos, one of the gray-skinned orc gods hurls an axe at the ground and shoves his way to the floor. The shock of red hair on his head crackles like a flame and his battered platemail creaks with every step. Showing a glint of wisdom in his eyes, the towering figure stops a few feet away from the God of Destiny and bows to one knee. It is a brief sign of respect that gives way to the orc punching the earth with enough force to pulverize one of the stone slabs.
“I must admit that I’m impressed with your restraint, Ymir,” Gabriel claims, his lips relaxing from a position that could unleash a devastating whistle. He lets the God of Fury rise and places a firm hand on the orc’s shoulder in the hope of intimidating the larger man. “Please do not do anything reckless. I understand your frustration and share your concerns. This was not something I predicted. To be honest, I don’t even know how my champions can stand against whatever is festering inside that crazy woman’s womb.”
Struggling to maintain his control, Ymir takes a deep, wheezing breath and roars to silence the others. When a mouthy voice continues to shout obscenities, he hurls a hammer at the pale-skinned goddess. The woman is sent crashing through the amphitheater, which fixes itself and mutes her continuing complaints. A tremor of laughter runs through the crowd, but stops when the Fury God snorts and grinds his teeth.
“Why should we wait for disaster to befall us?” Ymir asks, his voice rumbling like a barely contained storm. Taking a bold step forward, he pauses when he sees Ambrosine slink off her perch. “I don’t want to fight with you, but I want answers. I will accept that you didn’t expect this and are at a loss since even you can make mistakes. After all, that is why we’re in this mess in the first place, Hell Lord.”
“Oh, I never get tired of that ancient jab,” Gabriel interrupts with a smirk.
“It is the truth, which can be used to argue that this may be a repeat of history,” the strongest Orc God continues, turning his head to spit out a glob of mucus. He scratches at his horizontal ears that twitch and turn in the dying breeze. “I may not be as smart as Gar, but I know this situation is dire. This child could be infinitely more dangerous than the father and brother, which means your champions will fall. To restate your admitted concerns, how can they win when pitted against a threat you didn’t see coming? You prepared them for Stephen Kernaghan who had been a factor for centuries. This enemy will be new and beyond anything you could have possibly planned for.”
The Destiny God glowers at Ymir before whistling and making himself twice as big as the orc. “Sorry, but I refuse to be looked down upon. Especially when I have to concede that you are correct. The champions will not be prepared for this threat. They have plenty of time to grow stronger and open the final temples, but the situation does not seem to be in their favor. Even so, we are unable to do anything due to the Law of Influence, which is what keeps us safe from an even greater disaster. Besides, the precedent for this situation has already been set.”
“What precedent?”
Gabriel is about to answer when he shrinks back to his normal size and steps around the taller god. He watches Zaria gracefully descend through the gathered deities, her white gown remaining pristine and pure. The goddess’s red hair is over her shoulder and she repeatedly runs her fingers through the thick tresses. Something about the powerful woman’s casual
demeanor puts the Destiny God on edge, which is an emotion that is eventually shared by everyone in attendance. Zaria is always a bastion of calm whenever emotions run high, but the invisible waves of energy wafting off the elegant goddess reek of a tumultuous rage. It is enough to make Ymir’s heart skip a few beats while he wipes some drool from his mouth. The towering figure shivers when the Purity Goddess comes near and gently pushes him toward an open seat in the front row.
“The precedent, raging Ymir, is my daughter,” Zaria whispers, her voice carrying over the crowd. A few mouths open to speak, but snap shut when the sparking eyes of the goddess scans the amphitheater. “We agreed upon the birth of Dariana that all non-ascended children of deities and other immortals are protected. Yola is no longer a goddess, so she falls under the Law of Influence as does her spawn. If we were to take action against this new child then nothing would stop us from doing so to the handful of God-born that exist. Some of you have such children out in the world who would be at risk if we change our stance on their existence. All we can do is watch and hope for the best.”
Gabriel scratches his chin and circles Zaria until he stands between her and Ymir. “Did you know this would happen? Did you cause this creature to be conceived?”
“My dear Hell Lord, only you have the power to influence such events,” the red-haired goddess replies with a low bow. She glances at the brief giggle of Ambrosine and fixes the other woman with a steely gaze. “I will point out that the opportunity to conceive another powerful child has prevented our enemy from resurrecting his son. Why revive a broken weapon that wants to turn against you when you can forge a better, loyal one? It was time for that old monster to be put down anyway, so some good comes from this . . . unexpected wrinkle. Besides, I am more than confidant that my daughter and her friends can defeat the child of Arthuru Kernaghan and Yola Biggs. Now I suggest everyone return to their business and let the game play out as it has always meant to.”
“Our business is not settled,” Gabriel states as he steps toward the goddess. He is stopped by a strong hand on his shoulder and he turns to angrily glare at Ymir. “Let me go, savage. I want answers.”
“Then watch and be entertained,” the Purity Goddess replies with a smile. She strokes her ancient rival’s cheek, her hand removing a bead of nervous sweat from his skin. “I promise that you will enjoy the show.”
With nothing left to say, Zaria vanishes in a puff of sparkling smoke and the crowd disperses in a similar fashion. A thick layer of residual magic hangs in the air and causes an array of rainbows and stars to glint in the sunlight. Gabriel and Ymir are the only remaining gods in the amphitheater as a small whirlwind sends the magical clouds into the sky. Satisfied that the meeting is truly over, the Fury God releases his grip on the other deity and takes a seat on the warm ground. His muscles relax and twitch now that he is no longer in the presence of Zaria’s delicious rage.
“She is playing me,” Gabriel growls while running his hands through his hair. “I guess the Goddess of Purity is not as pure as we think. Maybe we should stop her from going beyond her purpose.”
“It is amazing that you still misunderstand the person you have been allied with for all this time, godling,” Ymir replies, grabbing a few large stones and crushing them in his meaty hand. Tossing the fine powder over his shoulder, he crouches in front of the Destiny God and meets the man’s amusingly defiant gaze. “You are the darkness and Zaria is the light, which keeps both of you in a state of near perfect balance as the game plays out. Now it appears things are changing as you come closer to the end. She no longer has to keep you in check as you gain your heart’s desire. She can release the love and rage that has been locked within her core for more centuries than I care to count. It will be a beautiful and terrifying sight that I will enjoy bearing witness to.”
“That is not very pure.”
The bellowing laughter from the orc shakes the amphitheater and sends a spray of spittle across the other god’s face. “Of course it’s pure! It is mortal foolishness to think purity is exclusively good. If that were the case then one couldn’t be considered pure evil like your old master has been called since the ancient times. Rage, love, sadness, and all of the emotions in our hearts can fall within Zaria’s venue. You see, Hell Lord, she merely prefers goodness and nobility because that is her true nature. Yet she can indulge in the darker side of her purpose at any moment and not be punished. Her realm is so vast that I feel I’m not doing it justice with my words. Let me try to make this explanation more simplistic and basic for you. All one needs is to hold something in their heart and never let it get mixed with distractions. Pure rage, pure love, and pure misery are only some of the scars that she bears beneath her skin. That is her truth and it’s one that mortals don’t give her any credit for.”
“I find it amazing that you older gods know all these things and only tell me when it suits your ego,” Gabriel points out, bristling at the superior tone of the other deity. He scowls at the orc’s toothy yawn and hopes a large boulder will fall on the brute’s head. “I would like to know the reason you indulge in making me look foolish.”
“It’s quite simple,” Ymir explains with a solid pat on his companion’s shoulder. The orc scratches his fiery hair as he walks toward the nearest exit. “You’re supposed to be the smartest, most powerful, and strongest of us all. At least that’s what you claim every day. So shouldn’t you be figuring these things out for yourself? Perhaps your mind has been cluttered and distracted ever since you ascended. This prophecy blinds you to uncovering other truths that are staring you in the face. I guess it’s a good thing that your champions are claiming so many victories. If they win, you will finally be free to open your eyes and find a new path. Though that’s just this angry orc’s humble opinion.”
The Destiny God tries to think of something to say, but Ymir lumbers out of the amphitheater long before he can speak again. Taking a seat in the front row, Gabriel changes his clothes to those of a farmer and transforms his longsword into a rusty pitchfork. Memories from his mortal life flit through his mind, the images too fuzzy and quick for him to remember with any certainty. A low hum causes a distant cloud to transform into a flock of doves that fly around the world and return to rest around the pensive god. A question tickles his thoughts and he realizes that it is the same one he keeps hearing his precious champions ask as they follow the path that he has laid out for them.
“What do I do when this is over?”
1
Thick rain batters the four adventurers as they trudge through the northern wilderness. The thick forests of the south have been left behind and the open hills give them no protection from the raw elements. Even though it is late summer, a cutting arctic wind whips in from the frozen regions to the east, the mixture briefly turning raindrops into hail. There are plenty of bushes with edible berries that the small party eat to extend their dwindling food reserves. Due to the raging weather, none of the champions believe that hunting is a safe option and they are still five days away from the city of Stonehelm. It is bad enough that they already lost their tents and bedrolls to a flash flood, the unexpected storm striking while they slept near a river. That disaster combined with an array of cuts and scratches earned from crossing wide patches of thorny brambles, the adventurers have been silently miserable for most of the afternoon.
Random glimmers of magic surround the champions, but Nyx’s recovering aura is unable to maintain the shield for longer than a minute. Every time the spell fails, the black-haired channeler curses in a different language and stomps her foot. Thanks to her minor outbursts, her pants are caked in mud that has gradually sloughed into her ruined boots. Acting as a scout, Luke stays several yards ahead of his friends and repeatedly shakes water from his matted, blonde hair like a drenched dog. He trusts Timoran to tell him if they are heading in the wrong direction, so he focuses on sensing predators and other dangers. The group has been redirected many times to avoid a lurking beast that would be too much of a hassle t
o fight. From the sound of the mutters and grumbles, Luke can only assume that he is being thanked for his efforts.
It is late evening when the champions find a hill with a cave that is high enough to avoid floods and has not been claimed by a temperamental predator. To be safe, Timoran roars into the entrance and watches as harmless creatures race out of the hole. Stripping out of their wet clothes, none of the exhausted champions care about being naked in front of the others. Luke arches his eyebrow when he notices the scar on Nyx’s stomach, but a glare from the half-elven channeler makes him hold his tongue. The women put on plain gowns while the men wear loose pants and shirts, the thin garments showing signs that they will not last much longer. Not a word is uttered as they gather around a warm fire and eat a simple meal of trail rations, their clothes laid out to dry by the flickering flames. A decanter of Ifrit mead is passed around to help remove the chill from their bones, Dariana politely settling for a cup of tea made from the last of her supplies. Within an hour, Nyx has gone to the back of the cave where she is snoring like a bear and Luke has fallen into a deep meditative trance.
The sounds of rain dancing on the stones and distant wolf howls bring a tear to Timoran’s deep blue eyes. Childhood memories flow into the barbarian’s mind, each one bringing a wave of warmth to his anxious heart. An approaching form of white catches his attention and breaks his concentration, his strained nerves perceiving the beast as a threat. By the time the albino raccoon wanders into the cave, Timoran is brandishing his tiger-striped great axe and feeling rather foolish. He leans down to sniff at the damp creature, but the sudden movement sends it scampering back into the storm. Running his hands through his red hair, the tired champion wonders again if it is wise to return to his tribe.
Tribe of the Snow Tiger (Legends of Windemere Book 10) Page 2