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

by Maxx Whittaker

  –Akershus Battlements–

  Eyes in the Darkness

  We creep toward the ramparts. A man-sized harpoon juts from it from a narrow port. Far too tiny for me to fit. But Kumiko…

  I turn and grin.

  Kumiko rolls her eyes. “Fine. Brace me, again.”

  I crouch, let her climb to my shoulders. “When you get up see if you can arm it and find a way for me to fire it from down here.”

  She looks down, eyes narrowed. “What are you planning?”

  “If I tell you, it would ruin the surprise.”

  Kumiko’s laugh is dark. “You have far too much fun when your life is in mortal danger.”

  “That’s why I keep succeeding. Now, up!”

  She launches, and this time, gets it in one. She squeezes through the small opening, wiggling carefully around the harpoon, and watching her slide through is far more mesmerizing than I’d realized it would be. For a moment, I regret not being in the small chamber with her.

  “Now?” Her word whispers down, barely audible.

  “On my call, turn the crank handle at the rear.” I have one ear on the opening, guiding Kumiko, and the other following a doubled patrol on the walk above. The bridge gates begin to clatter open and shut, welcoming another string of carriages. First gate, second gate...I hope this is enough.

  Third gate… “Now!

  Her huffs and grunts echo inside the chamber. Sounds from the bridge don’t drown out the loading, but they mingle just enough to be a trick of the ear, an odd echo.

  “Here.” Rope drops from the opening into my hand. “Pull that to fire the harpoon.” Kumiko wriggles from the archere slit in a tangle of hair and ears, chest piece half down her breasts. I catch her as she tumbles out.

  “Ready?” I ask, winking lewdly.

  She wiggles from my arms, tugs her armor back up, then sticks out her tongue. “Now what?”

  “You’re going back across the water. Then back to me. And make sure you stir things up a bit as you go. There are fish down there that somehow work with the monster that lurks below. Between the bolt I’m about to fire and the fish getting frisky, it should pull the guards from their posts.

  She chews her lip, thinking. “I’m bait.”

  “Ready?”

  “Bait!” hisses Kumiko. “No, I’m not ready. But I’m going.”

  “Of course you are because, you’re fearless and tenacious.”

  “I’m immune to flattery, Lir.”

  “Everyone’s worth has a going price.”

  She sticks out her tongue again, eyes dancing. “You really are fit to be a god.”

  “See? Flattery. And you found my price.”

  “Anyhow...ten seconds?”

  “Ten from the moment the fish sense you. But remember, don’t linger. We want to stir the creature, not bait it into eating all of Akershus.”

  “Got it. Quick on the crossing, slow on the return, no dawdling.”

  I dangle the rope before her. “And the moment you catch sight of me...duck.”

  She wiggles a slender, fleet foot. “I’ll see you before you see me.”

  “Now you’re just showing off.” I swat her backside, earning a wink.

  Kumiko doesn’t draw back for a head start. She merely springs and she’s off, dancing over the surface with the speed and grace of a water strider.

  She vanishes.

  Ten, nine…

  I tighten my grip and sharp sinew fibers bite my finger creases, gnawing my palm. A damp mossy odor of lake water brined with ocean salt from the cliffs tangs my quick breaths.

  Six, five, four…

  Kumiko streaks through shafts of moonlight on slow strides. Slow but still too fast for mortal eyes to catch her. Sparks radiate through the ripples at her feet, death and danger just a breath behind her.

  Two, one...pull!

  Everything after happens so quickly that not even my mind and senses can absorb it without shuffling the events into some sort of order.

  The bolt arcs high, punctuating the moon’s disc before plunging into the lake. Its launch, the furious crack of sinew ropes and war clap of wood and iron shatter the lakeside stillness. It echoes up the cliffs and races out across the water into the tree line, alerting every living thing to its violent origin.

  Sentinel fish swirl from the bolt’s churning breach in a cyclone of wet scales and lightning. More swirl along behind Kumiko, chasing.

  She sails onto the shore in a graceful dive.

  I’m already running for the bridge, leaping piling to piling over lake water turned hungry and antagonistic by a slope to the sea.

  Boots pound the walls above, filling the gorge with thunder. A cry: Hafgufa! Hafgufa!

  Hafgufa; a tale from childhood. A terror of the sea disguised as a rock, a beast who consumed whole ships. Even if I hadn’t seen the thing with my own eyes, a thread of terror in the guards’ shouts would have convinced me of its existence.

  Kumiko skids beside me on the piling’s grit, panting. Chaos moves along the wall.

  “They’re terrified of that thing,” she manages.

  “Lucky for them when the fish don’t find prey, it likely won’t stir.” Hopefully. “Let’s go.”

  She glances back across the river. “I think we could slip right in. It would be quicker; less risk than passing through the bridge gates.”

  Kumiko is right. The far shore would be faster, and maybe land us right inside the fortress.

  One corner of the invitations peek above her chest piece where Kumiko tucked them for safekeeping – a paper warning.

  “Blaloch, the duelists. I think we’ve seen the power of those invitations. I don’t want to slip in only to have it catch up with us later.” We’re already rolling the dice by entering on this side of the bridge and not its mouth.

  Kumiko doesn’t question or hesitate. She springs up the abutment’s leg from hand-hold to hand-hold of weathered stone.

  I follow with hair on end, the skin of my back prickling, anticipating an arrow even as heightened senses assure me otherwise. Water churns, left far below in seconds, too far and shallow to save me even with Callista and Freya’s gifts.

  Kumiko reaches the span ahead of me, small toes curved to hold the deck. She clings to the rail, waiting.

  Confusion among the guards has tempered. Deep voices punch the stillness, reaching us from the ballista tower, but with single words. They’ve either caught on that something’s amiss, thanks to the earlier suspicious comrade, or decided the Hafgufa isn’t an immediate threat. Either way, some are about to head back their posts.

  I grab the rail, slick with fanned moss and damp night air. “Up and over.”

  We flip onto the bridge in unison. Its cobblestone expanse from gate to gate stands empty. At our backs, a set of doors wide enough for an army shut the way out, held fast by a mechanism threaded with chains, their links large enough for a man to pass through. Stone stairs border both sides, leading up to an archer’s roost. It’s not empty; the forms of two men flicker in my mind. They’re stationed on the walk’s far side to observe those entering, or like Blaloch, trespassing.

  Ahead stand the fortress doors. Slabs of whole trees, they stand as massive as the gates, but are far more ornate. Knotwork I recognize from my own lands embraces a whole epic of this place. Warlords gathered in long ships. Beasts; hare, stag, serpent, and fish. Creatures of destruction; raven, wolf, and eagle arrayed above a horde of raised axes.

  In the center of both panels is carved the same woman from the hips up, larger than a giant and glittering with gold leaf. Dragons ring her wild mane in a halo. On the left she extends offerings of meat, mead, and fruit. The feast is cradled beneath her full breasts, tattooed kusymre petals with her nipples as flower heads. Fertile, gentle, welcoming.

  On the right her head is also ringed with dragons, but her hair is plaited and capped by a helmet-crown. She clutches spear and shield at the ready, the tension of her arms so vital she could be real. Her breasts, still ba
re, are tattooed with dark runes of war. Vengeance, death, Hel itself.

  “A shield-maiden,” I whisper, in awe of the idea, the beauty and savagery of the panels.

  “A valkyrie,” Kumiko corrects, just as softly. “And not just any valkyrie.” She points to an inscription replicated on both doors. “Nine choosers of the slain Odin made, with a tenth to be the fairest, wisest, and fiercest of all shield maidens. I’ve never seen one of the nine, never mind their leader.”

  “In my realm they’re called angelus, androgynous beings of light and glory. Revered but not especially remarkable compared to this.”

  “The queen of Akershus is both dragon and valkyrie; that heralds combat and intrigue ahead.”

  A man appears. He doesn’t enter or descend or ascend; I never sense him. He simply materializes in the bridge’s center. This is a pretty incredible feat for a man half again as tall as I am. His skin, what little shows, is only a shade or two off from his black silk garb. His head is wrapped in a tight mound of the fabric and is pinned with a ruby stud, flowing tunic belted, and his breeches hang to his knees in a soft drape. The silk doesn’t make him weak or vulnerable-looking. Just the opposite; it’s clear he doesn’t need mail or plate. His presence is overpowering, and power radiates from him like heatwaves.

  I pity anyone who’s ever made it past the gate guards, only to have to deal with their backup. I have no idea if I can best him, and I don’t want to find out.

  I trade a quick glance with Kumiko.

  He pads toward us on soft leather-bottomed shoes. A mask covers all but his eyes and brow. I don’t need to see more of his face. All he feels and suspects is written in the fathoms of his black-gold eyes. And he very much suspects a pair of dripping, panting, bedraggled figures in the center of this gate span.

  Figures that he plans to remove.

  A second man joins us; this entrance is more obvious and commonplace, lacking any seemingly mystical origins except that he slides like a sheet of parchment between the halves of the fortress doors. Pale, wiry, efficient, and eroded by time into smooth folds. I know his stride, the way he holds his chin up but not too high, eyes quick and observant without showing bald curiosity. He’s a steward, a chamberlain, the man some emissaries to my father’s court made the mistake of insulting or assuming held no influence. Emissaries who left by the midden yards without so much as a glimpse of the Privy Council, let alone my father.

  He glides smoothly past his massive enforcer, who steps aside, looking equally ready to let us pass or toss us over the bridge.

  The steward looks us over, turns in a circle and takes in the bridge and gates, the night sky above. There is a screeching cog in his domestic machine. “I didn’t hear guests announced.” He stretches the word guests, eyeing my sodden hair and clothes and Kumiko’s spare garments.

  “We...rushed in. The lady insisted she drive. Our gig tumbling down the embankment and into the river set us back on time.” I throw Kumiko a black glare. “And two horses.”

  Kumiko sniffs, playing her part beautifully. “It isn’t my fault your nags are stubborn and slow to answer the reins.” She yanks out our invitations and waves them at our host. “Please take these so we can be separated as quickly as possible.”

  He snaps the thick creased paper, adjusting a small pair of lenses at the bridge of his nose. “You are...Lords Davies and Avery?”

  I smile at him and at the muscle looming behind. I don’t know what he’s capable of, what sort of creature he really is, and I can’t sense his power, so I don’t dare try Meridiana’s compulsion just now. Instead, I gather every ounce of confidence, earned both recently and as part of my royal family. My smile is winning, regal, and I keep it simple. “Yes.”

  “Hm.” The steward runs a finger across each invitation. They glow lightly, and delicate magic dances from his touch, revealing a dragon watermark in the paper. He tucks them away in his coat and, it’s clear by his face he doesn’t care who we are so long as we’ve crossed the Bifrost and have the right papers. The steward removes his lenses and looks us over again. “I can see that you are both...new to the palace.”

  He says new like he means shite.

  “Once you are in, you are in. The grounds, guest rooms, and public rooms are all open to you. If you leave, you are out. You must await another invitation.”

  His smile is skeletal, telling me what he means is wait until you die because there’s no such thing as a second invitation.

  He turns, as does his companion, a thin white silk line shoulder to shoulder with a bulging black fist. We follow.

  I glance at Kumiko and shrug. The steward knows we’re green, so there’s no sense in playing things close to my chest. “You’re dressed like some of the men at the outer gate.”

  “The promontory,” moans our steward, sounding ill. “As though we’re a menagerie arranged for the amusement of the lower classes. Yes, I suppose some of them boast a similar cut...” He dusts his knee length coat and fitted britches. “And I suppose you have never seen it before.”

  Tread carefully, Lir.

  I can’t tell if he’s trying to trip me up and I don’t want to take chances. “I’ve traveled through many realms and never beheld the like,” I offer, vague.

  “Demigod,” he murmurs knowingly. Or, he thinks he knows. “You have traveled between realms along your own time. Along the same thread of creation. But there are lands ahead and behind; realms where mortals live no differently than wild beasts. And there are realms where mortals have harnessed magics of the mind allowing them to master lightning and conquer the stars. Akershus hosts gods, deities, and beings from many places, and many times.”

  I think of Avery’s odd clothes, and the weapons his men used. What would those other realms have to teach me? To offer Loria? A whole army with such weapons, and the power of elements and stars…

  Mynogin. What would he suffer matched against me then?

  Kumiko’s warm fingers gentle my wrist. Our eyes meet. She shakes her head and whispers prudence.

  She’s right. But when I think of Esmanth, my parents, my brother, I’m not sure I could find any. This is probably why gods keep such powers for themselves. Not that they often use them more wisely. Kumiko is right; I lack the wisdom for those powers now, but I’m not writing them off entirely, either.

  We reach the doors. There’s an obvious gap between the panels I couldn’t see before. A crack compared to the size of the entrance, but wide enough for a man to pass through.

  I start to ask about this fault. Then I remember everything Kumiko said about the dragon flights and giant tree-creatures. The Hafgufa; Fenrir. With few exceptions living mortals can’t pass the Bifrost.

  It’s not men Akershus needs to keep out.

  Or in...

  –The Great Masquerade–

  Our footsteps ring like hammer-strikes in the great hall.

  I expected a crowd; revelers, courtiers, servants scurrying between to avoid impatient blows, maids rushing to dodge lascivious hands.

  If the chaotic hall is a harlot, Akershus’ great hall is a beautiful woman allowing herself to be admired from a distance. Her greatness stands apart from that of the people who occupy her, and her beauty comes in layers. The few bits of natural wood are carved with the stern craftsmanship of long-lost eras. Over that lies marble and white plaster. Columns of a newer fashion concluded in the point-arched domes of antiquity. Chandeliers like frozen rain drops set the gold on fire; we pass through their starlight cast on black and white marble tiles. The chandeliers hang from sculpted trusses spanning the room; the hall rises out of sight along staircases, balconies, and colored glass windows, its ceiling lost to view.

  My father’s hall is an undercroft by comparison.

  A half-circle staircase rises ahead. The steward leads us to a door beside the left sweep. Here he stops, hands laced behind his back, and sucks in a breath.

  “The great hall is off limits. The private apartments are off limits; if a door is locked, it i
s closed to you. A guest may never be out of costume. A guest must not reveal their identity. Magic is acceptable; weapons are not.” The steward exhales the last of his practice speech. He raises on his toes and fondles my sword with an open glance, palms outstretched.

  Kumiko and I share a look. I’m happier not knowing what will happen to my sword while I’m gone. “When I need it back?”

  He seems amused. “I doubt you will.”

  What does that mean? “I’ll want it when I leave.”

  His eyes brighten more. My gut churns.

  “When you leave…” When sounds a lot like if, “all your belongings will be returned. We have no need of them.” He opens the doors ahead but doesn’t step through. “The Wardrobe. Leave your...clothes with the sjónlauss. They will be kept for you.”

  The sightless? The word must mean something else here.

  Kumiko steps through first. The steward shuts the doors behind us, and a lock grates in its tumbler. But even if I hadn’t heard the sound, I’d know there was no turning back. The magical seal is a palpable tingle against my back.

  “This is the strangest party I’ve ever attended,” whispers Kumiko, “and I served the Æsir for a very long time.”

  The scene ahead adds weight to her words. The Wardrobe is nearly as high as the hall, though I can just spy the arch beams that form the roof peak. To our left, a yawning fireplace blazes, rippling the air like magic. It’s set in a wall that reminds me of my father’s library, but there are no books; shelves are divided into cubicles the size of a boot box. Clothing is folded in each one, stacks topped with hats, shoes, or purses. Ladders hooked to the rails slide under supernatural inertia at nearly every tier, attendants flying along the face, racing up and up to store and retrieve garments.

  Three attendants approach us, clothes cut like the steward’s but in dark velveteen and linen. They move with purpose, authority. This is especially strange because they have no eyes. They did once.

  The sjónlauss.

  There are bagged folds where eyelids once sat, creases sealed shut under time, disuse, or both. Their bald eggy heads are all that hint at the solidity of a skull beneath. The rest of their faces are pulled into the expression of a creature in resigned misery, mouth held eternally around a weak moan.