Tribe of the Snow Tiger (Legends of Windemere Book 10) (42 page)

“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.

“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.”