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

by Charles E Yallowitz

  “It always looks different,” Fortunatos whispers, not wanting to ruin the moment. He prods the champion in the shoulder and gestures toward the torch. “Go there and the final challenge will appear. Good luck and try not to get upset.”

  “Why would I get upset?” the barbarian asks as he touches a nearby crystal.

  “Because the truth can be painful.”

  Curious and worried, Timoran jogs to the torch and stands with the head of his great axe against the ground. Hazy forms appear out of the crystals and steadily become clear as they spread around the room. The muscular figures are regal and clad in gorgeous armors that sparkle in the changing torchlight. Each one wears a crown of ghostly jade and is wrapped in the snow tiger cape that is passed down from one ruler of Stonehelm to the next. The former Kings and Queens of his tribe quietly stare at Timoran, their glowing eyes holding neither malice nor concern. It is as if they have only come to bear witness to an event that none of them have any stake in.

  A massive, wild-haired ghost steps through the crowd and approaches the torch with long, powerful strides. Unlike the other rulers, this man is not wearing any armor beyond studded bracers and leather patches on his pants. His elegant beard is pure white and runs down to his belly, which is rippling with muscles. He has no weapons, but holds his right hand as if he is gripping the handle of a heavy object. Timoran can tell that this person must have been a terrifying warrior when alive and is even more dangerous in death. There is something about the orange eyes that twists the champion’s nerves and forces him to move away. A baritone laugh erupts from the specter when it sees the fear on its opponent’s face.

  “This is the champion who was birthed from my tribe?” the ghost asks, turning to Fortunatos and waving the Jester over. Amused by his challenger, he pats the guardian on the shoulder and squeezes him in a one-armed hug. “He reeks of fear. If this is the living tragedy that will befall the tribe that I forged then I pray somebody erases them from the world. I, Wodan the first Snow Tiger King, will never allow a coward to take my true crown.”

  “I assure you that he’s tougher than he looks,” Fortunatos says while slipping free of the phantom’s grip. Spinning his head like a top, he is unable to locate the comatose champions’ auras. “May I ask where his friends are? You wanted them as hostages to get a better fight out of this man. I assumed they would be here.”

  With a primal growl, Wodan stomps the ground and three of the thicker crystal spires hum to life. Luke, Nyx, and Dariana can be seen sleeping inside, their auras plunged into a restless stasis. All three shift in discomfort and unleash random silent screams of pain or fear, the noise contained by their unbreakable prisons. The figures fade away and reappear in the ceiling, stretching across the glistening expanse. Satisfied that he has made his point, the first Snow Tiger King stomps again to hide his captives from view. With a frown, he sees them still flicker into existence on random pieces of crystal throughout the room.

  “Why are you in this temple?” Timoran asks, walking toward the ghostly ruler. He leaps back when he senses something coming and feels an invisible blade cut across his arm. “I do not understand your presence here. Were you a champion who fell? If so, why has the tribe never known about our connection to the prophecy until I stepped on the path?”

  “You ramble like an empty-headed child,” Wodan replies, earning a few laughs from the other rulers. Reaching out to turn the torch into a vibrant red, the specter grins wide enough to show off his gnarled teeth. “I’m here because I claimed Aintaranurh for myself. Once I found a way beyond the first floor, I bested the other challenges and made this the center of my new tribe’s culture. Fortunatos helped me choose powerful leaders even when the stock of our people began to grow thin and weak. As for being a champion, why would I become something so pathetic? If such a hero is tested by the simple tasks of this temple then their enemy must be nothing more than an infant. No wonder this guardian brought my spirit here. Such power would be squandered on these so-called champions, which is why I have staked a claim on Aintaranurh.”

  “You broke into my temple and infected it,” Timoran says, spying the shame in Fortunatos’s eyes. Moving to the other side of the torch, he closes his eyes and smells the faint odor of decay in the room. “The intruders who are draining the energy of the temple are all of you. None of you should be here. Your presence is putting Windemere at risk because I need the power from here to face my enemies. Now there is very little left.”

  “We belong here! This is our territory!” the stubborn phantom shouts while stretching his arms. For a brief moment, a double-headed axe appears in the torchlight and disappears as it is lowered. “My tribe was created around Aintaranurh and I used its power to carve a kingdom among the mountains. Have you not noticed that the other barbarians live far away and still fear my people? The Snow Tigers are the dominant force of Ralian while the other tribes continue to prove their weakness across the world. They exist on the outskirts of our territory, which is something they should be thankful for. If I had not met an early end then I would rule every corner of this continent’s wilderness. Maybe the entire world if this guardian had revealed the locations of the other temples.”

  Timoran’s eye twitches at the final words and he charges to attempt a swing that is narrowly avoided by the ghost. “You are nothing more than a power-hungry warlord! These places were to be used for a greater purpose than conquest and you have destroyed this one. Now you tell me that your plan was to claim them all and wage war against the world? How could our people have fallen for such a dishonorable agenda?”

  “They were made for it!” Wodan bellows, shaking the entire crystal mine. He swings his invisible weapon, but Timoran leaps far away to avoid the blow. “Why do you think every young man and woman travels outside of the tribe when they come of age? It was not to teach them of the world or to test them like the current generations believe. They were ordered to locate the other champion temples. None of them were successful, but we kept trying. With so much untapped power, our people could have reshaped all of Windemere with a glorious war. Now people like you have ruined my dream and sullied the throne.”

  “I’m sorry, Timoran,” Fortunatos interrupts, bowing his head and floating over the torch. He kicks at the flame and turns it into a mellowing amber, which is changed back to red by the old Snow Tiger King’s growl. “I shouldn’t have let him in here, but I was new to the job. Then he came back as a ghost when I accepted others. No matter what I did, this man refused be dislodged from my home. Perhaps part of me believed that I had brought his presence upon myself. After all, this man nearly ruined the prophecy log before Gabriel sent an agent to destroy him.”

  “It is not your fault,” Timoran says as he fixes his vest. He tightens his bracers and runs his hand along the face of his tiger-striped axe. “He is an infestation that must be purged. It is only right that he be destroyed by the hand of the new king.”

  “You aren’t worthy of my crown!”

  “And you are not worthy of my temple!”

  The barbarians charge while Timoran focuses on the movements of his enemy’s arms. He puts his axe up to block what he thinks is a slash, but the invisible attack still skims across his chest. It leaves a cut beneath the undamaged Ifrit fur vest, the wound burning and stealing Timoran’s breath for a gut-wrenching second. Attempting his own strike, the champion’s weapon harmlessly passes through the spectral ruler. With an amused laugh, Wodan kicks the warrior in the stomach and sends him crashing against a thick spire. Feeling the breeze of an incoming swing, the red-haired barbarian ducks and rolls away, stopping in a crouch to leap back at his enemy. Another slash at the ghost’s legs does nothing and Timoran takes a punch to the face, which drives him to the floor. He is about to stand when a tight grip catches his throat and hurls him to the other side of the chamber. Spinning through the air, the champion bounces off a crystal support pillar and crashes to the ground with a dull thud. The spectral Snow Tiger King laughs and revels in the
applause from several of the other rulers.

  “This is why you will never rule my tribe,” Wodan declares, remaining by the torch. A look of disgust is on his face when he sees that Timoran is not getting up. “I weep for the future of our people. A tribe of conquerors turned into philosophers and limp-wristed soldiers. All of us who held the throne in the old days should rise up and retake our homeland. With the power of Aintaranurh and these three champions, we can finish what I started.”

  With a ringing in his ears and blood dripping into his eyes, Timoran can barely make out the ranting specter’s words. He staggers to his feet and leans against the cracked spire to see that his enemy is rallying the others. The face of Nyx briefly appears next to him, but it only makes him feel ashamed and worthless. For all of his life, Timoran has believed that his tribe is one bound by honor and a desire for peace. Now he has learned that their origin is that of a warmongering pack seeking to conquer the world. All of his culture’s traditions flood into his mind and he picks out their connections to locating the other temples and crushing the weak, which makes his rage burn. Even with a blistering fury in his chest, the champion finds that he cannot return to the battle.

  “Why am I unable to hit him?” Timoran asks, hoping the answer will come to him.

  “Because you are not really trying,” whispers a familiar voice. Edric materializes before his former student and adjusts his crown, the ghostly circlet now showing a jagged crack down the middle. “Wodan is a relic. He believes the title makes the man and the Snow Tiger King’s role is only about conquest. The two of us know that it is the man who makes the title. You and Tigris are our tribe’s new leaders, which means our people’s reputation is on your shoulders. So act like your true self and bring honor to our people like you always do. Will you be an enraged bear or a cunning snow tiger, King Wrath?”

  Seeing that Wodan is watching them, the dizzy champion admits, “I do not understand. I need my rage and I am trying not to let it overcome my common sense. That is how I always fight.”

  “I truly failed you as a teacher,” the disgraced ruler groans, hurling a spectral spear to stop the other ghosts from coming closer. The weapon strikes the ground and explodes into a shower of shards that drives them back. “It is simple. Keep a clear mind and channel your rage. You already realized one aspect of the power that flows through the ring. If you want to destroy something then you will do it, which is all well and good. Yet, why does your motivation always have to be destruction? Consider the idea that if you want to protect someone then you will do it with the same amount of fervor. As long as you are determined and keep your honor pure, no obstacle will stand in your way.”

  Timoran glances at the Ring of Aintaranurh and remembers how it made him feel, the sensation swiftly returning. With a battle cry that shatters some of the more fragile crystals, the champion rushes at his enemy and lets his rage flow through his muscles. Instead of focusing on defeating his enemy, all he wants to do is save his friends and bring honor to his tribe. Even more so, Timoran wishes to erase the stain on his people’s history and put the first Snow Tiger King to rest for eternity. The ghost’s double-headed axe materializes as the champion’s senses become even more acute thanks to the ring channeling his fury.

  “A mewling scream will not scare me,” Wodan growls before he notices that his supporters are gradually dispelling. By the time Timoran gets within reach, only the more recent rulers who pushed for peace remain in the chamber. “I see how it is. My tribe is plagued by traitors and pacifists. None of you would have held power without me. Do you want our people to merely survive or to make history?”

  The tiger-striped great axe shatters Wodan’s weapon and comes back around to strike the surprised ghost in the head. The blow sends the original Snow Tiger King stumbling away, but his beard is grabbed by the focused champion. A burst of light from the Ring of Aintaranurh is barely noticed by Timoran as he yanks his enemy forward and lifts his weapon for a body-cleaving attack. Wanting to give the final blow more spectators, Fortunatos restores the other champions’ auras and frees them from their cocoons, earning a look of bewilderment from the terrified specter. A mischievous smirk is on the Jester’s face as he waggles his fingers and blows a kiss to the arrogant guest who nearly ended his existence. The wide-eyed expression is still on Wodan’s face as Timoran’s great axe comes down to put a shattering end to the Snow Tiger Tribe’s mad founder.

  19

  With every citizen of Stonehelm standing in front of the dais, Timoran and Tigris bow their heads before Fortunatos. The Jester is excited to be outside of Aintaranurh and no longer under the threat of fading away, so it requires the urgent whistling of the impatient crowd to refocus his attention. With a flourish, a pair of crystal circlets are drawn from his sleeves and placed upon the heads of the new rulers. He frowns at the simple appearance and adds tiger teeth to Timoran’s crown, the pointy decoration curving out from the top. Fortunatos puts a dangling diamond chain on Tigris’s circlet, which she snaps off and politely hands back to the colorful guardian. Shrugging, he tucks the gem into his pocket and turns to the face the quiet citizens of Stonehelm. A deep breath balloons his chest, earning a chorus of laughter from the children that have been following the Jester since he arrived in the morning.

  “Thank you for allowing this lonely, powerful, handsome, and not in any way humble stranger to stay with you,” Fortunatos announces while floating over to an empty chair. He bows and extends his neck to put his forehead against the ground. “It has been too long since I enjoyed the wind and sun. Even longer since I had real friends and now I have an entire tribe to call home. Possibly two if things go well. So it’s a great honor to introduce the Snow Tiger King and Queen of Stonehelm, Timoran and Tigris Wrath. For those remembering that this was already announced, I’d like to point out that it’s official now. No gnawing on the details. Just clap and cheer.”

  With a roar, the crowd lifts their weapons into the air, including the children who have been given toy axes and swords. The new rulers smile and wave, neither of them entirely sure what they are supposed to do now that they wear the crowns. So much has happened within the last few days that they feel overwhelmed and want nothing more than to retire to their chambers. The thought of the two of them having a meal together after years of being apart makes Timoran and Tigris swiftly grow impatient with the celebration. Yet they remain calm because there is one very important piece of business that must be settled.

  A nod of the head is all Cyrus and Luke need before they signal for Dariana to open the door to the jail. The barbarians quiet down when they see the chaos elves being escorted out by the guards and gathered in a penned off area. Seeing their former enemies disarmed and in simple clothes, many in the crowd wonder why they ever had trouble winning the battle. After five minutes have passed and the prisoners are still marching out of the prison, the people of Stonehelm realize how much danger they were in. It is a realization that puts them on edge and causes many to wonder if it is safe to keep the chaos elves alive.

  “My first act as your King is to bring justice to Queen Trinity and her people,” Timoran declares, his voice booming over the sound of marching feet. He takes his wife’s hand to steady his nerves and lets her squeeze his fingers whenever his voice falters. “I am more warrior than diplomat, so I do not know how to sway your hearts and minds. These people attacked us and killed members of the tribe. One would think the situation is fairly straightforward, but I have learned that it is not the case. Queen Trinity has asked that she be the only one punished and the rest of her people be allowed to leave in peace. After consulting with General Anghorn and Queen Wrath, we agreed to these terms and made our own request. To kill a beloved ruler without a trial will only turn our two peoples into enemies. I have asked Queen Trinity to stand before us and reveal the truth behind the chaos elves’ activities and history. In my time away, I have learned that there is more to them than anyone has realized. Yet I feel she can explain it better than I. Af
ter all, I already feel like I am about to repeat myself and ramble into gibberish. Bring out the accused!”

  Escorted by Sebave and Nyx, Trinity slowly makes her way out of the jail. Her people make a path and reach out to touch their ruler while whispering words of encouragement. At first, the barbarians assume the gradual approach is out of fear and she is trying to figure out a way to escape. So they are surprised to see that she is pregnant and having trouble walking thanks to a very active baby. A flood of questions rise to meet Trinity as Cyrus lifts her over the gate and hands her to Luke, the General turning to assist the other two women. Sensing the rising confusion, Tigris draws one of her spears and holds it above her head to get the mob to calm down. It is more the confident smile on the chaos elf’s face that silences their tongues and draws their attention. Stepping into a hastily erected witness stand, Trinity faces the barbarians and tries her best to get comfortable on the rough stool.

  “There are a lot of formalities and declarations that are supposed to be done during these things,” Timoran says, pulling a handful of papers out of his vest pocket. With a smirk, he hands them to Cyrus and shrugs while wiping his ink-stained hands on his pants. “We all know what happened, so there is no reason to tell the tale again. It is more important that we know what drove the chaos elves to attack us. Was it only about two Near Gods having their final battle or was something else behind their actions? After all, everyone here must have thought it strange that we were challenged by an army we had never interacted with before. Many have heard that our enemies were driven from their home and they could only return with our defeat. That is true, but it is not all of the story. I want us to pass judgement with no doubts or lingering questions. To that end, I give the floor to Queen Trinity. Any who show disrespect or try to attack her will find themselves at the wrong end of my axe.”