“What is going on here?” the sheriff asks, her massive sword aimed at the foreigners. She lets the tip fall and stop an inch from Nyx’s face, the unconscious champion unaware of the danger. “Did she attempt a jail break?”
“Yes, but there is something wrong with her,” Dariana answers, pointing at where Luke is groaning in the corner. Her fingers run along the fragile edges of the hole in Nyx’s shirt, the fabric crinkling beneath her touch. “Timoran was trying to talk her out of doing anything foolish before she attacked all of us. This is odd. She has rashes all over her body. Is there a healer with knowledge of magic that I can take her too? I think my friend is sick and she isn’t a person that you want to leave unchecked.”
“I should arrest you.”
Timoran clears his throat and bows his head to the blonde barbarian. “Please let her see one of the shamans. Nyx and I are like siblings. I know you owe me nothing, Sheriff Kalten, but all I am asking is that you let my friend get help. Besides, you know we lack a prison that can contain a Near God. If you do not do this for me then do it for . . . her.”
“Take your friend to the shaman who lives in a hut by the eastern border,” Udelia says without a second of hesitation. She walks to the bars and opens one in order to grab Timoran by his hair. “I don’t want you to pull that trick on me ever again. Leave her out of this or I will kill you before the trial.”
The sheriff turns on her heels and marches toward the doorway, pausing briefly to hoist Luke to his feet by palming his head. Dariana cradles Nyx as she stands, the sensation of lightning running through her body making it difficult to walk. She is thankful when Luke takes the unconscious woman, his body absorbing the mild electricity thanks to the griffin spirit. With a chorus of good-byes, they leave Timoran to sit in his cell and stare at the empty wall. As night falls, the solitary section of the jail becomes a silent tomb that freezes time and makes the lone prisoner unsure if he is awake or dreaming.
*****
The first thing Nyx sees are the rafters above her head and it takes her a minute to realize she is no longer in the prison. She has a pounding headache and finds her arms are unable to move, the desire to rub her temples almost maddening. Every attempt is met with resistance from the tight bonds connecting her wrists to the headboard. A jolt of panic rushes through her mind until Dariana leans over the bed and gently massages the half-elf’s damp forehead. The telepath grabs a healing salve that she spreads over Nyx’s chest, which has been exposed by the large hole in her ruined shirt. She has a vague recollection of how the opening was made, but her memories of the last few hours are fuzzy at best. When the salve touches her skin, pulses of energy race through her veins as if the magical tattoo is complaining.
“I want to lash out and escape,” Nyx whispers, her voice raw and strained. She burps and tastes a sweet ale, which she does not recall drinking. “I remember . . . not much after entering the jail hallway. Small pieces of an argument and then I think I cast a spell. Something hit me in the stomach, but my head hurt instead.”
“I’m sorry for my actions. I pretended to hit you while forcing you into a slumber. This way Udelia would realize you were acting on your own,” Dariana explains while taking the channeler’s face in her hands. She stares into Nyx’s violet eyes, which have veins of red in their centers. “You were about to unleash your magic on Timoran’s cell and all of Stonehelm. Luke pointed out that you became irritable almost immediately after entering the city. So we brought you to a shaman for help and now we’re back at the inn. Luke is wandering the streets for information while I tend to you.”
“The tattoo was reacting to something,” the half-elf states as she burns through the bonds and sits up. Taking off her destroyed shirt, she stretches for a nearby bag to pull out a dark red, short-sleeved top. “I wonder what set it off.”
Dariana walks to a small table where a decanter has been placed along with a set of large glasses. “I think it is more accurate to say that you were reacting to the tattoo. Gabriel designed it to push us toward Aintaranurh, so this situation with Timoran is perceived as a delay. It is driving you to solve the problem using the quickest method possible. That would be breaking Timoran out of jail and wiping the tribe off the face of Windemere. Your own sense of right and wrong is keeping the tattoo from taking full control, but its urging will be relentless. I fear it will cause you to become more short-tempered than usual. The shaman told us to keep an eye on you while inside the city and make sure you keep up with your treatment until we know for sure that the problem has been taken care of. He had a lengthy conversation with Ymir the Fury God who has given you his blessing and revealed the method by which you can retain control. It also means that you’re one of his chosen for the duration of your . . . condition. That’s only important if you die because he would be the one to claim you from the afterlife. Although I’m sure he would give you over to Gabriel or Gola since Ymir wouldn’t know what to do with a channeler in his castle. Drink this medicine please.”
Nyx takes the glass and looks at the clear liquid that has no odor, making her think it is water. With a dry and sour residue in her mouth, she takes a big gulp of the drink and immediately tries to spit it out. Dariana swiftly locks the young woman’s jaws to prevent the medicine from being rejected, but the taste is very harsh and delivers a slight burn. Nyx’s cheeks are red and tears are in her eyes by the time she swallows the liquid. Her head swims and she feels oddly giddy, which makes it easier to drain the glass in one long pull. Slumping against the pillows, she grins and runs her hands along her tingling body.
“I feel funny and happy,” Nyx announces before she sneezes. Her head clears immediately and she glares at her companion. “That medicine was alcohol. I woke up with the taste of ale in my mouth. Am I supposed to stay drunk to stop myself from melting Stonehelm? Seems a little counterintuitive and dangerous.”
“This is called potato wine, but you can drink any type of alcohol,” Dariana explains while taking the glass. Yawning and stretching her arms, the pale-skinned woman strips off her clothes to change into a pair of pajamas. “If you keep your mind in a slight fog, the tattoo will not be able to take control. You need to have a drink every two or three hours, but the shaman suggested having a few before bed to get you through the night. He also said you have to drink from that enchanted glass or add a pinch of powdered root that’s in the small pot next to your bed. Either one will allow you to think clearly even when inebriated, which means you can still help us save Timoran.”
“So I’m going to spend my time drinking in a courtroom,” the channeler groans as she flops onto her side. She wrinkles her nose when her friend refills the glass with more of the potato wine and holds it toward her face. “I feel like there’s another reason this problem exists, but I’m too tired to figure it out. Maybe Gabriel is bored and wants to have some fun at my expense. This is so frustrating! My mind is sharp and active while my entire body has this strange numbness I get after having too much alcohol. Can’t even use my magic to undo the effects. It may take a day to get used to this sensation. Why is there a third bed in here?”
With a lazy finger, Nyx points at the cot in the corner that shows signs of having already been used. She finds herself fascinated by the way her hand moves, so she creates several lights that dance around her wrist. While entertained by her own magic, the channeler finishes her drink and finds she is starting to enjoy the strong taste. Her head is cleared by a dainty burp that releases a spout of fiery mist into the air. She has the lights converge on the wispy fog and absorb the energy, which she transforms into a floating candelabra. The flickering creation quietly sputters and dispels as Nyx gingerly lays her enchanted glass on the pillow next to her head.
“Luke will be staying here too,” Dariana says while crawling into her own bed. Tired from the day’s events, she is surprised and relieved to find that her companion does not argue with her. “The inn had two open rooms, but I thought it best to stay together. Cyrus hinted that we might have
some enemies because of our association with Timoran. I insisted that Luke not be by himself even though he claims his spirits keep him safe. This is only a precaution and he promised to behave.”
“Like I have to worry about my little brother stealing a peek,” Nyx mumbles as sleep starts to consume her. The half-elf finds the growing drowsiness strange since her mind feels like it has been in a deep slumber for hours. “I have an odd question, big sister. You might be the only one who can answer this. Do the gods hate me and that’s why I keep finding myself in ridiculous situations like this? I’ve unleashed forbidden spells, been hunted by monsters created from my own aura, attracted the attention of a sadistic monster, been mentally altered while in an asylum, and now I have to keep drinking to prevent myself from destroying a city. Saying it out loud, my entire life sounds so bizarre and unnatural. Why do the gods make me suffer when I never did anything to them?”
“Most of the gods have neither hate nor love for mortals. They have favorites and can hold grudges, but those are specific situations,” the telepath explains, sensing that the question alone has brought them the attention of several deities. She smiles at how childish the powerful beings can be when it comes to their precious reputation. “I’ve learned that they put people with great destinies through more difficult trials than an average mortal. The gods will try to be unique to prevent people from researching a solution used by a previous chosen. At least that’s what I assume. Keep in mind that we’re trying to explain the actions of immortal beings who simply get bored from time to time. I’m sure you having to remain slightly drunk is because some of them want a good laugh. Eporwil the Drinking Goddess and Gar the Knowledge Lord probably came up with your situation and gave their idea to Gabriel. Those two are known to have contests when they are idle at the same time.”
“Why me?”
“Because you’re the most powerful champion to have ever been created.”
“You mean one of the most powerful since all of us are pretty amazing.”
“Of course.”
“Do you know something you’re not telling me?”
“Only that if you had sided with Stephen, the prophecy would have ended,” Dariana whispers, her eyes fluttering to stay awake. “Look at what you can do and you will see why the gods fear your power. I know you hate being called a weapon, but there’s no denying that people see you that way when you act without restraint. Unlike my psychic abilities, your powers are visual and can be terrifying.”
Fearing that she is being watched, Nyx curls into a ball beneath her blankets with only her mouth exposed. “If I do lose control and threaten everyone, will you do whatever it takes to stop me? I hate to make that kind of request, but I think you’re the only one who truly understands this part of me.”
“Because I was born a living weapon too?” the other woman asks, a weak chuckle shaking her low bed. The noise stops with a sigh of acceptance, the telepath having known the question was coming since the beginning of their conversation. “Very well. I promise to kill you without hesitation if you ever become a danger to Windemere. Maybe I’ll snap your neck or punch a hole through your chest. Now go to bed, little sister.”
“Thanks . . . I think.”
*****
Playing a little tune on his red ocarina, Luke sits on a barrel while five massive barbarians corner him against the side of the tavern. He ignores Stiletto barking at him to transform and the griffin’s urging to fly away from the angry locals, their stubbornness eventually forcing him to put the instrument away. He knows that attempting an escape would only make the situation worse, so the forest tracker leans back and patiently waits for the locals to talk. Their movements lack confidence, which puts him at ease and makes him believe that they will not attack without warning. All of them stay out of his reach, their eyes repeatedly shifting to where the half-elf’s hands rub the pommels of his sabers.
“I have a meeting with King Edric in the morning, so I’d like to get some sleep,” Luke finally says, realizing that the small mob has not thought out their actions. The lack of a plan explains why they left the tavern at the same time as him instead of waiting for him to get far away and set up an ambush. “If this is about me being friends with Timoran then there’s nothing I can do about that. The man I know is honorable and loyal. He has saved my life many times, so I can’t abandon him when he needs me. Whether he’s innocent or guilty, I’m standing by his side until the end.”
“You’re also friends with that Near God,” a heavily scarred barbarian states, choosing his words carefully. The others nod in approval of their companion speaking for the group, which emboldens him enough for his voice to remain strong. “We heard she tried to break Timoran out of jail and threatened to attack us. As much as we understand and respect you standing by the traitor, many of us don’t like your association with a monster like her.”
Luke hops off the barrel and get within reach of the group, ignoring the large size difference between himself and the locals. “Call my big sister a monster again and the two of us are going to have some real problems. She’s sick and we took her to get some medicine. As long as nobody attacks her, there’s nothing to worry about from any of us.”
“Oh, well I guess that’s settled,” a towering woman replies. She scratches the bald part of her head and shrugs, the movement mimicked by one of her companions. “We’re still angry about the threat. Just see that your big sister watches her step.”
“I can tell that all of you are quivering with fear and rage,” the half-elf sarcastically says before he can stop himself. The furious glare and sudden change in the barbarians’ posture makes him take a step back. “That statement may have been a mistake. Can I ask why you’re more upset about my friendship with Nyx than the one I have with Timoran? I would have thought that you’d hate a traitor more than a sick Near God.”
“Because we know she’s capable of making good on her threats,” a black-haired barbarian replies, wiping his hands on his blood-stained apron. The butcher’s attempt to clean his dirt-caked palms fails and leaves them even worse than before. “All of us know that Timoran will get what he deserves in the court. King Edric never lets the guilty go free. He improved what you city-folk created because there’s no way to lie your way out of trouble here. Not that Timoran would attempt that since we all know he’s guilty. Did you ever consider that he’s been using you this whole time? Perhaps the noble and loyal barbarian that has saved your life merely did so to bring you back here and help him avoid justice.”
“That makes no sense,” Luke points out, his hair standing on end because of the barbarians’ rising confidence. He stops himself from gripping his sabers, which could start a real fight that he is not sure he can win. “Timoran never knew about the court system here. The whole thing was put into place after he left, so he would be planning for your older trials. He expected a physical test, which we wouldn’t be able to get involved in.”
“The Near God could do it and we’d never be able to stop her,” the grinning butcher says while looming over the smaller man. Out of habit, he pats the small club on his belt and narrows his eyes in preparation for a fight. “You would have been the one protecting her while Timoran fought in the pit. Yeah, I’m betting all of you are being used. He’ll turn on you as soon as his mess has been cleaned up. Maybe even convince you to kill King Edric or have that monster sister of yours wipe out Stonehelm to cleanse the world of his sins.”
Knowing he is outnumbered and can easily be overpowered, Luke still delivers a kick to the barbarian’s knee. The unexpected blow knocks the larger man off-balance enough for the half-elf to tackle him, both warriors hitting the ground hard. It is a brief tussle as one of the others grabs the forest tracker by the leg and hoists him into the air. A quick punch to the man’s large nose helps Luke get free and drop to the ground. Remaining upside down, he bends his arms and launches himself feet first into his stunned opponent’s muscular gut. Rolling under two grasping hands, the forest tracker
tries to sprint for a nearby fence. He gets a few steps before the female barbarian catches him by the face and pins him against the wall of the tavern. She lets go when she feels a sharp pain in her fleshy palm and examines her hand to find a small puncture wound in the center. For a brief moment, she swears Luke has a beak that steadily shrinks back into his face.
“Do you five really want to hurt this young man?” asks a slurred voice from the tavern’s entrance. The man is nothing more than a silhouette in the open door, the lantern in his hand making it difficult for anyone to see details of his appearance. “I’m sure he’s fought and killed many things tougher than you. After all, he is the famous Luke Callindor and we’ve all heard the stories. Perhaps the only reason any of you are still standing is because he is holding back. That means he’s a good man who refuses to hurt the foolish.”
The swaying figure puts the lantern down and steps into the crimson moonlight, which bounces off the metal clips that keep his ragged clothes together. His white hair is knotted and there are several twigs sticking out of the unkempt mess. By contrast, his thick beard is immaculate and runs down to the middle of his chest where it is adorned with a mottled ring of jasper. The man walks with a limp, which forces him to lean heavily on the massive staff in his hand. Everyone winces when a stiff breeze carries the stench of cheap alcohol and body odor to them. Luke notices the hilt of a shortsword sticking out of the man’s rotting belt, but the weapon is covered in rust and tarnish. Even with the disheveled appearances, there is a glint of cunning in the barbarian’s reddish brown eyes that makes the half-elf think this is not someone to underestimate. It is a thought that is wiped away when the man stumbles and falls into the mud where he remains lying face down for a minute.
“Dammit, Lodur!” shouts the heavily scarred barbarian. He goes to help the older tribe member up and props him against the wall. “You know to stay inside if you’ve had too much to drink. Nobody wants to fish you out of another animal pen or scale a mountain to rescue you from a cliff. We’ll do it if we have to, but we’d prefer you stay out of trouble. Just stay inside where you’re safe.”
Tribe of the Snow Tiger (Legends of Windemere Book 10) Page 9