Tribe of the Snow Tiger (Legends of Windemere Book 10)

by Charles E Yallowitz

  “I hear nearby thoughts too, but they are muffled,” Dariana adds while straining her telepathy. A twinge of pain in her head forces her to break contact and rub her temples until the throbbing stops. “It’s like the creatures are hibernating or dying. If I push myself then I can go deeper, but it might reveal our presence to whatever is in trouble. An injured animal might panic and hurt itself trying to escape. We need to search with our physical senses.”

  “The snow is too bright and flat for me to see anything clearly,” the barbarian growls. The sound of shuffling and mild cursing draws his attention to Nyx who has sunk up to her nose in a nearby drift. “What are you doing, fire sprite?”

  Nyx shivers while squinting into the distance, her eyes coated in bronze energy. “The reason you can’t see anything might be because you’re too tall. I’m trying to see if there’s anything that breaks the level ground. This is a trick the apprentices and I used when playing magical hide and seek. My eyes are enhanced right now, but I don’t . . . wait a second . . . I think there’s something buried out there. A beast of some kind? It’s a very subtle up and down motion that reminds me of something breathing. It just stopped moving, but I don’t know what that means. I’ll lead the way.”

  Not waiting for a response, Nyx pushes through the thick snow and uses wind magic to shift the powder out of her path. She does her best to move quietly and avoid disturbing whatever they are approaching, but the crunch of frozen grass beneath her boots makes the half-elf cringe with every step. A violent sneeze threatens to erupt from her nose, stifled quickly by a silence spell around her nostrils. Rubbing at her cold legs, Nyx is thankful when Timoran gives her a vest made of black fur that runs down to her knees. The Ifrit hair warms her body and drives away the looming cold that has been brewing in her chest for the last few minutes. With renewed energy, the channeler walks a little faster and adds a simple heat spell to the wind that is steadily clearing a path.

  “Wow. Such a beautiful creature,” she whispers when she steps into a circular clearing that surrounds the dead animal.

  The enormous snow tiger’s blue and black fur is thick, the hairs sparkling when touched by direct sunlight. The predator has long incisors of glistening white that jut out of its mouth due to their length and thickness. A slender tail lies limp in the exposed grass, but still jerks around as the muscles lose their tension. Powerful legs and massive paws are splayed on the ground, giving the body the appearance of having peacefully died in its sleep. The gaping wound in the gorgeous snow tiger’s side is the only sign of an attack, the surrounding fur matted with aromatic blood.

  Timoran’s rage boils when he spots three cubs that are mewling and pushing against their dead mother. Judging from their size and faint, black stripes, he knows they are no older than two months. Rusty manacles are attached to their back legs, the chains running to a stake that has been driven into the muddy earth. Restraining most of his anger, the barbarian moves within reach of the animals and gently breaks the metal bindings that are cutting into their delicate ankles. Scared and confused, the cubs cower against the warm corpse and hiss whenever one of the adventurers comes close. One of the snow tigers bravely charges at Timoran and bites his boot, proudly returning to the others when the towering warrior moves away.

  “I say we go hunting,” Luke states, his brown and gold eyes never straying from the terrified animals. Knowing that the cubs will die without help, he calms down and gets on all fours. “We should find a safe place for them first. Maybe they’ll listen to another cat.”

  Feathers sprout from the forest tracker’s neck and his nose grows into a beak, but he does not get any further into his transformation before the champions are ambushed. A pack of scaly figures burst from the surrounding snow to hurl blunt weapons and crude snares. Luke is caught by a rope around his neck and yanked into the arms of a burly giltris, the lizardman easily restraining the struggling half-elf. A solid punch to the head reverts the young warrior into his true form and frees the rest of the tribe to focus on the remaining adventurers.

  Her head bleeding from being struck by a flying hammer, Nyx is about to unleash her magic when she hears the snow tiger cubs hissing. The dizziness caused by the blow makes her pause and briefly doubt that she can control her power enough to avoid injuring the animals. Taking advantage of the opening, a female giltris pounces on the channeler and shoves her into a thick sack that erupts in flames. Terrified by the display, the primitive hunter repeatedly stomps on Nyx to put out the fire and only stops attacking when a crude javelin strikes her in the throat. A heavily scarred giltris bats his dying comrade away and hunkers down to make sure the trampled half-elf is still alive. She lets out a shuddering breath, but he gives her a few drops of a healing potion to repair her internal injuries.

  “They want us alive, so we should go quietly,” Timoran says as the snorting creatures get closer. He growls when one of them lifts a rusty sword to kill the cubs, his great axe pulled back for a throw. “Touch them and I will dismember your entire tribe. For now, only your leaders are at risk. You live close enough to Stonehelm to know what type of enemy I am.”

  The scarred giltris chuckles as he walks toward the barbarian, stopping when his snout touches the man’s nose. Only Luke can decipher the lizardman’s hisses and grunts, but he is too groggy to translate for his friends. “More food better. Entertainment be good too. All you provide both for feast. Now move, wild foe.”

  *****

  Nestled within a tight circle of hills, the five miles of humid swampland remains untouched by the surrounding snow. Having been working since dawn, Giltris can be seen resting in the murky water with only their reptilian heads above the surface. Other tribe members are busy preparing a large bonfire on the central plot of land that has been covered in a soft layer of lemongrass. The females collect small animals from around the swamp and return to place the flayed bodies in a massive, stone bowl of soup. Not wanting the discarded parts to go to waste, they chew the skin into a mush that is given to the infants clinging to their backs. Wrinkled and adorned with vulture feathers, the oldest female dances around the bubbling soup, every movement plodding and slow. Her chanting causes the stones she is holding to heat up before she throws them into the broth and retrieves more from a nearby pile. A crude shack has been erected for the Tribe Baron, who proudly stands with a metal spear in his hands. The scarred giltris grins at his prisoners and licks his lips at the thought of getting a bite of each one. His eyes linger on Timoran and he decides to claim the barbarian’s great axe for a trophy.

  “Something shiny?” the Tribe Baron hisses when the sunlight glints off Nyx’s amethyst necklace. He strides over to the young woman who has been wrapped in chains from her shoulders to her ankles. “That be my prize.”

  “I wouldn’t touch that,” Luke says through gritted teeth. His wrists are tied to a thick tree branch while his legs are weighed down with rocks that are strapped to his feet. The half-elf sucks in a deep breath before concentrating on the guttural language of the giltris. “I know you can understand me, so I suggest you listen to every word. Her necklace keeps her magic in check. Remove that when she’s still alive and this swamp will be destroyed in a matter of seconds.”

  “Runt of prey lie.”

  “Do you really want to take that chance?”

  “I not afraid.”

  “Then explain all her chains.”

  The Tribe Baron approaches Luke and bares his teeth in an attempt to scare the truth out of the warrior. Instead, his prisoner yawns and dislocates his ankles to slip out of his bonds. With two loud pops, Luke repairs his body and flips himself onto the branch to take the pressure off his shoulders. An axe flies through the air and shatters the tree limb, sending the forest tracker crashing to the moist ground. He is about to stand when a solid stomp from the Tribe Baron knocks the wind out of his lungs. The giltris continues crushing Luke’s chest, a few drops of drool falling into the champion’s hair. Sharp claws curl to scratch at the warrior’s
clothes and draw some blood until the giltris reaches down to toss the half-elf aside.

  “Too scrawny to entertain,” the scarred lizardman declares before hissing and grunting at a higher pitch. The other giltris gather on solid land, each one kneeling to their leader. “We have feast for good hunt. Eat well and honor Harmoke. Lord of River and King of Scaled Ones will bless. Our bellies will fill with fresh meat. First we fight worthy foe. No weapons. Strength versus strength. Good fight mean happy god.”

  “I don’t really think Harmoke cares,” Luke mutters while getting to his feet. He tries to wipe the mud off his shirt, but only smears the muck around his leather armor patches. “I’ll be the one to fight you.”

  The Tribe Baron laughs and gestures for two of his warriors to restrain the half-elf. “You no fun. Magic woman cheat. Barbarian best choice. His tribe war with us for long time. He give us true fight.”

  “I guess he wants to fight me,” Timoran says as he hugs the snow tiger cubs closer to his body. He leans down to release the animals, but they dig their claws into his flesh and snarl at the surrounding giltris. “It appears my new charges refuse to let me go. I cannot fight like this. Do you have any suggestions, my friend?”

  The Tribe Baron scowls at the barbarian and struggles to use Tradespeak. “Eat cubs first.”

  Dariana clears her throat and snaps the ropes that are binding her hands, the telepath enhancing the sound to startle the giltris. Several spears and swords point in her direction as she massages her sore shoulders and cracks her neck. Tightening the side straps of her blue top, the silver-haired woman moves between Timoran and the Tribe Baron. Her steps are silent and graceful, which makes the scarred lizardman lick his lips in primal curiosity. Peering into her eyes, his heart mysteriously stutters as if scared by what he sees.

  “Let me fight for your god and entertainment,” Dariana requests while bouncing on her toes and stretching her arms. When her enemy starts to laugh, she spits at his clawed feet and beckons for him to attack. “You fight barbarians all the time. Harmoke would find such a display boring and a sign of laziness. Try taking on an adventurer like me. I promise that he will grant you years of good hunting if you can win. Maybe he’ll even make your little swamp grow beyond these hills.”

  The Tribe Baron snorts and backs towards the bowl of soup, his yellow eyes locked on the strange woman. His forked tongue snakes out to taste the broth and catch part of a squirrel that he devours in one bite. With a piercing wail, the old female dances around her leader and throws handfuls of silver powder over his head. The dust sticks to every scar on his body to create an impressive display of glistening wounds that would intimidate a less experienced opponent. Slapping his powerful tail on the earth, the Tribe Baron calmly walks toward Dariana and hunkers down to start a sprinting pounce. He leaps with his toothy mouth open and his claws stretch to tear into his pale-skinned prey.

  With a quick twist of her body, Dariana steps between the giltris’s arms and delivers a quick palm strike to the bottom of his jaw. Teeth shatter as his mouth slams shut, but the Tribe Baron has no time to recover as he is flipped over his enemy’s head. Rolling onto all fours, the giltris avoids a blow to his chest and spins to knock the champion aside with his tail. Dariana flips to her feet and leaps over the diving lizardman before delivering a heel kick to his spine. The swamp echoes with a series of loud pops as several vertebrae are dislocated and broken by the single blow.

  Grunting and shrieking, the Tribe Baron struggles to stand and signals for his spear to be thrown to him. Catching the weapon, he uses it as a crutch while the silver powder in his scars sinks beneath his scales. The enchanted dust swirls through the lizardman’s veins and repairs the damage to his spine, the agony subsiding within seconds. Unleashing a predatory hiss, the Tribe Baron opens his mouth to proudly reveal his steadily regenerating teeth. Standing at his full thirteen foot height, the giltris can feel his pain receptors go numb and his muscles bloat from the magical enhancement.

  “I’m sorry, but that still won’t be enough,” Dariana politely states as she considers making herself immune to pain. She decides to leave herself unaltered, hoping to give the giltris a small chance. “You may keep your weapon. I could use a little practice against things other than swords and axes.”

  The polished tip of the spear lances toward the champion’s face only to be batted away like an irritating fly. Dariana repeatedly blocks the weapon while backing toward the bonfire, the intense heat making her sweat. She trips over a stone and barely ducks a tight swing, but the edge of the spear still cuts her forehead. The burning pain causes her to pause for an instant, which is enough for the Tribe Baron to barrel forward. His shoulder slams into her chest and the pair tumble toward the roaring flames. As the heavy weight of the giltris cracks some of her bones, Dariana braces her feet against his stomach and launches her enemy into the bonfire. Still rolling from the impact, she crashes against the ring of hot stones and immediately crawls away before they can burn her skin.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have played with him,” Dariana mutters as she stands and touches the aching cut on her face. Green ooze is mixed with her blood, which numbs her fingertips. “There was a poison on that weapon. Do you know what it might be, Timoran?”

  A howl of rage erupts from the bonfire as the Tribe Baron leaps out of the deep pit. He is covered in fire that continues to burn his dark scales, but the magical powder prevents him from feeling the agony. Every movement cracks his fragile skin, revealing pink flesh that turns black from the heat wafting off his body. Tossing his smoking spear to the side, the giltris sprints at his injured prey and grins at the thought of burning her in his hands. The charge abruptly turns into an awkward stumble that ends with the Tribe Baron crashing to the ground and skidding to the feet of Dariana. All she can do is stare at the polished halberd that is sticking out of the back of her enemy’s blackening skull.

  The remaining giltris screech in terror as they dive into the water, leaving only a handful of brave warriors behind. Wild-haired men and women crash through the swamp to make short work of the lizardmen who are unable to deliver a single blow. The barbarians’ shouts and roars echo throughout the area to send the survivors retreating to the top of the nearby hills. Distant hisses and snarls can be heard by the war party’s keen ears, but they only laugh at the feeble, empty threats while tending to the prisoners. A tall and slender woman with auburn hair frees Nyx, the metal chains easily snapped by the powerful warrior’s hands. Luke is helped to his feet by a stocky barbarian wearing chainmail, the bearded man sending him back to the ground with a solid slap to the shoulder.

  “Are there any other prisoners besides you and your two friends, ma’am?” a black-haired barbarian asks as he approaches Dariana. There is a friendly glint in his sapphire eyes and his bare chest is marred by the old claw marks of a wyvern. The beast’s scaly hide has been turned into a pair of metal studded bracers that the barbarian has kept perfectly polished. “I’m sorry for the rudeness. My name is Cyrus Anghorn of the Snow Tiger Tribe. We were tracking these giltris for a while. They always have their Harmoke ceremony around this time. If they had succeeded then they’d attempt an assault on our city, so it’s smarter to stop them from building up their fervor. You can follow us back to-”

  All of the barbarians stop when the snow tiger cubs mewl and bring everyone’s attention to Timoran. The champion remains motionless on the other side of the abandoned cauldron, none of his brethren having bothered to take notice of him until now. Nobody makes a move toward the red-haired man for several minutes that are filled with tension and blank stares. The cubs eventually squirm out of the barbarian’s arms and hurry to Luke, who bends down to pat their heads. With the animals no longer in the way, Cyrus storms over to Timoran and punches him in the shoulder. It is a powerful blow that sends the other man back a few clumsy steps, leaving him open for a tight hug.

  “The fallen favored son returns,” Cyrus whispers, slapping his old friend on the back.


  “It appears this day was inevitable,” Timoran replies, noticing that the other barbarians are still eyeing him suspiciously. “Your companions do not seem happy to see me. How are we going to do this?”

  Cyrus puts a thick arm around his old friend’s shoulders and confidently guides him toward the gathered warriors. “I’m in charge, battle brother, so they won’t do anything. They trust and respect me, which is still something I’m getting used to. I say we travel back to Stonehelm like nothing is wrong. I assume your new friends are in the dark about what is waiting for you at home.”

  “They are unaware, but suspicious.”

  “In that case, I shall regale them with stories of your youth.”

  “I will inflict the same embarrassment on you.”

  Cyrus grins wide enough to reveal he is missing an upper incisor, a reminder of a bar fight that he firmly believes he won. “You really should have stayed away, Wrath. Stonehelm and King Edric aren’t ready for you. Then again, it’d be worse if they were.”

  With a forced smile, Timoran squeezes his friend’s arm and rejoins the champions. He is aware that the other members of his tribe are watching his every step and many of them are ready to draw their weapons at a moment’s notice. The only thing that is keeping the barbarians at bay is a stern glare from Cyrus, who has reclaimed his halberd from the dead Tribe Baron. Timoran remains with his companions as the group marches toward Stonehelm and his childhood friend entertains everyone with exaggerated tales of their youth. Many times, the red-haired warrior politely interjects a forgotten fact that causes both of the men to blush at the foolishness of their past. As the travelers laugh, the nervous champion gains a flicker of hope that his homecoming will not be as disastrous as he fears.

  2

  “Still no luck?” Sari asks after Delvin drops into the chair across from her. She waves at a nearby waitress before going back to stroking Fizzle’s belly, the drite lazily sprawled on the wooden table. “I always thought Freedom was a busy port, so I didn’t think we would have this much trouble. Although it’s really odd that we can’t find a ride to the southern jungles at this time of year. I heard the locals do flora and fauna tours because summer is the active period for a lot of them.”