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

by Charles E Yallowitz

  “Just one more,” Lodur announces, tossing the remains of his weapon over his shoulder. He grins at the hairy warrior before him and takes a single step forward. “Seems my time in Stonehelm is coming to an end. I’m not happy about that. Where am I going to find a good drink and such pleasant company now?”

  The guard attempts to retreat, but Luke kicks him in the back of the knee as he passes. With a curse, the man stumbles and spins around to face his charging enemy. Lodur catches him by the beard and yanks as hard as he dares, making sure not to tear the hair from the other barbarian’s face. The older warrior slams his head against the brow of the helpless guard, their colliding skulls ringing for a second.

  “Ow, I’m getting too old for that move,” Lodur groans while releasing his unconscious enemy. He hurries to the pond and fishes the groaning warrior out of the water, leaving him on the shore. “These guys were only following orders, so there’s no reason for them to die. I assume that’s why you held back and didn’t take any of the openings they gave you. You’re hunting for the missing witness, right? Then you should probably follow me. I know where the person is and you’ll need me to avoid getting killed.”

  “Why didn’t you bring the witness to Stonehelm yourself?” Luke asks as he stands and rubs his aching neck. Seeing the frown on Lodur’s face, the half-elf bows in apology. “I’m sorry for being rude. Thank you for saving me. Though I’m still curious about what’s going on and why you’re helping me like this.”

  “Because Timoran saved my life and now is the time for me to repay the favor.”

  The seriousness in the barbarian’s eyes wash away all other questions that are brewing in Luke’s mind. Carefully sheathing his sabers, the half-elf follows Lodur in the opposite direction of Stonehelm. Hearing the crunching of approaching footsteps, the pair break into a sprint and vanish among the hills before the defeated guards are found.

  10

  “Visiting time is up!” Sheriff Kalten shouts into the hallway. Holding the door open, she keeps a close eye on Nyx, who is still standing at the edge of the white line. “You can come back in the morning. All of us need sleep, including the prisoners. If you walk out now, I’ll open this area up an hour earlier than usual. Only because it’d be the first time you ever obeyed one of my orders.”

  “Thanks. I’ll bring you guys some breakfast,” Nyx politely replies, reaching over to squeeze Dariana’s hands through the bars. A nod to Timoran is all she can do since he remains at the back of the cell. “I’m really sorry about causing this trouble. At least Udelia is letting you two share a room. Guess she isn’t as bad as we thought.”

  “No, but her loyalties still come into question,” Dariana whispers while easing her friend back. With a wave to the sheriff, the tired champion moves to her bed and pulls down the rough blanket that she is sure is better suited for a horse. “We still lack solid proof about the crown, so she has no reason to be on our side. Even if we did, King Edric could claim to have done it for the good of the tribe. Perhaps he simply acted rashly in a moment of grief and desperation. There really is no sign of maliciousness in his actions if you take surrounding events into account. I’m sorry. We can talk about this another time because I don’t want you to get in trouble. Go and get some sleep, Nyx.”

  “You two do the same.”

  Nyx looks back several times as she walks out of the jail, the door slamming behind her. The metal glistens and hums as a newly conjured locking spell is awakened by Udelia turning the key. Nothing can be heard in the shadowy hallway, which feels like a crypt to the isolated prisoners. Moving for the first time in an hour, Timoran lies down to stare at the ceiling and think about his situation. As he wracks his brain for the lost memories that might answer his questions, Dariana restlessly paces around the cell. She spends a few minutes staring at the flickering torch that sits in a sconce across the hallway. Unable to maintain a trance or relax her thoughts, the woman goes back to moving from one wall to the other. After an hour of silence, she collapses face first on her creaky bed and places the pillow over her head.

  “I’m sorry that I made a mess of your tribe, Timoran,” Dariana mutters into the thin mattress. Lifting the corner of the pillow, she takes a peek at her friend and realizes his eyes are closed. “All I wanted was to clear your name. Now I might have put your people in danger. Nyx feels guilty because she uncovered the information, but I could have kept it a secret.”

  Timoran sighs before rolling off his bed and lumbering over to the bars, his fingers dancing along the warm metal. He gives them a few experimental tugs, knowing that they are impossible to budge unless he plunged into the deepest level of his rage. As he runs his thumb along the faint hinges, the barbarian’s mind swims with ephemeral thoughts that he can barely grasp. All he knows is that there is more going on than his trial and a lying king. Part of him wants to be free and help his friends search for the answer, but his unflinching loyalty prevents him from attempting an escape. The emotion comes with frustration since he knows the strong bond of honor is not aimed at his friends or tribe. Timoran smacks his hands against the bars when he fails to remember who or what this unbreakable dedication is connected to.

  “It is not your fault. In fact, I thank you for freeing my tribe from such trickery,” he says in a gravelly voice. He clears his throat and coughs, realizing that he has barely talked in the last two days. “I believe the truth is only starting to come to the light. Where I fit into King Edric’s actions is unclear and I dread the revelation. Perhaps I was responsible for General Godric’s death and Edric took the throne because of my crime. The entire tribe would have marched after me if he did not stop them. Their rage could have been so great that wanted to act hastily and leave Stonehelm unprotected.”

  “Why do you keep putting yourself in the role of a criminal in these scenarios?” Dariana asks, sitting up in her bed. Using a small sink connected to an outdoor rain barrel, she fills a dented cup and brings the water to her friend. “It’s also possible that King Edric is behind all of this. Remember that he does what he thinks is right for the tribe. He is obviously a great and wise man, but even those types of people can act poorly. Many times they don’t notice that they’re the criminal because they justify their actions immediately. It makes them a lot more complicated to deal with. Unfortunately, not every villain is a blatant monster like my brother.”

  Timoran takes the drink and finishes it in one sloppy gulp, some of it flowing down his unshaved chin. “You are right, but it is hard to believe. Edric has been my teacher since I was a child. When I grew older, he became one of my most cherished friends. Yet I guess anybody can fall from the pedestal you put them on. Our former relationship makes it easy to assume that I am as blind as the rest of my people. More so since I have been away for years. Though I do not know how I could have helped if I stayed.”

  “You could have challenged Aintaranurh to claim the throne before Edric,” Dariana suggests before pulling the scrap of paper from her shoe. She hands it to Timoran, who refuses to open it for fear of what it might say. “According to the scroll, you went to Aintaranurh between Edric’s two visits. Nobody else was with you and it’s clear that you did not enter the Hollowed Hill. So one has to wonder what you were doing there since you were supposedly on the run. Are there any other reasons for a barbarian to visit the temple besides claiming the throne?”

  Unfolding the moist paper, Timoran reads the smeared words and a few images come to his mind. He vaguely remembers being at a stone entrance and kneeling on rough ground, but he cannot recall why he was there. His mind holds no memories of entering the temple, which causes him to crush the paper out of frustration. Dropping the parchment on the floor, he considers his own youthful ambitions that died on the day he ran away from home. Timoran is sure he would never attempt to claim the throne without being named a successor, which would not have happened if people thought he had killed General Godric. Thinking back to his training days, he recalls discussing what he would do if he was t
he Snow Tiger King, but those conversations were only drunken debates with his friends or father-in-law.

  “Unless I have forgotten more than I realized, I would have never attempted to take the throne. Especially given the circumstances,” Timoran explains while rubbing his eyes. A dull pain grows in his head, so he stops pushing for his lost memories. “Most likely, I went there to pray to Kerr and ask for forgiveness. Both are possibilities since all of the temples and shrines are within the borders of Stonehelm. Aintaranurh would have been a safe place for me to visit and clear my head for a few hours. I wish I could give you a clearer answer than that, but I know nothing.”

  “That memory block is so strange,” Dariana says, putting her hands on the sides of her friend’s head. Nothing happens and she lets go, the enchanted collar still preventing her from using her powers. “I’m sorry, but I forgot about this thing. Although it might be for the best. If your memories have been magically sealed then it would be dangerous to awaken them without the right preparations. Mental backlash can be powerful enough to kill even a man as strong as you. Let’s stop dwelling on stuff that we can’t do anything about and get some sleep.”

  “That is a good idea. I am very tired of this troubling mystery,” the barbarian admits, his voice starting to crack. Massaging his throat, Timoran gets another cup of water and idly stares into the shadowy hallway. “I can understand not remembering my actions during the battle. Yet going to Aintaranurh would have been after my senses returned. To not even remember being there is . . . unsettling. It implies that something happened to me after the initial shock. Could I have suffered a head injury that caused memory loss? Concussions are not common among my thick-skulled people, but that does not mean it is impossible.”

  Dariana yawns and stretches her arms, the movement making her stand on her toes. “I’ve no idea and there’s no way to find out. Maybe we can convince Udelia to remove this collar in the morning, if only for a few minutes. That’s if you’re willing to let me into your mind. To be honest, I get the feeling that I’ve already seen something in there and I erased it from my own memory.”

  “I believe that happened soon after we met.”

  “My apologies for not keeping the important information. Maybe it’s for the best.”

  “I would have to a-”

  A large shadow covers the silver-haired woman and she notices that Timoran is staring at whatever has materialized behind her. Dariana is about to spin around with a kick when a potent aura pierces the cloak that numbs her psychic senses, a surge of her telepathy returning for a blissful instant. She recognizes the energy and cautiously moves away from the muscular figure that has appeared in the cell. Bare-chested and covered in scars upon scars, Kerr the Barbarian God scowls at the low ceiling, which forces him to awkwardly twist his head to the side. Wild hair cloaks his face, but they can see savage, yellow eyes beneath the tangled tresses. Wiping his hands on blood-stained pants, Kerr quietly examines Timoran for a minute before taking a booming step forward.

  “You might want to make this easier by taking on a smaller form, uncle,” Dariana states, leaning away when the giant turns to face her. A puff of warm, foul-smelling air from Kerr’s nose knocks the woman against the far wall. “I was merely making a friendly suggestion. You’ve already impressed your follower and I’m not one to be awed by my own family. All of which I say with the utmost respect, Barbarian Lord.”

  “I thought I told you never to be weak again,” Kerr growls as his body shrinks enough for him to stand straight. The god’s head still touches the ceiling, every movement sending a rain of pebbles to the floor. “You are pathetic. Whimpering in a cell and letting events happen without putting up a fight. Where is the fire that you showed within the depths of Gale Hollow? Why have you not used your full power to free yourself?”

  “I am sorry, but my strength is not enough to break these bars,” Timoran argues, his eyes refusing to look directly at the powerful deity. A burst of hot air hits his face when Kerr curses and snorts in disagreement. “There is nothing I can do, but trust my friends. I have faith in their powers and abilities. They will make the truth come out. I apologize for arguing, but this is not a situation where brute force is the correct path. Not unless I wish to destroy my past and never return to my tribe. That feels like it would be a longer, lonelier death than the execution I am facing now. At least by moving with events, I have a chance at regaining a place in my homeland.”

  Frustrated with the mortal, Kerr knocks the barbarian aside like a cat toying with a harmless mouse. “If you refuse to depend on your strength then do more than cower and rot. Think your way out of this problem and prove you are worthy to be called a champion. You are supposed to be the greatest of my followers and I find you acting like a scolded infant. I did not allow Gabriel to forge your bloodline only for him to create such a fragile cub. Just being in your presence is making me sick and angry, Timoran Wrath.”

  “Did you come here to insult him?” Dariana asks, stepping between her friend and the red-faced god. She can see that Kerr’s hair is turning from gold to a deep crimson, a sign that his patience is running out. “We have the situation under control. Whether Gabriel sent you or you came of your own free will, your presence threatens everything. The Law of Influence prevents you from interfering, so deliver your message and go away. I’m sure there’s more important things for you to do like sharpen your axe or pick your nose.”

  Infuriated by her words and knowing he can get away with roughing up the daughter of Zaria, Kerr reaches out to flick her into the wall. To his amazement, his finger is caught by Timoran, whose body shudders at the powerful impact. The barbarian coughs up some blood, but his unleashed rage prevents him from falling to his knees. With a broad smile, the god drops his arm and shrinks to the same height as the injured champion. Kerr pats Timoran on the shoulder to undo the damage he caused and takes a step away with his arms crossed. His temper has been replaced by genuine amusement, which sparkles in his abyssal eyes.

  “Such a strange mortal. Why do you always wait for the final moment before demonstrating your true strength?” Kerr asks as he circles the barbarian. Coming to Dariana, he casually lifts her by the waist and places her on the nearest bed to continue his path. “You should be able to call forth your true power whenever you wish, Timoran Wrath. If you always wait for friends to be in danger then a day will come when your reaction is too slow. An honorable man saves his loved ones before they are an inch from death’s embrace. Indulge in your champion gifts and let them loose instead of stifling them.”

  “I have no powers that you speak of,” Timoran swears with his arms spread out. Feeling a surging heat in his chest, he calms down before his rage returns. “My friends are the unique champions. I am a simple barbarian warrior and nothing more. Yes, I awakened something in Gale Hollow, but I have not felt it since. After some thought, I believe it was my great axe displaying a previously unknown ability and not my body. It can deflect magic, so I would not be surprised if it could harm creatures composed of the darkest of energy.”

  “Some days I feel your intelligence and wisdom would be better used by a dread boar with a spear in its head,” Kerr calmly states while he sits on Dariana’s bed. The flimsy piece of furniture collapses under the massive god’s weight, but he refuses to stand. “A Callindor with shamanistic abilities, a channeler, a naiad blood, an aural fount, and a godling. These are your allies and you believe you are not destined to be at their level? There is humility, Timoran Wrath, and then there is holding a foolishly low opinion of yourself. Have you never wondered if there was something unique about you?”

  “It never crossed my mind,” the mortal warrior admits, scratching his head.

  Dariana clears her throat and steps off the remaining bed to cautiously approach the Barbarian God. “I would like to point out that none of us considered that possibility. Nyx and I have caught Timoran in various aura and mind scans, but nothing drew our attention such as it did with Delvin. The man’s a
ura is very mild and hard to find, which is expected in those who lack the gift for casting. What kind of power could Timoran have if it doesn’t work off magic? Not that you’re able to answer the question without breaking the law. Unless you have a vague hint that you are here to deliver.”

  “I assume it is the kind that allows him to block and survive the half-hearted strike of a god,” Kerr remarks, meeting the wide-eyed gaze of the woman. He can see the confused expression on Timoran’s face and sighs as his time comes to an end. “You will learn the truth in Aintaranurh and then I will expect you to avoid these pathetic collapses. No more pointless surrenders or wallowing in useless guilt. Otherwise, I will revoke my blessing and you will forever be a barbarian without a tribe.”

  Kerr fades away in a glimmer of red and leaves the splintery ruins of Dariana’s bed on the floor. Timoran is numb as he watches his friend examine the broken frame and punctured mattress. His mind is so busy trying to wrap itself around the words of the god that he never notices his eyes closing. Grunting at the exertion, Dariana catches the exhausted barbarian and drags him to his bed. Within minutes, he is snoring and the telepath is stuck sitting on the floor with her arm trapped under her heavy companion. After several fruitless tugs and shoves, she gives up trying to free herself and does her best to fall into a relaxing trance.

  *****

  “You haven’t answered any of my questions,” Luke says as he walks alongside the fleet-footed barbarian. All he can do is shrug at the continuing silence that he has failed to crack for the last two hours. “We’re far enough away from Stonehelm that we don’t have to worry about getting caught. All I want to know is what you have to do with the missing witness, Timoran, and King Edric.”