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

by Charles E Yallowitz

  “I’m sorry if this is blunt, but have you ever killed anything other than beasts?” the warrior asks, sensing his companion tense at the question. Taking a bite of the fruit, he exaggerates his disgust to get a small chuckle out of her. “I really have to stop eating these. Anyway, I’m thinking back to all of our fights since freeing you from Pallice. There was the assassin in Bor’daruk, but he fell off a building. It’s a stretch to say you out right killed him. Aside from the fight in the grotto, I can’t think of any time you took another life. At least not since I’ve known you.”

  “You mean the massacre in the grotto,” Sari mutters, rolling onto her side to avoid looking at her friend. A few tears threaten to fall down her cheeks, but she catches them on her fingers to let them dance on the floor near her nose. “Before I got involved with this prophecy, I took a few lives for the sake of my clan. People who threatened us, some who stole from us, and one guy that tried to kill Kayn in a bar brawl. Their deaths bothered me, but there was something different this time. Almost like another version of myself took over and actually reveled in the slaughter.”

  Seeing that the fire is dying, Delvin quickly goes to add more wood to the sconce and do a quick check of the perimeter. “I’m sorry for not talking to you when it first happened, Sari. My concern was putting distance between us and the grotto, but that’s no excuse. As I said, all of us have the potential for what happened back there. It comes from the rage, desperation, hate, and other dark emotions that a warrior doesn’t readily admit to using for survival. They give you tunnel vision and you don’t realize the consequences of your actions. All you know is that you’ll be alive if you go through with the killing.” He pauses to rub his eyes and find a better way to explain himself, exhaustion settling into his mind. “I’m not saying that makes it right, but that’s what stands behind those types of actions. At least at the time, you feel like you’re doing what’s right. With no time to think, you give yourself over to reflexes and hope you live long enough to think about it later. It’s up to you and anyone else affected by your deeds to decide on if you’re good, evil, or in the middle.”

  “Then tell me what I am?”

  “A loving, dedicated friend who lost her temper in the face of irrational hate.”

  Sari flips to her feet and goes to give Delvin a kiss on the cheek, accidentally eating a seed that was in his scruff. The gypsy coughs and waves her hand at her open mouth as if the sliver is spicy instead of bitter. Fumbling with her flask, she drains it of fae water while using her tongue to dislodge the seed from her teeth. Not caring about decorum, she spits the disgusting object into the shadows and gasps for air. Through with her extravagant display, Sari half-heartedly smacks Delvin in the shoulder and turns back to the entrance.

  “Learn to clean your face, Cunningham,” the gypsy says, crossing her arms in mock annoyance. She squints when something moves by the distant stairwells, but relaxes when she sees a large rodent waddle out of the ruins. “The cult is trying to commit genocide and I lost my temper. It reminded me of what General Vile did to my clan. I guess I didn’t want to be targeted for another massacre. After all, how many of those can one person be involved in?”

  “True, but this time will be different. You have me and Fizzle here,” Delvin points out with a charming smile. Yawning and stretching his arms over his head, the warrior walks up and down the stairs to stay awake. “I’m not sure if you know this, but Luke had some trouble coming to terms with killing Kayn. Soon after we left the Caster Swamp, he asked me how I handle killing an opponent. It’s such a difficult event to acknowledge after the fact even though there’s barely any hesitation in the heat of the moment. All of us who take up a weapon have to live with the inevitable day that we claim our first life. Whether it be adventurer, mercenary, thief, or whatever path you take, the decision always finds you and most aren’t ready.”

  “You keep talking as if this was my first kill when it wasn’t,” Sari states, slightly irritated at her friend trying to simplify her situation. Wandering to the back wall, she traces her fingers along a set of engravings that resemble serrated swords. “It was so much rage and part of me did enjoy what I was doing at the time. There was a thrill as I fought, which erased any guilt I had at the time. Well maybe it just pushed it away for me to feel later. I mean, these people consider me a monster and I ended up proving them right to some extent. What if the entire thing was my naiad side reacting to the threat? My humanity might not have had anything to do with my actions, which makes me wonder if the two parts aren’t compatible. Let’s be honest here. None of us have sat down to think about what being part naiad even means. Everyone else is understandable, but I’m no longer sure how much of me is human and . . . why are you so quiet back there?”

  Sari turns in time to see Delvin’s feet disappearing into the shadows, the warrior being dragged away by an indiscernible figure. The gypsy casts a light spell to reveal her enemies, but the glowing orb is caught and crushed by a quick moving form. Controlling the rainwater and drawing it inside, she blindly swings a long arm of water around the chamber. A yelp can be heard far to her left as someone drops a heavy object, which she hopes is Delvin. Grabbing a burning piece of wood from the sconce, Sari hurries toward the sound and finds her friend alone on the floor. A bleeding bump is on his head and his gear is missing, but a dull moan proves that the champion is alive.

  “We have to go, Fizzle!” Sari shouts as she tries to drag Delvin by the arm. She can barely move the unconscious warrior and spins around to see if anyone is sneaking up on her. “I need your help. Delvin is too heavy.”

  “Fizzle coming,” the drite whispers from the ceiling.

  As the dragon darts toward his friends, the flowers in the ceiling unleash a curtain of sleep-inducing powder. Diving low, Fizzle avoids the magical pollen and falling insects, but he has to swerve away from a shadow that looms out of the floor to grab him. A flip drives his tail into the back of his attacker’s head, the figure stumbling back into the darkness. He sees a corner that is clear of the sparkling powder and races toward it to disappear among the vines. Turning invisible, he sneaks out into the open and hangs from the wall to get his bearings.

  “Forget about us, Fizzle!” Sari screams while striking at more of the cloaked enemies. Every bolt of water sends one of their attackers crashing against a wall, but another always appears to fill the opening. “Bring the others back here. Tell them what happened to us. Don’t worry though. I promise we won’t be dead by the time you return. Oh, and tell Nyx to bring more fae water. I ran out and don’t like the taste of coffee.”

  Creating a cocoon of ice around her unconscious friend, Sari is able to put up more of a fight. She is unsure about Fizzle until the three figures in the entrance are scattered by an invisible creature hurtling out of the building. Flexing her fingers and focusing on the rain, she sends a massive wave swirling around the room to clear the pollen from the air. Most of her enemies are washed away, but several remain standing and continue their cautious approach. Sari notices that some of them are bonding to the floor with every step, so she coats the bottom of their feet with ice. With startled yelps, the men and women fall to the solid stone and struggle to get back up. Another burst of water spins them across the chamber and slams the attackers into the dais where they become trapped in a fountain of ice.

  “Naiad-blooded,” says one of the unhindered enemies.

  “That’s right and I have a lot of water to play with,” Sari replies, sending a blast of rain at the cloaked man. The stranger puts up his hand to stop the attack and coils it around his body like it is a pet snake. “And apparently so do you. You Judge Feeders keep coming up with new tricks.”

  A figure on the dais reaches out to control the remaining fire and turns it into a swarm of flaming bats. The creatures dive at Sari at the same time the other man unleashes his watery serpent. Sweat pouring from her brow, the gypsy takes control of the geyser and uses it to destroy the incoming creatures. Transforming the liq
uid into a pillar of ice that is connected to her hands, she knocks both enemies sailing into the far wall. Spreading her arms, Sari creates a pair of water streams that end in growling wolf heads. The remaining enemies are kept at bay by the snapping jaws while the gypsy inches toward the entrance. She turns the ice around Delvin into a sled that is chained to her waist, allowing the gypsy to take him with her.

  “Once we’re in the rain, we can escape,” Sari grunts while continuing her attacks.

  A piercing pain in the neck locks her body and she reaches up to feel a trickle of blood below her jaw. Unable to speak, Sari turns around and finds that a slender figure in a silver robe has appeared in the doorway. The gypsy flicks a dagger out of her sleeve and tries to slash the new enemy, but her wrist is caught by a thin, warm hand. The last thing Sari sees is the person’s arm rise and a blinding light engulf her vision.

  16

  The courthouse is surrounded by any citizens of Stonehelm who are not busy tending to the injured. None of the destruction has been repaired, but the bodies of the deceased have been gathered and given to the surviving shamans for funeral rites. The fallen chaos elves have been wrapped in aromatic blankets and placed in an unused clearing, the bodies preserved and protected from scavengers by a combination of herbs. General Godric and King Edric have been patiently waiting on the steps of the courthouse as people arrive to hear the phantom’s announcement. The tension is palpable as everyone wonders what the ghostly figure will say about the legendary warrior who has returned from the dead and the former exile they assumed had killed him. Many keep an eye on Timoran, the red-haired man standing like a statue at the base of the stairs. The champion’s great axe is kept on his shoulder to make sure people think twice about rushing the building. For now, all the citizens know is that somebody will be blamed for past mistakes and the tribe will have to begin another period of mourning.

  Gasps and whispers flow through the crowd as the phantom describes how Edric succeeded in killing his best friend. They can see a look of surprise and anger on their King’s face, which melts into an expression of shame. As the psychic dam crumbles in his mind, the wise ruler of Stonehelm holds his head and cries at the returning memories. His legs nearly give out, but he grips the side of the building to avoid an embarrassing collapse. Timoran sits on the steps in shock when the story reaches the point where he retrieved the Second Life from its hiding place near Aintaranurh and the ritual was performed to revive the fallen warrior. By the time Tigris nears the end of her tale, the citizens are screaming for blood and preparing to charge the courthouse. Before the enraged barbarians can storm the courthouse, General Godric raises his hand and lets it fall on Edric’s shoulder. It is a tight squeeze that hurts because of an injury sustained during the battle, but there is no malice within the gesture. The simple act leaves the rest of the tribe confused and willing to wait for the phantom to finish speaking.

  “Now I stand here to reveal the truth and free those of us who sacrificed to bring General Godric back to life,” Tigris announces, her true form becoming visible to the crowd. Another explosion of whispers consumes the people of Stonehelm with several people cheering for her return. “Those are the events that have brought us here and revealing them has begun the process of healing. Please try to understand more than what you’ve heard before demanding justice. King Edric did what he thought was best for the tribe even though it broke his heart. He attempted to make amends by undoing his actions, but his sacrifice resulted in him claiming a throne that he never wanted. You must take this into consideration when deciding his fate.”

  “There is nothing to consider,” Edric declares, raising his crown to the crowd. A chorus of boos and threats meet his voice, but they quiet down when he places the jade circlet in Tigris’s hands. “Whether I meant well or not, I committed an unforgivable crime. I also let a more honorable man take the blame and tried to execute him. This is not taking into account the theft of King Melich’s crown and sitting on the throne without defeating Aintaranurh. All of this means I should not rule or even be a member of this tribe. By all rights, I should be executed and buried in an unmarked grave.”

  “You’re getting dramatic in your old age,” Raynar whispers with a chuckle. Gesturing for Timoran to join them at the door, the tired warrior looks out over his fellow barbarians. “First we acknowledge that War Chieftain Wrath is cleared of all crimes, except the abandoning of his post. I’m sorry, son, but you did run away like a child avoiding his angry mother. Yet you were exiled for more years than the actual punishment, so your penance is done. We officially welcome you back to the Snow Tiger Tribe.”

  Their keen ears picking up the conversation, the crowd cheers as Tigris gives her husband a kiss and the pair move aside to allow the General to descend the stairs. He shakes hands and returns smiles, reveling in the type of attention that he has not received in what feels like a lifetime. Barely aware of those around him, a few tears run into his beard as he considers the fate of his old friend. A nagging thought grows stronger in his mind until it is the only thing he can think about. There is a subtle wrongness in the breeze and the colors of the world seem duller than they did several minutes ago. Glancing at his hands, he expects them to be fading away, but they are the same gnarled body parts they have been for the past few years. Still, a chill runs up his spine and a distant howling distracts him from the adoration of his people.

  “Your father is not looking well,” Timoran whispers into his wife’s ear. From behind, he can see the old warrior is hunched and dragging his right foot. “Is this because the sacrifices have been undone? Did he know this would happen?”

  “It was always a possibility, but you know he would have done this even if it was a sure thing,” Tigris responds, her blue eyes watching King Edric. The distraught ruler seems to be shrinking by the minute as he remains standing with his head down. “I should hate him for setting all of this in motion. Yet, I cannot do anything more than pity him. Imagine what would have happened if he never committed his sin and the warrior mentality of my father really did bring us into more battles. The legacy of General Godric would be tainted. Possibly even the reputation of the tribe and the alliances we have with our neighbors. It makes me wonder how many evil deeds have been done for the greater good, but people forgave them because the alternative was proven to be worse.”

  “I think you have spent too much time alone. Though you are correct, but now is not the time for a philosophical discussion,” her husband says with a warm smile. He grips her hand and refuses to let go, his thumb running along the smooth ring of bone on her finger. “I should put my ring back on. It is somewhere in my pouch. Now that we have been reunited, I feel like my finger is too light. I believe we have given the old man enough time enjoying the praise. Closure is needed.”

  Timoran walks down the steps and tries to put a hand on General Godric’s shoulder, but he is mobbed by the crowd. Handshakes and flasks are offered, some of which are thrust into his face so quickly and violently that he nearly punches the friendly citizen. Within a minute, he is yanked into the mass of joyous people and only his flailing left arm can be seen above their heads. Tigris attempts to rescue her father and husband, but meets the same fate as a horde of old friends hug her. She is shuffled around and told the various rumors of her demise while those with lingering disbelief gently touch her face. At one point, she bumps into Timoran and tries to catch his wrist before they are separated again. Instead, she grabs someone else’s hand and is pulled in the opposite direction of her beloved.

  “Enough!” King Edric bellows from the top of the stairs. A sea of angry stares meets the disgraced ruler, but no one dares to speak against him. “I know you do not owe me your respect, but I must say you are acting like foolish children. Our dead are being prepared for burial, our tribe has no true ruler, and one of the most dangerous figures in Windemere is sitting in our prison. As happy as I am to have these warriors back and cleared of all crimes, I know there is business that requires our
attention. A celebration can wait until we settle all of our lingering problems and secure peace for our tribe.”

  “Start with the executions!” shouts a woman from the back.

  “Kill Edric alongside the chaos elves!”

  “I say have them fight each other!”

  “Feed them all to the snow tigers!”

  “He betrayed us all, so I say we stone him!”

  A flood of cruel suggestions rises from the crowd as they let their fury seep to the surface of their hearts. Every word drives Edric further into a depression and his hand grips his spear as he contemplates taking his own life. Another hand slips the weapon from his fingers and he looks up to see Raynar standing before him. His mouth goes dry when he sees a flicker of hate in his old friend’s deep eyes, but a tired sigh from the warrior causes him to examine the rest of the man. Wrinkled skin, cracked lips, and a slight wheeze make Edric realize that he is not the only person whose time may be coming to an end.

  “Do we go out as enemies or friends, old man?” the General asks, holding up his hand to stop the shouting. He makes a slow fist to stop his trembling fingers, the crowd mistaking it for a gesture of intimidation. “You killed me and then brought me back. I refused to give your wisdom a chance and now I’ve destroyed your legacy. History may call me the hero and you the villain, but right now I think both of us are nothing more than selfish, idiotic fools.”

  “In that case, let us die the way we were meant to,” Edric replies while removing his cape and taking back his weapon. He lets the heavy garment fall to the ground and rolls his injured shoulder. “You should make the announcement. Also, I request that we have Timoran involved considering what will happen afterwards. It is only right given what we put the young man through. After all, it was our disagreement that started this and I could have stopped him from using the Second Life. My guilt and stubbornness caused all of this.”