Tribe of the Snow Tiger (Legends of Windemere Book 10) (41 page)

“I think we’re figuring this out,” the hybrid says, its voice switching from Luke to Nyx and back again at every word. It attempts to flip off the ground, but rolls backwards to land on its face. “The parts keep switching. We can’t even get up now. Maybe we can use magic to do something.”

A burst of lightning erupts from their back and nearly hits Dariana, the blast arching over the telepath’s head. It misses the Darago entirely and punches a hole in the arena before racing around the walls. The spell comes back around and strikes the defenseless hybrid, who grows wings and a dog’s tail. When they try to use the new body parts, a scream of arguing noises erupts in their head and blood trickles out of their ears. Attempting another spell, the construct violently ejects the wings and tail along with the connected clothing. The projectiles explode as they crash into the stands and the dust drifts to the groaning, barely clothed body. As the cloud settles over the combined half-elves, the motes turn into a suit of crimson platemail that pins them to the blood-soaked floor.

“Hurry up, Timoran!” Dariana shouts while standing over her helpless friends. She punches and kicks the heads away, her telepathy focused on confusing the dragon that repeatedly comes close to incinerating them. “I’m sorry, but I can’t hold my ground for much longer! You need to do something, Timoran! Hello? Where are you?”

The Darago’s heads scream in unison and all of the necks spasm before they abruptly go slack. Dariana scoops up her friends and runs away from the plummeting skulls that shake the ground with their thudding impact. Luke and Nyx divide while in her arms, their weight causing all three champions to tumble into a heap. The crowd cheers when Timoran climbs his way out of the mess of lifeless necks, his body covered in rainbow-colored blood. His axe is stuck in a large, beating heart that he drags to the middle of the arena. Freeing his weapon, the barbarian prepares to stomp on the enlarged organ and bellows loud enough to make the ceiling rain pebbles onto the crowd. When his foot comes down, the heart pops like a balloon and sends waves of blood lapping against the arena walls. As his friends get to their feet, Timoran smiles at Fortunatos who is back in his Jester clothes and gleefully applauding.

“It wasn’t the longest fight I’ve seen, but it was the most amount of fun,” the guardian claims, leaping down to the arena floor. Using one hand, he shoves the Darago’s remains back through the open gate and seals it with a flick of his wrist. “That concludes your test for the throne, so let’s move on to the champion stuff. It’s been awhile and I need to check all the lower levels. For all I know, those monsters have starved to death or left for better employment. All of you can wait here and I’ll open the doors once I’m ready. Oh, here’s another prize for you, King Timoran. It’s never had a name since you’re the first to officially wear it. Try not to call it anything that will make my eyes roll out of their sockets.”

Fortunatos hands the champion a wide ring of marble that molds to the warrior’s thick finger. Timoran can see animals appear within the stone’s mottled coloration, each figure representing the totem of a barbarian tribe. A sense of stability and warmth flows through the champion and he watches the artifact become a gentle blue. Before he can ask any questions, the Jester disappears by folding himself into a tiny ball and falling through a fist-sized hole in the floor. The ghosts fade away, many grumbling about losing more money and claiming they would stop coming to Aintaranurh if they had anywhere else to go.

“It seems we get a reprieve,” Timoran says while sitting on the sand. The others join him to rummage through their bags for food and drink. “Actually, there is something I wish to take care of at home. Can you be a bridge for me, Dariana?”

Sensing his thoughts, the telepath flashes him a beaming smile. “It would be my honor, your majesty.”

18

Trinity knows she is dreaming since the meal laid out before her fills the entire cell from floor to ceiling. Having recently recovered enough strength to safely take her baby back, the captured Queen has done nothing more than sleep and eat. To her silent frustration, the food has been a tasteless, high nutrition stew that Sebave and the shamans insist she ingest to undo any issues caused by transferring the child. So the presence of moist cakes, steaming rolls, golden roasted chickens, and everything else she has ever wanted to taste is a clear sign that she is really passed out on her bed. For a moment, she considers lying back down and forcing herself awake, but the intoxicating aromas draw her to the center of the room. No longer wanting to leave the blissful dream, Trinity lets the happiness wash over her and indulges in everything that is within reach.

“I should point out that your body thinks it is eating, so you are going to make yourself sick if you continue like this,” Ambrosine says as she appears in an empty chair. The Chaos Elf Goddess smiles at her favorite devoted, who is sheepishly chewing on a butter-dripping asparagus stalk. “So when do you plan on breaking out of here? The champions are gone and you have an army that none of the barbarians are expecting an attack from. Even in your current state, you should be able to handle the strongest of Stonehelm.”

“Our people are beaten. I’m a prisoner. The fight is over,” Trinity replies, her appetite disappearing. She turns away from the beautiful goddess and closes her eyes, but finds she cannot leave the vision. “We had one chance to win and we . . . I failed. The Baron will destroy many of us and the survivors will be forced further into his shadow. Those of us on the outside are now exiles, so I’ll tell them to find havens after judgement is passed on me.”

The black-haired deity puts her hands on the mortal’s shoulders, the fingers creeping up to her neck. “Surrender is not our people’s way. You were born with power and I expect you to use it. The chaos elves must survive.”

“Then maybe you should have done something to keep us away from the Baron!” the channeler shouts with enough force to warp the room. She unleashes a blast of acid that melts the bars and hallway, exposing a churning void that surrounds the vivid dream. “I did everything I could to not only keep us alive, but reignite our hope and pride. The chaos elves have thrived under my rule. Children dream of touching the sunlight and the elderly are happy that the worst times are memories. I suffered and bled for my people while you did nothing to aide us. Even your priests and priestesses have had trouble gaining your favor. Now I’m out of tricks to keep us going. The Baron has our children and my people have no home. All of my options are dead, which is the state I’ll be in once the barbarians are done with me. There’s no silver lining to my misery, so stop acting like you care.”

“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 comes 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.