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

by Charles E Yallowitz

  “A superb speech, except you forgot two little factors,” Ambrosine whispers while running her finger around the rim of a soup bowl. The sweet-scented brother drifts into her mouth while she slinks back to her chair and relaxes. “One is that you asked Yola Biggs to protect those left behind. The woman might not be my favorite creature in exists, but she is loyal to you and determined to stand by her word. My father will be forced to decide between carrying out his threat and the happiness of his newest spawn’s mother. That factor will give the second fact time to come to fruition. If the champions defeat the Baron then you regain your homeland. With him dead, the chaos elves will be free and all of Shayd will prosper. For example, those gems and resources that he hoards will be yours to trade with the outside world.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I am simply pointing out that survival does not always involve sacrifice and staying loyal to a cruel master.”

  Trinity rubs her belly, imagining that the baby is pressing a hand to touch hers. “You want me to trust in the one friend I have left and be patient. Yola won’t let me down and I do believe that these champions have a chance of success. Are you suggesting that I ally with my former enemies?”

  “Were they ever really your enemies or merely targets you were sent after?” Ambrosine asks with a teeth-bearing smile. A twinge in her mind makes the goddess roll her eyes and conjure another chair. “Think about your next step and examine all factors. You have always been talented when it comes to planning victories, but only if your mind remains clear. The weaknesses of others scream to you like shrieking harpies, dear Trinity. Look at how you goaded a stubborn woman into attacking when she constantly refused beforehand. Remember your strengths and that you have never truly cared about my father’s dreams. Our goal is to make sure our people see every sunrise that Windemere has to offer. Now I believe we are about to have some unexpected company. I assume they are coming for you, but I wish to stay.”

  A frayed tear appears in front of the cell, allowing Timoran and Dariana to cross into Trinity’s mind. Stopping in their tracks, the champions are surprised by all of the food and the Chaos Elf Goddess’s presence. After an awkward bow, the barbarian claims the empty chair and waits for his companion to stop staring at the cobalt-skinned deity. There is no tension in the air, but he senses that the unexpected encounter can sour at any moment. Noticing a steaming turkey within reach, Timoran experimentally taps at the leg until it pops off and floats into his waiting hand.

  “I’m sorry to have interrupted your message, older sister,” Dariana says, creating her own seat in front of the rough doorway. She tries to appear relaxed, but fails due to the mental pressure of maintaining long distance contact. “We had a break in our challenges and Timoran wanted to speak with Trinity. He has earned the crown, which ensures that he’ll be the one to preside over her trial.”

  “How is it being awake for so long, little half-sister?” Ambrosine asks, ignoring the two mortals. Licking her full lips, she twists her hand to drag the telepath across the cell for a closer look. “You definitely have your mother’s presence and softness of hair. Though you have our father’s eyes and scent. The power and intensity that roils beneath your surface reminds me of my younger self. I should be angry that you had a hand in our brother’s death, but I’m already over the loss. Stephen could have become so much more than a pathetic monster protected by our nostalgic father. I visited him after he died and he is not doing well. Nobody on Ambervale will claim him, so he is being shuffled throughout the harsher afterlife planes. Thought you should know.”

  “That’s unfortunate because I hoped he had found peace at last,” the silver-haired champion admits in an unwavering voice. Claiming a hunk of chocolate, she moves back to allow Timoran and Trinity to look directly at each other. “I’m sorry, but this visit is not about us. You and I can converse whenever we want since we’re family. My friend wants to help your people, which you will agree is more important.”

  Timoran clears his throat and leans forward, nearly toppling out of the small chair. “I have been made aware of your reasons for attacking my tribe, Queen Trinity. So have my friends, but the rest of my people are unaware of the truth. Many have guessed that you attacked us out of desperation, but they do not know the extent of your suffering. For you to survive and for me to retain my new throne, I need to sway them entirely in your favor. I am not a diplomat, which means such an act is beyond my current abilities.”

  “So I’m doomed because you can’t make a speech,” Trinity bitterly retorts with a chuckle. A twinge of guilt on the barbarian’s face makes her soften her tone and force a smile. “Thank you for showing concern since we’ve tried to kill each other in the past. What do you plan on doing to help me? A fight to the death wouldn’t work given my current situation. I’d never put a proxy in my place either.”

  “I want you to tell my tribe about your people,” the barbarian politely requests, surprising the chaos elves. The intense stare of Ambrosine makes him visibly uncomfortable, so the goddess turns away to watch his reflection in a mirror. “Windemere only knows your people as assassins, spies, and thieves. Make the Snow Tiger Tribe realize that you have families and a culture like the rest of the world. I can open my people’s hearts to you, but I need you to touch them. Figuratively speaking, of course. Just think of what you can say at your trial and I will give you the stand right away.”

  “Fortunatos is calling us back to our bodies,” Dariana whispers, the jingling of bells ebbing from the twisting hole. The champions bow to their hosts as they fade away along with a cart of desserts that the jester desires. “Please take him up on his offer, your highness. All of us are ready to help if you wish. After all, you’ve been a victim of my father for longer than every champion except me.”

  With a gentle sucking sound, the psychic opening sews itself shut and the food-filled cell becomes eerily quiet. Trinity fixes the damaged bars and leans against them while Ambrosine giggles into a goblet of water. The goddess’s amusement steadily grows until she laughs loud enough to crack the nearly repaired walls. Struggling to her feet, she stumbles to her beloved follower and hugs her tightly. Tears drip onto the mortal woman’s shoulder and coat her body in an ephemeral shimmer that replaces her ratty clothes. A feeling of warmth and hope starts to needle into the channeler’s heart, but she pushes it away out of fear of the goddess clouding her thoughts.

  “What is wrong with you?” Trinity asks, feeling more drops fall onto her neck. A sense of relief and joy breaks through her defenses, causing her head to swim. “I don’t understand what you’re happy about.”

  “For as long as I have been a goddess, our people have been prisoners. First by their ancestors’ actions and then by my father,” Ambrosine explains, regaining enough control to speak clearly. With a deep breath, she releases Trinity and bends down to kiss the mortal on the belly. “Gabriel has never been able to forge a champion from our people because of my father’s presence on Shayd. The best we could do is create your bloodline to be a protector and keep the chaos elves safe. As much as I dreamed of it, never did I believe you would be in a position to free them from their bonds. They will see the sun and, if the champions claim victory, they will remain there for the rest of time. Trust in your friends and former enemies, Queen Trinity. You are on the verge of doing something that I never thought I would see. Please do not let me down.”

  A wicked grin appears on Trinity’s face and she eases the elegant goddess back onto the plush chair. “Don’t worry. I know exactly what to say and the right strings to pull. I won’t let you or our people down.”

  *****

  Timoran and Dariana awaken from their trances to find Fortunatos drawing a circle in the middle of the arena. Oblivious to their return, he repeatedly mumbles incantations that forge glistening runes in the blood-stained dirt. The markings throb with ancient energy that changes color with every pulse. Luke is trying to understand the language, but his brain physically flips whenever he c
omes close. After a few minutes, Nyx softly punches him in the shoulder and points at his nose, which is seeping a white sauce instead of blood. Handing the warrior a soft handkerchief, the channeler goes back to enjoying the raw magic that is flowing through the chamber. With nothing else to do, the champions patiently wait for the whistling guardian to finish and tell them about their next challenge.

  “There are twenty levels with various traps and monsters. All of them have been accounted for too,” Fortunatos explains in a casual manner. His fingers are filthy from making the deep circle, so he plucks them off and pulls fresh digits out of his jingling cap. “This circle will open into stairs and you will work your way to the bottom. This temple is nothing more than a shaft that goes down to an old crystal mine, which was buried in the Great Cataclysm. Well not so much buried as the original tower sank into the earth and created the circular valley that you entered through. Never mind, I believe that does mean it was buried. Anyway, everyone step into the circle and I will get you started. Once you go downstairs, there won’t be any help coming from me. My job is to wait at the bottom for the final challenge, send your pieces to Helgard, and take a nap. Possibly in that order. Good luck.”

  The four champions gather among the runes, the warriors with weapons drawn and Nyx with a force spell on her fingertips. Dirt shifts beneath their feet and they can see wide steps forming in the middle of the circle. Coiling, spectral hands rise and touch the adventurers while Fortunatos hovers overhead. The ghostly limbs examine each of the champions, bypassing their clothes and flesh to caress their auras. Most of the gangly feelers gather around Nyx and Dariana while only one searches Timoran for his miniscule amount of energy. It is a strange sensation that borders on invasive and makes their skin crawl, but there is a strange tranquility that ebbs and surges throughout their muscles.

  A baritone laugh bursts from the floor and the hands lift their targets off the ground by their chests. The one holding Timoran hurls him out of the circle and into the arena wall, leaving a dent in the solid stone. Unphased by the impact, the barbarian leaps to his feet and charges with his axe swinging over his head. Before he can reach his friends, their auras are torn from their bodies and dragged beneath the roiling floor. Timoran skids to a stop and stares at the others whose eyes are glazing over and sinking into their sockets. Without a sound, Fortunatos gathers the fallen champions and places them in cocoons that sprout from the ceiling. The Jester’s face is morose and downtrodden as he tenderly places the bodies into the life-sustaining pods. Sprouting several arms that pass over the openings, he seals them inside and leaves a glistening window over their faces.

  “What did you do?” Timoran asks, catching the guardian by the head. The colorful man melts and drips out of the barbarian’s grasp, reappearing several feet away. “Are you working for the Baron? You must be corrupted.”

  “I’m on your side, but things are complicated here,” Fortunatos replies while he wipes some dirt off the stairs. Whispers rise from the depths of Aintaranurh, their mocking tone increasing his gut-aching guilt. “There are . . . people who took residence in the temple. I let them in because I was lonely and wanted some company. They’ve yet to leave and one of them is very interested in you. This guest is the self-proclaimed champion of Aintaranurh and has decided to take your friends’ auras hostage to draw you into a fight. You’re to defeat the temple alone and prove you’re worthy of the final battle. I’m sorry, but this is the situation.”

  The red-haired warrior can barely control his temper as he roars, “You are the guardian! Why would you let this happen?”

  “Because I am bored!” the Jester bellows louder than the barbarian. Fortunatos becomes twenty feet tall and lifts Timoran up by the arm. “I’ve been stuck in here for centuries with only ghosts and monsters to entertain me. Do you know what Jesters were born from? We emerged from pure, primordial chaos and roamed Windemere in search of fun. Then my people vanished during the Great Cataclysm and I found myself here because I enjoyed pranking the original guardian. He didn’t survive the upheaval, so I took over the position since I had nowhere else to go. Now I have a chance to put an end to everything and all I have to do is make things harder for you.”

  “I do not understand what you get out of this.”

  “Freedom from this decaying temple that will turn to ashes if you win.”

  “I will not make you stay here against your wishes.”

  “That’s the thing, King Wrath. A guardian dies if his temple is destroyed, which I didn’t learn until it was too late.”

  Fortunatos shrinks to the size of a child and sits in the dirt, his face staring blankly into the distance. The playful fire that his eyes have held since he first appeared has turned into a vague flicker, the energy desperate to stay alive. He glances at the slumbering champions and has the cocoons rock like a trio of cradles. An impatient roar erupts from below, causing the guardian to cringe in guilt and self-loathing. To his surprise, Timoran sits next to him and pats his head, each touch ringing the bells of the Jester’s cap.

  “I am confused,” the barbarian admits with a sigh. “The other temples did not have this problem. Why is it a risk here?”

  “Every temple must remain in relative seclusion to let the champion’s power gestate. Only those chosen to enter can do so without harming the delicate system within,” Fortunatos explains while running a hand through the dirt. Picking up a handful of blood and soil, he lets it sift through his fingers and become six piles with one remaining a faint bump. “As I said, I got bored and opened Aintaranurh to the first ruler of your tribe. Then the next one and going down the line of Snow Tiger Kings and Queens. Ghosts were invited inside too. Over time, their presence soured the magical core that Gabriel built into the temple. The same would have happened to the Garden of Uli if that Dark Wind curse remained for a few generations. You’d be surprised how fragile these places are. So now there is only enough energy left to awaken your powers and then Aintaranurh fades away.”

  “What does the ring do?” Timoran asks, holding his hand out to the Jester. The piece of marble jewelry shines and pulses the closer it gets to the guardian. “You said it has never been worn and I cannot get a clear sense of what it does. I feel tranquil and strong, as if I can walk into the most horrifying battle and hold my own.”

  “It is already absorbing the remaining energy of the temple,” Fortunatos says as he watches lines of magic flow into the artifact. Holding up his hand, he sees a faint thread going from his thumb to the ravenous relic. “When the time comes, it will drain Aintaranurh of all its magic and then you will awaken. Beyond that, I’ve no idea what it does. You’re the only champion who needs an artifact because of your weak aura. Everything about you is unique compared to the others.”

  The barbarian closes his eyes and stands, hefting his axe onto his shoulder. “I feel stronger than ever. If I wish to strike something, I will destroy it because I control every aspect of this power. This is the Ring of Aintaranurh and it will be my new temple.”

  “Now you’re being vague and confusing.”

  “If all of the temple’s power goes into me then I will become Aintaranurh.”

  “Still not making any sense.”

  “On my honor, I will not let you fade away, my friend.”

  Fortunatos laughs and hops to his feet, understanding dawning on his face. “That’s so unexpected that it has to work. You’re a very interesting man, Snow Tiger King. I swear my allegiance to you and the pretty ring. My life and powers are yours to command within reason and permission, but I can only be your guide here. There are twenty levels of challenges for you to get through before facing the one who has your friends.”

  Timoran approaches the stairs and listens to the sound of several monsters that are waiting for him to descend. Kneeling on the top step, he can see the shadowy form of a large beast that is staring at him with dark gray eyes. He walks toward the distant gate with thundering steps and listens for a change in pitch to tell him when he
hits the edge of next level. Once the barbarian hears the faint noise he is searching for, he lifts his great axe and slams it into the sandy floor. A burst of orange magic explodes from the ringing impact and the Ring of Aintaranurh turns blood red. Timoran strikes another blow that shatters the ground and sends large chunks of stone falling into the lower chamber. He can hear a creature screeching in pain as several containment spells explode and fill the next floor with unrestrained energy.

  “I am sorry, Fortunatos, but I do not have the patience for games right now.”

  *****

  Timoran drops through the hole and into the final level of the temple, the barbarian landing with a knee-quaking thud that rattles the ancient crystals. Spires of colorful prisms hang from the ceiling and the walls have a beautiful sheen, reminding the champion of polished glass. A single torch sits in the center of the chamber, eternally reflecting off the crystals. Timoran can see several mine entrances that are blocked by fallen stone and a few overturned carts with their former loads strewn across the uneven floor. Nerves straining, he waits for Fortunatos to come through the hole with the three cocoons slung over his shoulder. The Jester whistles at the sight of the long lost mine, its breath-taking beauty surprising him even after centuries of living in the temple. Timoran wonders why his companion is still in awe of the landscape until he sees the solitary flame change to a deep blue. The unexpected shift alters the atmosphere of the room, making it eerie and soothing.