Temple of Cocidius: A Monster Girl Harem Adventure Serial Part 5

by Maxx Whittaker

  I block, respond, fight back. I’m fighting on a level I never have before, even with a broken rib and aching jaw.

  Then, just as before, I can’t land a blow; neither can Crispin. His strikes turn short, sloppy. But we’re fighting on the same level, and neither of us is willing to yield.

  A low-flying bird sails above us, searching for a meal. Without thought, Meridiana’s compulsion seizes its tiny mind.

  Feed, there. I will it to seek its prey where I’ve decided.

  There’s an explosion of feathers and panicked cawing as the bird dives, smashing into Crispin’s face, searching desperately for its prize. He coughs, staggers back and swats the bird away. It launches up on a string of outraged caws.

  My blade sits against Crispin’s breast before he’s recovered. I tear the cloth from my face. “Mighty First Consul, brought low by a mere bird.”

  There’s a long moment as we stand here in the balance when I wonder if I’ve gone too far. Gods aren’t fond of being mocked.

  Crispin knocks my blade back with a fist. “Not the slowest study in the history of the world, but close.”

  “Well, considering my teacher…”

  He laughs and we fall together, leaned against an oak. I don’t slow my descent, and the impact is the last straw. My body is broken, and the rush of the fight has left me. I lay my head back against the tree, waiting for some coherence.

  “Oh, you probably want to heal…”

  I snap up, groan, and glare at Crispin.

  He raises his hands in a mea culpa. “Even gods forget things.”

  My expression doesn’t change.

  “You heal up and I’ll...go find Freya. Doubling up can’t hurt.” Crispin grabs his gear and lopes from the clearing, and I swear he looks over his shoulder to make sure I don’t come after him.

  Pain fades slowly. A squirrel chases a beetle across a branch above me. I know the exact moment he’ll catch his prey. A family of voles burrows new tunnels under me, their tiny vibrations thunderous in the landscape of my mind. Everywhere is life, movement, and I know the placement of every tree, the fall of every leaf, every death as the hunters and hunted battle for primacy.

  Thanks to this I see, Freya the moment she enters the glade, glowing like the morning sun. I slouch against my tree, eyes half closed and groan, writhing. “Ohhh…”

  Freya stands over me, fists buried in the soft folds of her robes. “So grave. You’re clearly not fit to continue. We should just shove you out the exit portal and get it over with.”

  I grab her skirts and pull her into my lap, kissing her through the throb of a still-split lip. Her palm is cool and soothing against the bare skin of my chest.

  “I thought you were mortally wounded…” she whispers against my mouth.

  I don’t stay her fingers at my belt, cock already straining against the course fabric of my leggings. “If I am, I know how I’d like to die.”

  Freya slips a knee over my thighs, skirts baring her to the hip. She kisses my brow, my swollen jaw, the divet in my lip. “I won’t let that happen, even when we’re apart.”

  Her words hang between us as much as the unspoken while I’m inside her, while she moans softly against my ear, when we finish together, powered desperation, by fear:

  The last trial awaits.

  –The Garden–

  The Leave-Taking

  The mood is tense when we return to the others. No conversation, no diversions. Theriss is conspicuous by her absence just when I most need her.

  Everyone sits stiff, crushed down by the weight of what’s ahead. Even Meridiana, sauntering into the clearing with Etain, doesn’t have a quip or challenging look for me.

  “None of this,” I chastise, trying to lift the mood. “We haven’t lost hope on a single trial before, and we can’t now. This is the end; we’re so close.”

  A few smiles dawn; I don’t think Finna can help but look hopeful at all times. Encouraged, I say my goodbyes.

  Finna tucks a small flower into my sleeve. Freya kisses me softly again, still smelling of moss and the clearing. “For luck,” she whispers.

  Callista crushes the wind from me; Meridiana looks afraid of being caught by the ferocity when she dares close to brush my arm.

  Etain stands apart, watching unhurried. She doesn’t come close when I turn to her. She bows, the low shouldered gesture of a warrior’s respect. Nothing else could be more fitting, more perfect.

  Andraste waits with Crispin at the portal.

  “Any wisdom that I’ll only understand in the second before I’m about to die?”

  “Oh Lir. How dull the garden would have been without you all this time.” Andraste shakes her head. “Nothing for you this time. You’ve chosen Kumiko as your companion, and she’s better fit to educate you about dragons than I am.”

  “Dragons.”

  She smiles.

  “Dragons?” I ask Crispin. He’s not any more helpful.

  “I wish we had more time. As it is we’ve wrung all we can from the temple. Learn your lesson, boy.”

  “I thought I already had.”

  He walks away, laughing.

  I turn back to the Artifacts, marvel at what I’ve gained as they stand before me, ready to fight.

  “I’ll be back; it won’t be long...”

  “You’d better be back,” says Meridiana. “I have plans for you.” She blows me a kiss.

  Tension breaks and the others laugh. My joining them is half-hearted; still no Theriss. But remembering how it was for Kumiko when she first arrived, I think maybe I understand.

  The trial’s doors are slabs of wood. The size of the tree that produced them is astounding. Knotwork frames them in a pattern I don’t understand, but so complex it must be significant.

  I don’t recognize it, but Kumiko does. She races up, still lacing one boot. One glance at the door and she gasps. “Oh, wonderful.”

  “Wonderful it’s a party or wonderful it’s an assassination?”

  “You’ll see.” Kumiko grins, getting an arm into her tunic.

  “Always late,” I chide, hiding a laugh at her frenzy.

  Her eyes widen. “Are you ready?”

  “Am I...I was here first!”

  She grins and elbows me towards the doors. “Then stop souring the milk and let’s go.”

  –Akershus–

  The Valgrind Outyards

  We step on to a nighttime road that reminds me of entering Etain’s realm. But the trees here are smooth-trunked and sturdy, canopied by leaves that hint at jewel tones of ruby, gold, and bronze in the low light.

  Not darkness; a moon rises at our backs and ahead, set on a plateau angled away from the mountain, illuminating a golden beacon that lights the night. A castle, a fortress, a mansion - maybe all three. Squinting, I can just make out towers, crenellations, and blinding whitewash or stone, all lit by countless torches that ward off the shadows.

  There’s nothing else in sight. No cottages lit beyond the trees, or sign posts. I decide the structure on the hill is where we’re meant to go, and sigh without realizing it. “Why are we so far away?”

  Kumiko laughs. “We’re actually surprisingly close.”

  “How’s that?”

  She takes a deep breath, and blows. Nothing happens, at first. Just breath. Then it takes on the white swirl of fog. Green sparks flicker in the air. The cloud of her exhalation floats on, and on, the pinpoint lights increasing until it passes out of sight beyond a bend in the road.

  “What was that?”

  Kumiko tips her chin toward the mountain. “Beyond the pass is a long field, and then the outer gates of Valhalla. No mortals were ever meant to be there. At least, not alive. Æsir, Vanir, Jötnar and the other beings of light, magic, and primordial essence; that is their play yard.” She glances into the trees. “There may well be mortals living in these woods. Villages or towns. But the green spectrum of the Bifrost conceals Valgrind from them, protecting the entry hall of the gods.”

  I reali
ze how little I know of Kumiko, compared to some of the other Artifacts. Her trial wasn’t exactly conducive to conversation. “How do you know this?”

  “Because you mortal men are a stubborn, persistent, devious bunch.” A velvet ear twitches, attuned to some far-off sound I can’t hear. “You’ve tried for thousands upon thousands of years to strip the veil and breach the gates.”

  “Hah. I meant how do you know about the Bifrost, not about the people living here.”

  “I wasn’t Fenrir’s prey my whole existence…” She illustrates this by vanishing in a blink and reappearing in a cloud of dust almost exactly where she stood before. “I was a messenger for the gods. Some who worked hard for Mordenn’s overthrow. That earned me a special punishment, when he caught me.”

  I take her hand. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t want to talk about it. I wasn’t–” For a second Fenrir’s shadow passes behind her eyes. Then she firms. “That time is over.”

  Her resolve is catching. It assuages some of the panicked fear I feel each time Esmanth crosses my mind. I measure the road winding off into the foothills and decide we’re not getting any closer standing around. “Let’s begin.”

  My boots tear the damp late-season leaf litter, filling the air with a loamy pungence that masks spicy wood and a sharp smell I would know anywhere: Sea brine.

  “The Grey Harbor sits at the foot of the fortress,” Kumiko whispers.

  “Did you just read my thoughts?”

  “No! You’re snuffling like a hound of the hunt!”

  I freeze. “Maybe we should travel more quietly.”

  She moves on without hesitation, long slender feet impossibly quiet. “I doubt anyone down here in the deill can see you, being what you are. Even if they could, I doubt they’d challenge you. And if they did?” Kumiko smiles and shrugs.

  It’s hard not to be a little flattered. “Your confidence is bracing.”

  We follow the road down a low slope, between shadow trees waving in the pools of moonlight, until the path rises again at the first bend. Kumiko moves ahead, then off to the side, scouting, and it’s hard to tear my eyes from her slim, athletic figure as she bounces back to me.

  She blows another delicate breath. Green flecks are denser immediately. No more than a shower of sparks from a campfire, but further back along the road the ratio of darkness to light was so much higher.

  Her pert nose twitches, a frown growing at the accumulation as her breath billows out into the night. “Do you feel anything?”

  “Physically?”

  She nods.

  “No, but it takes a lot more since–” I gesture over myself. “Obstacles aren’t what they used to be.”

  Her eyes roam over me. “Oh, I imagine.” She grins, and her body shifts foot to foot. She’s aching to sprint at the very least, so her next words surprise me. “We should move with some caution. There’ll come a point when the Bifrost aura is too great; I don’t think you’ll be able to pass through.”

  “If I try?”

  Her smile is playful, half hidden behind the thick sweep of her white hair. “You’ll be half the man you used to be. Or a million bits of him.”

  “Is that all?” I scoff. “I thought at least there’d be a three headed serpent or soul siphoning.”

  “No. Just plain old fragmentation of your flesh and vital organs, I’m afraid.”

  “Well I’m not letting that happen. What a boring way to go. I clearly deserve something much more spectacular.”

  She nudges. “Oh, much.”

  “So, how do I cross?”

  “Hopefully, you won’t have to. Only immortal beings, like me, can cross the Bifrost.”

  A glow from the fortress lights the trees ahead like a second amber moon. “I’d put a handful of gold crowns on the aura hitting that point right about the time we reach that place.”

  “I know nothing about a mortal being in your position, but given the way things usually go in these circumstances, I’ll pass on your wager.”

  “Anything interesting about our destination?”

  “Akershus. Beneath the mountain lies Nastrond, a dead coast along the edge of Hel’s realm. There dwells Nidhogg, king of the black dragonflight, the Svartr. He and his brood feed on the corpses that wash ashore; adulterers, murderers, and oath breakers - the dead unfit even for Hel’s frozen wasteland.”

  In the dark, spoken in her soft, careful cadence, Kumiko’s words feel heavy with suspense.

  “Nidhogg turned against the gods on promises for Mordenn. As punishment he was bound in Nastrond, along with his black dragonflight, the Svartr. They dwell beneath the roots of the world tree, where Nidhogg gnaws to free himself and his brood. For standing against him, the red dragon flight, the Raudr, were rewarded with a den in the tree’s canopy, and the honor of guarding the Valgrind road.” Kumiko points to the fortress, now on our left as we take the next tree-shrouded turn in the road. “Akershus,” she repeats. “It’s hard to see now, after eons, but the mountain is really just the canopy of Yggdrasil, the world tree, covered by rock and soil and the passage of time.”

  My head swims. The darkness thickens and my footing seems less sure for a moment. Valhalla, Folkvangr; they lie beyond this mountain, and they don’t.

  Seven trials, and I’ve yet to have more answers than questions. “Some of these gods are not gods of my people, so I don’t really understand Mordenn and Hel presiding over the dishonored dead.”

  Kumiko pauses to blow another quick breath. “Make no mistake; Hel and her daughter Helreginn preside over the dead. Hel is a lord and Mordenn is a thief. He steals from Odr and Hel equally, all that gives the pair common ground. And still not enough to truly be allies. Hel would overthrow her master rather than Mordenn, given the opportunity.”

  “That explains her daughter’s appearance in Niflheim.”

  “You may see her again. For now I think you’ve stumped Hel. You’re not exactly fawning over Heijl or Odr, and you’ve thwarted Mordenn a time or two. What to make of you...”

  “I’m right there with her, so far as being stumped. If we’re even nominally on Odr’s side, like the red dragonflight...I’m trying to prepare for whatever the trial might hold.”

  “That we must discover when we arrive and–”

  A knocking echoes up the darkened lane behind us and grows to a clatter of stout-spoked wooden wheels.

  We dive into the brush, crouched and peering.

  The carriage resembles something from my sister’s old story books, the sedan shaped like a diamond painted in gold leaf, capped with small winged creatures. Its suspension looks too delicate to support the cab, let alone survive these roads, and the gold-rimmed wheels seem more decorative than functional. Despite all this, the thing flies past with almost supernatural speed and balance, at the mercy of four dapples each more plumed than a tourney horse.

  “Huh.” Not what I expected to see, and not anything I can puzzle out. I trade a glance with Kumiko. Another carriage taps around the bend, silver-gilt with door panels painted like a cathedral ceiling.

  “This is so surreal.”

  Kumiko nudges me. “This is the realm of the gods. There’s no such thing, Lir. We don’t have rules.”

  That is so bloody true.

  She stands, steps forward, in full view of the road.

  What is she doing? My grip tightens on my new blade. “Should we–”

  Another carriage. This one actually clatters like a proper conveyance, drawn by six roan that nearly match furiously swinging tasseled drapes inside the windows. Its coachman is a shadowed figure, a black-paper silhouette of a man in a wide-breasted jacket and a three-cornered hat. The sedan must hold six people, and as it takes the curved slope the whole thing totters up on the right wheels, axle groaning in protest. But not the passengers. Laughter - very mortal, bawdy, maybe drunken, erupts inside the cab. The vehicle rights itself and flies on like a banshee.

  Kumiko
stands in sight of the debacle, her presence causing not a hitch in the carriage’s progress. She casts a wry glance over her shoulder. “I don’t think anyone on this road is a worry for us.”

  I can’t argue with her. When the next coach rounds the bend at our backs, I hardly tense. After a few more turns in the switchback, they become part of the scenery.

  “So, the black dragonflight is at the bottom, red at the top.”

  Kumiko makes a small sound in her throat. “You can practically feel the animosity from here, can’t you?” She waves a hand. “Somewhere in the mortal’s legends it became an eagle at the top. Maybe the word used for dragon, or for the strength of the red flight? Mortals are terrible at translating things.”

  I remember Crispin saying something similar and wonder how much of the way mortals live is predicated on a lazy or near-sighted scribe.

  “What is not a mistake–” she begins, pausing for the chaos of two gigs racing each other around a curve, at an elevation that would spell death for a single slipped wheel.

  Kumiko clears her throat, impatient. “It’s not a mistake that Ratatoskr, the squirrel-being, made a sport of running the length of Yggdrasil’s trunk, whispering slander and gossip between the two flights, provoking them. Slander and gossip until he, knowingly or not, fell upon a truth: Nidhogg is trapped within Nastrond, but not the smaller, lesser members of his flight. Odr punished Ratatoskr for revealing this by turning half his body into a tail, and allowing Yggdrasil to be covered by Midgard, to prevent Ratatoskr’s journeys up and down its trunk.”

  “But the damage was already done,” I guess.

  “To an extent. The Svartr had already infiltrated Tindra’s, the Raudr queen’s, court. But the Svartr are unquestionably weaker. They rely on intrigue and deception, so they can’t reveal themselves. A win for the Raudr- except that one red dragon could, if caught alone, be overwhelmed by a large number of Svartr and their dark powers.”

  “So everyone tries to hide their identity, or at least pretend they’re something else.” This I know. I grew up in a royal court. Sounds like they’re all alike.