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

by Richard M. Heredia

  The Prēost could sense the two Jötun standing to either of the doors were moving closer toward the two of them. Their giant hands were flexing and unflexing as if they itched to grab a hold of something. The last thing he wanted was one of those hulking monstrosities near him with the urge to rip something limb from limb.

  The long-eared officer just stared down at him in disdain, his expression unchanged. His eyes flicked toward what Vallüm assumed were each of the Jötun.

  Vallüm did not have much time. He could almost feel the hatred flowing off the Swüreg’s body.

  “I would not want to be the one who kept vital information from the Hand. This is information that might well lead to our undoing. Non-conveyance in a timely fashion would lead to disaster. You wouldn't want to be party to that, now would you, Lieutenant ,” uttered the twisted old man, his voice heavy with implication. He needed to sound convincing, and fast. “I imagine that person would be flayed alive and consumed.” He chuckled, gleeful. But he forced it. He prayed he was good enough at playacting to scare the dull-witted soldier in action.

  The Lieutenant’s eyes narrowed. His body stiffened. He knew full well what the Prēost said was close to the truth. Close enough to garner merit. He glanced at the Jötuns again, in rapid succession, shaking his head imperceptively. He turned to glare down at Vallüm. “Let the baggage in,” he called, sounding bored. He looked up into the storm, then at their surroundings, anywhere but not at Vallüm. “I don’t have time to dawdle with the likes of you and your foul ilk, while all around this world freezes. In with you!”

  Vallüm smiled, his face angelic, though his eyes burned. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I will make it a point to let the Hand know how helpful you were.”

  The Swüreg officer reached for his weapon, but stopped when Vallüm showed his teeth through his vacuous grin.

  The decrepit old man was nodding his head, urging the other to attack.

  The Lieutenant growled instead, spun on his heel and stalked deeper into the shadowy alcove recessed into the wall. It would seem, he had not been as eager for a fight after all.

  Idiot, all bluster and no balls! It would not have taken much of his power to make the stupid Swüreg’s neck bulge and then break. Vallüm kept the grin in place as he moved to stand before the doors. The dullard did not know how close he had come to death. But then, most folk do not know much about Prēost combat techniques.

  The Fleshmasters liked to keep that aspect of their abilities secret. They would not show them until the need was great, because if they did, they would have to kill everyone in sight. There could be no survivors. Confidentiality in such matters must remain intact. They might be small in stature and fraught disease, but neither condition meant they were not mighty in their own manner.

  Vallüm heard the great wooden timber, barring the portal from within, thud against the inner sides of the doors. He imagined as the guards within lifted it from the massive latches holding it in place. He moved sideways a few steps, as the fifteen-foot doors opened, pulled by yet another pair of Jötun. Their splotchy hides looked combed and clean. It was obvious they had not been outside for a while. They eyed him down their pushed-in, ape-like noses. Both of them snorted aloud as the winds of the storm carried his smell toward them in relentless gusts.

  He smiled, knowing he smelled like a cistern. He always did, especially after he had expended so much energy getting that bitch Inghëldir to heed him. He did not care if he smelled like the ass-end of a Lyzürd. There were more important things were transpiring. Personal hygiene did not rank high on his list of priorities currently.

  The brutish primates opened the portal wide enough to omit the sallow, aged man and no more. They slammed it shut once he stepped past them. Already, they were beginning to replace the twenty-foot long piece of timber back into place. It nestled within the four, huge steel brackets that barred the portal against the unwanted.

  Vallüm winced in spite of himself when the heavy, two-foot square beam fell into place with a tremendous clamor.

  “What is it you want, Vallüm? The great Mheto is indisposed at the moment,” said a small voice, as hoarse and raspy as his own.

  He turned to see it was one of the Ŏu-Prēosts. He wore boiled leather armor and had a sword belted to waist. He had come up from some deeper corner of the vaulted chamber. Vallüm had not seen when he had entered.

  The Master Flesher did not respond right away. Instead, he glanced around, taking in his environs, thinking how strange it was to be in this particular Keep. The last time he had set foot within these stony walls, he (and it) had been back in the World of Storm. Though he had not come to Fenris’s mountain fort all that much, he still recalled the high hall he now found himself within.

  He stood between two identical rows of arches, traversing the long axis of the room - one on his left, and the other on his right. There were seven arches in all, stretching before him to the wall at far end of the chamber. Where these arches came together, they shared a common skewback. There they intersected a third, longer arch perpendicular to their position. These ones reached across the chamber to either side of the Prēost. All the arches were supported by thick, square imposts that lead down to impressive columns of granite in gradual arches. The columns themselves were twenty feet in height and spaced about ten feet apart. Fitted into them, at regular intervals around, were thick, iron brackets. Within each sat four sets of ensconced torches that lit up the space so brilliant there was no shadow. Between each pairing of columns where the crosswise arches curved at a smooth angle to fit into the walls of the space. There was one door for each. There were fourteen total - leading to other parts of the Tor.

  Having been within Fenris’ fort before, the Prēost knew these doors led to other ancillary rooms of the keep. There were guard barracks, the low kitchen, holding cells, a mess hall and storage rooms branching off from this central chamber.

  He ignored all that though, pushing it from his mind. His eyes glued onto another set of double doors, opposite him. These were about half the size of the outer doors. Before them stood another a pair of hulking Jötun, both of whom regarded him and the Ŏu-Prēost with mild interest.

  “I am not here to call on our Great Master, Ŏu-ur,” replied the Fleshmaster after a time. He used the derogatory term used for one of lower rank. “I am here to see Fenris. Is he in his office or his solarium?” Vallüm looked at the other out of the corner of his eye, but kept glancing about. He marveled over the fact they had moved the whole edifice from one universe to another in a matter of few days’ time. The Vyche-trained could do some amazing things when they finally decided to get off of their lazy asses and get about their work.

  The hard part was getting them off those same blasted asses in the first place.

  The Potentiate did not immediately reply.

  Vallüm stopped his gazing back and forth, and steadied his vision on the robed figure before him. A few moments passed, then a few more. Vallüm’s brow began to knit. He moved his feet as if to take a step forward.

  The under-Prēost realized then he had not answered back – a huge mistake - and took an immediate step in retreat. Both of his hands came up before him as if he were expecting a physical attack.

  Imbecile! raged the Prēost. And this bumbler is to be one of us someday? By the Storm Lord’s prick what have we let ourselves become?

  “The Lord Hand is in council, m’Lord, with his Hross. Our Great Master and few others of the Host are with them as well,” the Ŏu-Prēost blurted. He cringed now as if he was certain Vallüm would strike him down. He knew the Fleshmaster could break his body like kindling at any moment. “The Lord Hand… well, he asked not to be disturbed and sealed off the great room some time ago.” The other motioned to the large room that Vallüm knew was beyond the smaller set of doors.

  “Go and fetch me a robe and then announce me. I have urgent news the Hand must hear at once,” commanded Vallüm. He looked down at himself for the first time, wishing he had taken the t
ime to fix himself before he had run like new-raped Nixy from his tent. He could not go into a council with his master in attendance looking like a houseless Skrímsli. He must show at least a shred of decency or account of ceremony.

  “But, m’Lord Prēost, he said -,” began the Ŏu-Prēost.

  “I DO NOT CARE WHAT HE SAID, YOU MAGGOT! FETCH ME A ROBE AND ANNOUNCE ME!” boomed Vallüm, his mind touching the cells of the other, thrusting his will throughout the others’ body. The under-Prēost quivered with the sheer volume of it. He was helpless before Vallüm’s onslaught.

  The Master Flesher was pleased to find the under-Prēost had vanished by the time he glanced up . He reminded himself he would have to refrain from using such gross displays of power in the future. Now that Inghëldir was growing beyond his ability to control. He would have to conserve his strength for the time being, at least until he could throw her upon his bed and take from her what he needed. The thought of his seed filling her tight holes made him shiver with delight. Inghëldir had a magical cunt indeed.

  Less than a minute later, the Potentiate returned through one of the doors.

  Vallüm took little notice.

  He come forth with a robe in hand and handed it to the Prēost. He spun so quick upon his heel, he almost lost his balance and fell. He steadied himself at the last minute, a fraction of a second before he crashed head-first onto the stone floor.

  You could have saved us both a lot of misery by staving-in your dung-filled skull, thought the Prēost, snide. He put on the robe without delay, which was only a little too big on him. It was close enough of a fit to go unnoticed, he hoped. At least, it was long enough to cover his nasty feet with their cracked and broken nails, and cancerous boils.

  “Now announce me,” he murmured when he had finished. The other walked up to the doors and motioned for the Jötuns to move aside.

  They did so without complaint.

  Vallüm knew in an instant the Hand had left extra orders. Should an emergency arise he was to receive notification immediately. Otherwise, the great apes of Storm would never have moved aside for a low Ŏu-Prēost.

  The Potentiate grabbed a hold of the large knocker hanging to right of the door latch. He pounded the large bulbous end against the door. Three tremendous thuds echoed throughout the chamber. He waited a breath, maybe two, and then entered the chamber beyond, speaking as he entered: “My Lord Hand. Vallüm, Master Prēost, seeks a word with you.” His was voice was loud, but to the yellowish, old man’s delight it still warbled with a tinge of fear.

  “Concerning what?” came Fenris’ lisping tones.

  Vallüm could tell his agitation was the direct result of a mountain of fatigue.

  The Potentiate stiffened.

  Vallüm had not mentioned the specifics of his request. So, instead of wasting any more time, the Prēost shoved his way passed the embattled Ŏu-Prēost. He entered the confines that served as both audience hall and council chamber for the Crown Prince here on the Melded World.

  It was a large affair, some fifty yards square with an arching wall opposite the main entrance from which Vallüm had emerged. At its’ middle stood the ageless, monolithic throne of the Vülfen Heir to the Ambalaj. The Seat of the Dragon Skull as it was known back in Storm. In truth, it was an uncomfortable affair constructed of the gaping jaws of an ancient IsigWyrm. It belonged to a fell beast that was once been the scourge of the entire Vülfen Race.

  He had been, or so the legend went, a creature of gigantic proportions. The Ivory Death was his name and, ages ago, he was the bane of Fenris’ people. Until the then Crown Prince of the Vülfen, Zdravăn dok Sdur the Great, came upon him on the field of battle. He slew the beast upon the foothills of the ancestral home of the Vülfen, at the feet of the merciless Frostwort Mountains. It had been after an unforgiving week of battle, after they had laid waste to the countryside. The IsigWyrm’s skull was then brought before the King of the Vülfen as a prize beyond imagining.

  This ancient King was of a different mind though. For he felt It should not be a gift for him, and him alone. No! He decreed the skull would be forged into a throne of bone and metal for all the future Crown Prince’s to sit while they prepared themselves for rule. It was to be a grand reminder of their duty and loyalty to the Kur Ambalaj.

  It would have been from this seat of majesty and grandeur that Fenris would have sat and dispense father’s will. Every time he held court and paid heed to the hundreds of petitioners he would see on any given day, Fenris would dispense judgment. Each ruling would then be scrutinized by his father and Vülfen High Ambalai, each determination weighed to see whether Fenris was fit for rule.

  A tedious process, mused the Prēost. But then, the Vülfen had always been over-meticulous.

  Now though, the throne was vacant. There were no such duties here the Melded World. The torches about it were dim and sputtered from lack of attention. They cast the further portions of the chamber into flickering shadow. While the torches nearer the Hand and his council were much brighter and sent light dancing in all directions.

  Vallüm stepped forward, stopping some feet from the thick, oaken table the others sat around. His gaze traveled about the room.

  At the far end of the table sat the Crown Prince, resplendent in his black, studded leather armor and boots. Over it all, he wore a thick cape wrapped about his person. Vallüm guessed it was to ward off some of the cold that had still managed to penetrate the confines of the chamber. This despite the twin hearths set inside either of the sidewalls, both ablaze with tremendous flames.

  To the left sat Leonif Choachesnu, the Lord Commander of the Host. He was the highest-ranking officer of their group after a Fenris himself. He was a veteran of many wars, including the Great War of Consolidation. The conflict that had molded the World of Storm into what it was now - a vast empire controlled by the Six Great Races, over which ruled the Great Maelstrom.

  Leonif's build was much like Fenris, though his fur had long began to pepper with gray and white hair. His skin faded to pink from the bright crimson it had been when he was younger. He was sturdy Vülfen in identical armor to that of his lord. He was prideful and thus predictable in Vallüm's eyes. He was just another indoctrinated soldier, loyal to the point of stupidity, quite lustful of power he could never hope to gain. He just lacked the mental fortitude to do so.

  To Fenris, right sat Malik-Käi, the Mheto-Prēost of the Fleshmasters. He was Vallüm’s Overlord and - by some unfortunate twist of fate - Fenris’ aged ancestor. The shriveled Vülfen of an age long forgotten gazed at him with eyes made fierce with anger. He had noticed Vallüm was in no way groomed and looked like a common serf.

  Thank the Maelstrom he had put on a decent robe.

  The diminutive Malik sat upon a couple of voluminous cushions, so he could see over the edge of the table. This made him appear comical even though Vallüm was wont to look him in the eyes. The Mheto-Prēost was not someone to underestimate. There was a reason he was the Mheto-Prēost and most of it had nothing to do with his strength as a Fleshmaster.

  Behind the Mheto-Prēost stood the two other of the Ŏu-Prēosts who had accompanied Malik from Storm. They were silent and unmoving. Their swords scabbarded at their waists, they stood a few steps beyond the high-backed chairs.

  Next to Leonif sat yet another Vülfen. He was much younger than the Lord Commander. His fur was the night personified, fathomless obsidian. His skin was a striking crimson, devoid of wrinkles and age spots. He appeared, even while sitting, eager to prove himself. He knew full well this incursion into the Melded World as an honored member of the Great Maelstrom’s Vanguard could very well mean the beginning of an illustrious career. His name was Rodíc Banciu, the High Lieutenant of the Beasts. He served as headmaster to all the various creatures the Host would bring into battle should one arise. He was larger than both of his commanding officers, broad of chest and lumbering. He wore scale mail, blackened and lacquered, underneath an oversized and padded jerkin of red and white velvet of suffi
cient size to fit over his armor. No doubt, he was clad in matching leather breeks. Though from his current vantage, Vallüm could not know for certain if that was the case.

  But a pup, Vallüm mused in the silence of his mind.

  The rest of the occupants about the table were the four members of the Hross, Fenris’ brother-Vyche, who had been at his side since birth. They always wore the same dark robes, their bodies identical, in both size and shape. Since he did not know their names and had never seen their faces, he could not begin to single them out as individuals. To the Prēost (and everyone else), they were the Hross, a single entity with four bodies, never apart and never far from the side of the Hand.

  “Vallüm, why do you come before us looking as a vagabond?” demanded Malik almost at once.

  “Your Imminence, forgive me. I came as fast as I could. The moment I learned we may have a serious problem, I came posthaste. If my appearance offends you, I do apologize,” replied Vallüm. He hoped the pending doom of his message was enough to beseech forgiveness.

  The Mheto-Prēost did not reply. He continued to stare at him, searching over his person, searching for meaning.

  Fenris cleared his throat. “Explain what you have learned,” he commanded. His tone was less harsh than would have been outside of the presence of his great, great uncle.

  He did not wish to meddle in Prēost politics. How wise of him.

  “M’Lord Hand,” began Vallüm. He shuffled forward on caked and cracked feet. “I have succeeded with my Nixy -,” not a complete truth, but who was keeping count, “- I have learned some startling news from her.” He clasped his hands before him, glancing at all about the table.

  “Continue.” It was Malik this time.

  “Imminence, My Lords, it seems there is an anomaly of some sort walking the Melded World. There is an entity aligned with neither Storm nor the Light. It is a being onto itself and already in possession of tremendous power. He bears Gifts unlike any I have ever heard described to me or scryed from the brain of my Nixy.”