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

by Richard M. Heredia

  She stepped forth from the shadows just as he passed her from left to right. She allowed him to place his hand upon the doorknob. He had not heard her, but then again no one ever heard her unless she deemed it so.

  He had no idea she was within his so-called closely guarded bedchamber.

  She could have cut his putrid manhood from his body and shoved it up his sagging ass. Impaling him, before he would have known what was happening.

  She did not.

  She had other things in mind, had other plans and machinations to tend.

  “Malik-Käi, how nice to see you again,” she spoke, slow, even and devoid of inflection.

  The Mheto-Prēost jumped in air as if she had indeed stuck his shriveled cock up his anus. He whirled upon her with fury in his eyes. “How dare you invade my private sanctum!” he yelled.

  Then, he saw her, recognizing who she was.

  In an instant, he froze in place.

  She smirked at him, knowing he had recognized her tall, athletic body, her waist-length, jet-black hair. She had always worn it as straight as an arrow. Her wide face with its wide nose and pursed, bright pink lips would be familiar. He knew the color of her skin as well. So dark, it was often rumored to be darker than night itself.

  Her sneer turned to a smile when he looked into her eyes, seeing the white within white. Her black pupils were vivid against the absence of color.

  She remained silent for the time being, letting his eyes search over her clothing which she knew he would find odd, confusing. She never wore garments from the World of Storm. She preferred things from her home world. The materials woven there were more form-fitting, flexible and above all else, did not rustle. She wore a one-piece leotard, black, that clung to her body like a second skin. She did not wear any under garments. So, the tight nylon caressed her ample breasts and budding nipples, clung to the twin, firm half-spheres of her rear end. It folded around the crests and valleys of her vagina like a fervent lover.

  If only she could understand what that meant, for love was beyond her as well.

  I am immune to that too.

  Over her leotard, she wore a long overcoat, made of kidskin leather. It would have cost thousands of dollars in the World of Man and was like those worn by the cowboys of the Old West. Over her feet, she wore supple, silent black boots with thick, suede soles. These never creaked, never scuffed the surface of any floor and never revealed her position to anyone.

  “Rasputna!” he began, gulping down air.

  Stupid Prēost! You forgot to breathe.

  “I-I-I heard your w-w-were in the Melded World.” He bent at the waist as if he were bowing, completely forgetting he was still naked. “He-he – um, how was your foray in-t-t-to the World of Man? P-p-pleasant I hope.”

  “It was typical, Prēost.” She stepped toward him.

  Out of instinct, he skulked in retreat.

  “But that is of little import now. What is important -. No, what is vital is your explanation of the targeting of the Grän Herra and the Skrímsli. Why were they banished forthwith without the blessing of the Lord of the Storm?” She paused to glare at him. “That I deem is a topic of some value. Wouldn’t you agree?” She did not wait for him to reply. “So, that said, I would like for you to divulge everything to me in detail why this has occurred.” Her grin was humorless, dry. “If you would be so kind,” she added as if she had just remembered to honor his rank.

  It was a rouse.

  He sputtered, looking about with extreme agitation.

  “Oh,” she began anew as if a new thought entered her mind.

  It was obvious to Malik that it had not.

  “And, I would also like to know what do you and Claudiu dok Kór expect to gain from it?”

  “I k-know n-not of what you speak, my Lady,” he replied, shaking his head back and forth so wild it looked like it might fall off. His hands were before him as if to ward her off, as if that would have mattered.

  Stupid Prēost!

  “No, Malik, you know exactly what I am talking about. And you will sing it all to me.” Another ghost-like smile emerged. “Trust me. I know, you will sing.” She took another step forward.

  The Prēost leapt for the door, trying to turn the knob he no longer had the mental capacity to work.

  It would not have matter though, even if he had been able to open the door. She was too fast. She pounced upon him, yanking him to the center of the room, rounding upon him as she spun him in her grasp. Her hand was at his throat before he could blink.

  “Sing Prēost,” she snarled. Her eyes became void.

  The Mheto-Prēost began to shake in her grasp.

  “Sing, I said.”

  With a mind of their own, the bowels of the shriveled Vülfen loosened. He fouled the floor about his bare feet.

  She tightened her grip.

  He sang then, loud and clear, a most detailed and lengthy song indeed.

  After a short time though, the Seeker began to frown at what she learned. The great Metohkangmi was not going to like this, not in the least. These bumbling idiots might well have upset the entire Grand Design!

  She redoubled her efforts with the Mheto-Prēost, making sure he told her everything. Soon his singing became ragged, shrill.

  Loud thuds came from the other side of doors leading into his private chamber.

  She had sealed them against intruders long ago.

  From the bed, the beaten Nixy smiled from the depths of her slumber. She was enjoying the sound of the Mheto-Prēost’s melodious voice as he sang for the Unhuman Being. This was why she was the dreaded Stiletto of the Storm.

  She was the Seeker.

  What she sought, above all else, was truth.

  *****

  Where?

  He opened his eyes and saw nothing but white. It shocked him, because when he had closed them before his hibernation, he had seen nothing but black. It was cold as it should be. He was still buried as he should have been, sheltered from the weather for the night. But the lack color surrounding him was all wrong. Snow was not supposed to be this hue.

  I am where?

  He moved in the slightest, pulling one of his twig-like limbs from the nourishing earth. The tiny leaves sprouting from his wrist swayed and bobbed before his eyes. He pushed the discomforting precipitation further from his face. He could inspect it better when it about six inches from his sharp, angular visage. It was the color of the bark of a redwood tree.

  Of course, he did not know what a redwood tree was and never would have made that particular interpretation of himself.

  He gazed at it, intent. It felt like snow. It had the same consistency as snow. But it smelled much different. It did not carry the after-scent of charcoal or ash or soot - or the long-time dead. No, it smelled strange, alien and unnatural. It smelled fresh and moist, clean. He frowned at it. His long eyelashes, looking more like the stamen of a flower than anything hair-like, dipped and dangled. They were bulbous at the ends – ends that were full with pollen – and moved in time with his visage.

  What is this?

  He pulled his other arm from the cool earth. It had drawn the needed nutrients from the surrounding soil, strengthening him, making him grow.

  Yet, even that was a bit different from what he knew. The earth felt wrong too. It gave off an unfamiliar smell just as the snow. It was healthier than it should have been. He could sense it bursting with minerals!

  Astonishment made him blink in disbelief. This ground held three, maybe four times more nutrients than it should have. There had been far less when he had burrowed beneath the ground to rest. He stared at the traces of earth falling from his arm. He let the thick, pungent smell fill his lungs. He inhaled the carbon dioxide, expelling the oxygen into the small pocket of air cocooning him.

  I must stand.

  I must see.

  Where I am.

  He shifted his long, knobby legs. He shook the surreal dirt from the thick bark-like skin growing from his waist to his ankles where it
ended and his hard wooden feet began. They were toeless for the time being, horned at the tips instead, more like the thorn of a rose bush.

  He used both hands, shoving the gossamer snow from him, opening up the bolt hole he had inserted himself the night before.

  Only now, he was beginning to realize where he had borrowed earlier was in a different place altogether.

  At once, ferocious winds buffeted him. They were so brutal, they seemed to shred the landscape about him. Above, clouds unlike any he had ever seen seemed to boil and spit vast quantities of heavy, sticky, white snow as if in anger. It was cold, but that was normal to him. He was a full-grown Flowerling from Krëpin. He had lived with extreme cold his entire life. But this wind and the driving snowfall was something else.

  He would have to stay put for a while to ensure his safety. He might be mature, but he stood no more than two and a half feet tall. He did not have enough weight to keep the storm from tossing him about like a fallen leaf. He would not risk any more than he had to, especially since he did not know where he was.

  He glanced around, seeing he was still protected by the two large roots of the Ironwood he had burrowed between the night before. Because of their height, they protected him from the worst of the wind. He was grateful for that.

  Nonetheless, when he peered out from the roots, when he looked out and away from the hardwood tree, he found he could see no more than two cable-lengths before him. This stunted line of sight permitted him to see nothing more than a few trees, but they were fantastical and unusual. There was some sort of underbrush as well, though he had never seen it’s like before either.

  He frowned. Beyond that, he could see no more.

  I am gone.

  I am lost.

  He came free from his cocoon, but did not stand. He knew the wind, even a few inches above the level of the roots, would be enough to pull him up and bounce him about the forest for hours, maybe days even.

  Instead, he scooted on his bark covered rear end to the point where both of the roots met the trunk of the Ironwood. He sought better shelter, deciding the only thing he could do at the moment was wait. He would have to let the storm to die down. If it did not do so during the daylight hours, he would burrow once more into the earth. Once more, he would take his fill of the stockpile of vitamins and minerals within. He could not let such a bounty go to waste. He might as well have his fill. Besides, he would need to keep himself in the best condition possible if he were to try and survive here. Where ever here may be.

  I will wait.

  Cuman Strongbranch will wait.

  He gazed down at the leafy tufts, crisscrossed with both thick and miniscule veins - two each. They grew from the back of his arms, between his shoulder and his elbow. They were long and narrow, hanging down past his hands about an inch and a half. With half a mind, he began to gather dirt from them, placing it in his slit of a mouth. His sharp, thorn-like nose sniffed at the earth as he brought it underneath his three nostrils for eating. He chewed the frozen dirt in near ecstasy. It was pure heaven to him, so full of life giving ingredients. The wide petals growing from both sides of his face and about his forehead and chin vibrated and shook each time he took a swallow.

  To anyone peering through the rampaging tempest, his face possessed a flower-like look.

  He crossed his legs before him and continued to eat the remnants of dirt still clinging to him, humming to himself to pass the time.

  He could wait. It did not bother him. Flowerlings, far and wide in the World of Storm, were known as harbingers of infinite patience. But, they came with occasional rudeness and a distinct hatred of a large vocabulary too. But those aspects of himself would never enter a root-like brain like that of Cuman Strongbranch. No, he had no use for words of that length and complexity.

  Cuman Strongbranch will wait.

  All about him, the blizzard screamed and howled like a rabid animal.

  No end in sight.

  *****

  She knew something was wrong almost at once. She did not even need to open her eyes.

  She had been in her Council Chamber, speaking from the head of her table with the entire Radid amassed about her, when it happened. Exactly what it was, she had not known at the time. But now, she was beginning to understand.

  It was a betrayal.

  The final betrayal of what had been a lifetime of misery and failure, exacted upon her by others who strove to own what had once been hers. Long ago, hers was a power above all others.

  She had once been the Dronning of Storm, the Consort to the great Lord Metohkangmi himself. In an age long passed, at a time when there was no Six-Fold Empire, no Isig-Vültriäk that ruled supreme over the World of Storm, she had been greater than any queen. She had been the greatest to have ever walked the annuls of time. This was far back, when the eleven Warlords of Chaos ruled Storm, when all trembled at their feet. This was before her one-time lover had persuaded the Seeker to his side. This was before the titanic and catastrophic Wars of Unification had begun. This was when she had ruled beside the Great Maelstrom. Her voice had been second to his and none other.

  This was before her own brethren had set plans into motion to bring her down, for it were their schemes that had caused her to fall from the graces of her mate.

  After, he had cast her aside like a piece of offal.

  She had been Da-Magna Furia then, the Antithues and the greatest Demon Spirit to walk the World of Chaos. She had been the supreme leader of the Infernia, her people. That was before her own nephew had deposed her, usurped her throne.

  It was her nephew; the despised Asmodemus who had made it appear as though she had taken another to her bed of fire and flame. It was he that made it look as though she had cuckold the great lord Metohkangmi. It was he who had trapped her in an ironclad rouse from which she could not escape.

  When her great Lord had learned of this supposed indiscretion, he himself had cast her aside. Weakened and without title, he had exiled her to Richuese, the land of the outcasts. Forever destroying her dreams of ultimate power, forever ruining her mission to rule beside him. She had desired, longed and bled to rise above all things walking and breathing upon that plane of undying change.

  It had been a horrific time for her - her exile. She had wandered the land alone for centuries. Her once great powers diminished, though not gone in full. All about Storm (then Chaos) the Wars of Unification raged on. Ever so slow, the World of Chaos was beginning to tear itself apart.

  One faction attempted to gain strength over another by betraying yet another. It had gone on and on, a morass of double-dealings and alliances broken. It became plain, even to her; the Great War would never end.

  She had ignored it back then, content to sulk within her wounded pride. She killed, indiscriminate, wanton, throwing herself into every sort of decadence and depravity imaginable.

  Until one day. The wallowing in self-pity, the loathing of herself, loosing herself in the recesses of her mind, all became boring to her. It was then, the long burning fire from within began to burn anew and she felt something stir. Something she had yet to feel in a thousand years.

  Revenge.

  She began testing the limits of her abilities, the strength of them and that of her reshaped constitution. She had changed her form in dramatic fashion over the course of those early years. It took many, many more years, and even more planning, but she did in fact rise from the ashes of her past. She rose all the way through the ranks of the outcasts. Until, one day, she was the Grän Herra of the Skrímsli, the High Lady of all the Outcasts - the Fallen, the Malformed and the Decrepit.

  Into the mire of jealousy and a sundering of faith plaguing all else in Chaos, she threw her millions of minions behind the banners of the Lord of the Storm. He – even after all that had happened - was still the one she believed was the rightful ruler of her home world.

  Into the fray of those great wars, she helped turn the tide of those horrible battles rampaging on the ground, beneath it and in the
air. Where creatures fought and died in all forms, in all places upon Chaos, where anything was liable to occur. Nothing was off-limits.

  When the Lord of the Storm began to emerge as the penultimate victor, she and her droves of outcasts were given a place. They were equals within the Six-Fold Empire and some of her former dreams came to fruition. Her yearning for revenge had simmered, but was not dead.

  The cursed name Skrímsli became that of a new race, her race. Her one-time lover promised, they would go unmolested so long as she and her people proved loyal to the will of the Great Maelstrom.

  That was when Chaos became Storm and the focus of all things began to turn toward the World of Man and its’ ultimate destruction.

  She had pledged then.

  And He had promised.

  Until now. Or so it appeared…

  She pushed the heat from the center of her demon body outward, making it radiate from her with more and more strength. She opened her molten eyes to see white snow melt from her body. She saw she was still clad in her long flowing robes of white ermine, covering her short, voluptuous form from neck to foot. Upon her feet, she could still feel her silken slippers. She reached out with her mind, lifting herself from her horizontal position until she was levitating.

  In a few moments, she was upright, some three feet off the ground.

  A hurricane of immense proportions was blasting the land. The wind pulled at the heavy folds of her robes, threatening to tear them from her body.

  She glanced about. She sent a powerful incantation to alter the weather, but the wind mangled it, ripping to shreds in seconds. She was one of the strongest with the Vyche and still her power paled in comparison to the tempest raging everywhere she looked.

  So, this is no natural storm, I see.

  In place of that spell, she forged with the will of her mind, a mental shield. She placed it about an inch beyond the outer layers of her garments. Thus, she encased herself from head to toe, from hand to hand, in a form fitting bubble that moved when she moved, but did much more than that. It kept the elements at bay. The wind and snow pummeled the shield with ungodly malevolence, but did not get through to her robes or better yet, beneath them. Her flowing garments fell about her, draped, unmoving, as though she was walking about on a mild, spring day.