Winter's Fury - Volume Two of The Saga of the Twelves

by Richard M. Heredia

  Just get it over with, Marianna!

  She willed herself to pull down her jeans and panties, groaning at the smell of herself and the sorry state of her clothes. She bore down and made herself urinate with greater force (and higher volume) than she would have if she had just let it come out on its' own. She tried with all her might not to breathe as she did so.

  Get this shit over with!

  She wiped herself with one of the body shop rags she had found earlier, grimacing at the coarse fibers scratching against her tender parts.

  I swear to God that I am going to take a two-hour bath the instant after I take a one-hour shower at the first opportunity I get. This shit freakin’ stinks! I freakin’ stink! This whole fucking place freakin’ stinks!

  Somehow the smell, the frustration, the isolation – it had got to her, galvanized her will. She buttoned up quick, straightened her clothes and walked over to the bowl that held her fresh water. She washed the grime from her face and then brushed her teeth as well as she could manage with her index finger.

  A minute later, she had set upon the box of energy bars. Alongside some more melted snow, she had poured into the smallest bowl she possessed. She had eaten all her remaining food. Her decision made, her actions had made her choice final.

  She would have to leave…

  …That had been two hours ago.

  And still, she had not left. She stood there with both tarps draped over her small four-foot, ten-inch form. She had folded and wrapped them to her against the cold. She was standing with the door to the garage wide open, feeling the cold breeze against the skin of her face. Her eyes darted to the left and right for the umpteenth time. Every now and again, they settled on the strange looking plants poking through the drifts. Or, she would gaze at the odd angled trees that looked like they had emerged straight from someone’s nightmare. Even from the doorway, their long, knife-like leaves did not seem right to her, they did not stir in the mild wind. They did not grow from the smaller twigs and branches of the tree. They grew out at all angles. It did not seem right to her.

  She looked away from it, listening as intent as she could. All the while, the landscape continued to come to life as the sun shone down and warmed the world. She could hear the calls of birds and animals she could place in her mind’s eyes. But, there were others she could not. One sounded like a bird, only it called with a mysterious timbre as if it issued forth from something fleshier and much less firm than a beak.

  She listened as the sound and the creature - whatever it was - drifted away. She noticed as the tops of the trees, whether familiar or not, began to stir with what appeared to be an ever-increasing wind. Even though, she had stood there with the door open, watching for no more than fifteen minutes or so. She was certain that the air was churning a bit more than it had when she had first opened the portal intent upon leaving.

  Instead, though, she had stopped in her tracks to gaze and to hear what was going on in this new place.

  Come on, girl, get your skinny ass in gear!

  She shook off her inactivity, kicking at some of the snow that came up to her waist. She wondered if she could even walk through the stuff.

  “Come on, there is nothing left for you here!” she mumbled under her breath. She looked around again, taking a deep breath as she did so. Nothing had changed. The world was still covered in the leavings of winter and she was still far, far from her home. Nothing had changed, except now she had no way to nourish herself.

  There is no food!

  With a step that felt more confident than she had anticipated, she pushed into the snow. To step up and out of it, she had to use every bit of strength she had in her small legs. When she took the second step, she emerged from the threshold of the garage, trying to marshal her courage. But, it was official, she was outside for the first time since she had entered the Melded World four days prior. Back when she had been intent on finding a pot for her mother that had never been in there in the first place.

  She smiled for a moment. It was fleeting, internalized, a tiny milestone come and gone. She push-stepped again and then again, enjoying the feel of the sun on her face, unimpeded, direct. It felt good to feel the fluffy, crunchy snow beneath her feet. She steeled her mind on avoiding anything that appeared menacing or that she did not remember seeing before. Once again, her skills as an experience camper kicked into gear.

  She almost made it a half-mile before she heard it. A sound she dreaded to hear again, especially out in the open without any means of protection. Frantic, she turned about, wild with indecision. She was too far from the garage. It was too far away.

  And it was too close.

  Then it came again.

  The squishy-squeal of the squirrel-pig-thing resounded in her ears.

  There was no doubt it was coming straight for her through the forest. Although she could not see it yet, she could hear it.

  It was coming fast!

  ~~~~~~~<<< ᴥ >>>~~~~~~~

  ~ Interlude ~

  The Angel

  Day Four, Sunday, At the Same Time…

  Arrayed in a long arch, each of them was ten feet from the next. Four of their number was robed in black, cowls drawn over the tops of their faces, their features hidden underneath. Their polished boots shining in the wan sunlight poked out from underneath the hems of their long garments.

  The last of their group, in the center, was not robed at all. Instead, he wore the usual studded-leather armor he always wore when in the field. He had on a heavy belt about his waist, boots were knee-high – black - and made for rough riding, or even rougher combat. He carried no sword this day. Only a pair of daggers, sheathed at both sides, and a long riding cape of crimson felt, lined. It was thick enough to ward against the cold, should he need it. In the wane angular light of the morning sun, he did not.

  From afar he could be mistaken for a man, a human man. Upon closer inspection, he was not. When one realized the shaped of his skull was more like that of a wolf’s and hair, black as night, covered almost all his body, the distinction was obvious. This dark fur was offset by the bright red of his skin, which shone underneath his hair where it was thin or was missing altogether. This was where scars of many a battle etched his person, wounds he had endured over the many centuries of his life. He wore them proud as if they alone denoted his exalted rank. Standing, he was just over six feet tall, he had both of his hands above his head.

  At the moment, his mouth moved rapid as he spoke in some gruesome, guttural language.

  He was Fenris dok Kór, the Snowman’s Hand, Commander of the Vanguard and the Crown Prince of the Vülfen Kur Ambalaj.

  The four others spoke as well. Only their voices audible, their mouths concealed within the deep folds of their hooded robes. Their hands they had raised above their heads as well, stretched as wide as they could span. The timbre and enunciation of each syllable uttered was in exact rhythm with that of the Hand. When they finished, the strange, abnormal slice of gray space they were facing grew two feet wider, a foot taller. It was an opaque construct. It did not reflect or absorb light in any way. It was just there.

  They stopped in unison, silent, watching the slate colored portal in the young rays of the day.

  The four hooded figures turned to stare at Fenris as one.

  The Hand did not return their gazes, but nodded as if he could feel their individual stares.

  Again as one - the silent command given – the four turned aside. They made their way toward one side of the portal, fifteen feet behind its’ improbable surface.

  On the other side of the unnatural structure, a tiny voice echoed across the bowl shaped ravine wherein they stood. “M’Lord Fenris, the portal is ready for passage.”

  It sounded like sandpaper, and irked Fenris to the marrow of every bone in his body. “Tell them to come,” was all he said.

  The small form of Vallüm nodded. He turned toward the portal, dipping his head, for a few heartbeats, as if in prayer and then stood erect once more. “Th
ey come, my Prince.”

  Fenris grunted, all that was necessary, and waited. I am not your Prince, you filth!

  Half a minute later, a blob of color, large and blurred began to form from the center of the construct. Outward from the middle, it grew, larger and larger. Seconds later, it filled the entire surface of the portal.

  The moment they appeared, the colors began to reform, become more linear. The blotches of color turned into distinct forms. They became clearer, something the mind could comprehend. At first, there appeared two figures, but within seconds they became a small ambling line of forms. They were more distinct now, in focus, within the now glimmering rectangle.

  They came four abreast with the last – a fifth - a step or two behind. They were in a loose, if not haphazard formation, stepping tentative as if they were unsure of their footing. The elbows of the outermost of them almost brushed against the edge of the portal itself. They were diminutive. Their bodies, bent and misshapen, appeared odd. This despite their true forms remained hidden behind fine robes of combed black wool. All but their chins stayed behind heavy cowls, keeping the rest of their faces in shadow. Despite the coverings, it as easy to mark them for what they were. Their sick, sallow skin was the key. The yellowish and pot-marked surface belied recovery from some sort of hideous disease. Maybe an illness that had left them forever marred in its’ wake. That distinction was false. They were something else.

  They wore soft, leather sandals dyed jet, with heavy stitching, lined with the downy hair of unborn calves. Their belts were thick bands of hide, studded and hardened through their manufacture. Three of them wore short swords sheathed in jeweled scabbards. This was an odd spectacle to behold. One would never suspect a Fleshmaster to arm himself with such a crude weapon. They had the meat of all things at their trembling command. Why would they?

  Yet, these were not your average, run-of-the-mill Prēosts either. No, they were Ŏu-Prēosts, or Potentiates. They were apprentice Fleshmasters. They had yet to surrender their physical prowess for the rigors of bending bone and muscle, sinew and tendon. Though, they had yet to meet the mental capacity of a Master Creator, their brute strength was undeniable. Unlike the aged, wrinkled Vallüm, these shrunken, deformed creatures were fast, durable and deadly with their blades.

  They had to be considering the fourth member of their group. He was the one they surrounded in a protective semi-circle. He stood an inch or so shorter than the three Ŏu-Prēosts. He had a drooping, malformed snout that at one time might have looked much like that of the Hand’s. It had since become something else, something terrifying and gruesome at the same time.

  “It is good to see you again, Your Highness,” rasped this hooded figure as the fifth of their party stepped from the Portal and onto the snow-covered ground within the Encampment.

  The strange grayness winked out of sight with a loud “popping” sound.

  “You may forgo the formalities I should think, my dear uncle. There is no time for pretense within a realm such as this melded one,” answered Fenris with his usual lisping snarl. He motioned about with a gauntleted hand.

  “Ah, but you are still the Crown Prince of our beloved Vülfen Kur Ambalaj. You are still first in line to succeed my great grandnephew to the throne of our people. And… I am still the Mheto-Prēost of the Fleshmasters, the greatest of all the Creators upon Storm, correct? Has anything changed those facts?” countered the shriveled creature as it reached up and drew back its hood, revealing his wolf-like skull and visage. Both were malformed as if he was thousands of years old, but that was not the case. This was due to the titanic amounts of power he had used throughout his long, long life. He bore the consequence of the power he had used to corrupt the living to his will upon his visage. The toll of it was palatable, even to Fenris who had seen him many times.

  His snout sagged and dangled like a flaccid cucumber left far too long in the hot summer sun. His red skin had long since begun to bleach and lose its’ luster. It was now more pinkish, like blood diluted in water – light in some places, darker in others. His once proud mane of hair had fallen out in many places, so that only dead, lifeless splotches of slate remained. They were no more than tufts, briny patches sprouting at random about his scalp, his face and neck.

  Fenris peered down at him with no outward reaction. He was long passed the days when the mere sight of his great, great grandfather’s brother scared him. Often his fright was so profound, he would let loose his bowels and shame himself before his father’s court.

  “The facts remain as they are, High Prēost. It is the conditions that have changed. And I would venture to say, in some areas, this change is more dramatic than in others,” stated the Hand. Out of habit, he clacked the heels of his boots together. He leaned forward as he did so, bending at the waist to make his point.

  The wasted Vülfen squinted up at him through the sunlight, and then chortled of a sudden. “Ha, that would seem correct as well, and on both counts.” He glanced about, his eyes settling on Vallüm, who seemed to squirm under the gaze of the Supreme Leader of his Order.

  Serves you right, you vile bastard, thought the Hand, but remained silent.

  “You are right, nephew, we should dispense with the titles. And, all the pomp that comes with them. We must get about the business of the Great Maelstrom.” He paused to clear his throat. “So, what is it I should call you? Little Fenny? Like I used to back in those days when you were more apt to shit yourself than speak?”

  From a distance, the four hooded figures who had assisted Fenris with the opening of the Portal, growled as one. Each took an aggressive step forward.

  The Hand stopped them with a look.

  “Fenris is quite alright with me, Malik,” he began behind half-lidded eyes. “May I call you that? We are after all… family.”

  Though I would still slit your throat if it came down to it, you rancid pecker!

  The guards of the Mheto-Prēost bristled at that.

  The wizened Vülfen forestalled with a wave of his hand and a gurgling chortle. His gaze drifted back toward Fenris, a lopsided smile stretching his abused snout. It did not reach his eyes. “You have… grown, nephew,” he uttered with soft undertones the Hand understood all too well.

  In just about every capacity since we last laid eyes upon one other, uncle.

  A tense silence befell them as everyone about the two Vülfen shuffled their feet or shifted their weight. All were unsure if they should prepare themselves for combat. Or relax should an awkward truce become a viable reality between the two estranged family members.

  I don’t have time to measure whose cock is longer! seethed Fenris as he broke the quiet with a stern command. “Hross, assist the Vyche with the last of the fortifications of the Encampment. I do not care how bad the weather may turn; I want it completed within a day’s time. No exceptions! Or I will be dining upon your flesh at tomorrow’s evening meal with a great degree of relish.”

  The four hooded forms saluted the Hand, each with a fist across the chest and sauntered off back into the large camp proper. It was finally a hive of activity.

  All the hustle and bustle made Fenris smirke with pleasure. Now, the entire Host was present. Now, they could begin to search for the Chosen in earnest. Soon, his fortress would transmute here. Nothing would please him more than to have it arrive simultaneous with the recapture of those spoiled brats. Then, he could throw them all into its deepest, dampest dungeons, especially the little ones. Ignorant pups! Ah, to hear them weep in despair -.

  “So, Fenny,” said his uncle, interrupting his thoughts.

  Immediately, he rankled with rage at the use of his childhood moniker.

  “I was informed you have experienced an issue with one of my get. What-ever seems to be the problem?”

  “You know very well what the ‘issue’ is, Malik. My father would have told you in detail by now. Otherwise, you would not have come yourself,” slurred the Hand. “And since this is not my prevue, I say ask your sordid minion here to spe
ak to the specifics.” Fenris gestured toward Vallüm with a disdainful wave of his hand.

  The Master Prēost did not wait and took a few unsteady steps forward. “Your Imminence, m’Lord on High, I greet you. I am your humble servant -.”

  Malik cut off the shrunken, old man. “Get to the heart of the matter, Vallüm! My nephew has already wasted enough of our precious time!”

  Fenris felt himself grin, an insane leer. Oh, how I would love to rip your limbs from your body, dear uncle, and see if I could put you back together. I wonder if you’d remain the defiler you’ve become over the years. Would your shriveled sex still work after such an ordeal?

  Vallüm gulped, nodding so fast he could not stop. He continued to do so even as he spoke. “It seems, Imminence… Well, it appears…" A longer pause ensued. "There has been some sort of miscalculation with the construction of this place. There is some sort of, heretofore, unconceivable condition existing here and nowhere else.”

  The Mheto-Prēost nodded as if he already knew what Vallüm was talking about.

  He did, figured the Hand. Fenris knew his father would have been thorough in his dealings with his uncle. It was well known the Grandmaster of the Flesh was a conniving, slippery serpent who had no issue with sluicing through the muck.

  The dried-up man forged on. “It appears the Melded World, during the course of attaining equilibrium has made one of two things possible. It has either unraveled some of the control we Prēosts have over our Nixae. Or it has somehow made the Nixae capable of resisting our commands…, somehow made them stronger.”

  “And which do you surmise is the correct effect this place is having on our tasty, little girls?” queried Malik his stare unwavering.