The Unwanted Winter - Volume One of the Saga of the Twelves

by Richard Heredia

  As was the norm when his thoughts roamed, he invariably came to think of his past life. This, of course, led him to remembering his former nature, of being hand fed and babied, of frolicking about with other equally spoiled felines, filling the yards of his old neighborhood. He wasn’t quite sure if he was angry with himself or not. Possibly, disdainful would’ve been a more suitable term describing his true feelings about his lazy past. He didn’t like to think upon it, but the thought always came, every time. He disliked the fact he’d been… fat - in both mind and body. Not obese or watermelon-ish. No, not like that, but he’d been a glutton, far down the road toward sloth. He had continually taken advantage of his master.

  Now, it made him feel uncomfortable. His behavior had been unnecessary and uncouth. It had been selfish, the sort of stuff a spoiled kitten knew in the world would do, before the experience and knowledge necessary to call itself a true feline was realized.

  So much had changed.

  Now, his master needed him to be his best, without fault, completely reliable and it made him feel all the more shameful of his treatment of Anthony and the Lady with the Long Hair.

  Garfield had watched Anthony this past day, mostly when Anthony didn’t know he did so. He could see the stress and the fear in him, though he was desperately trying to hide from the rest of them. He knew the boy had taken responsibility over his sisters. The weight, being so new to him, was a bit overwhelming at best. The boy had borne it heavily upon his shoulders.

  Yet, he hadn’t shirked from the task either. The instant it was bestowed upon him, he had accepted this newfound role without any resistance whatsoever. Though he must’ve known it was going to be hard.

  This was the crux of what nagged at Garfield’s mind. In the past, he hadn’t respected Anthony for being the caring, loving, attentive master he’d been when back before this deranged Snow Creature, this Snowman, had pulled them all from their old world, stranding them here on this bleak, frozen land. He’d expected -. No, he had demanded, his master’s love as if he were the center of the universe.

  Now, everything the boy had loved and cherished was gone. It had been taken from him in the cruelest, most abrupt manner.

  With so much at stake, with so much change, how would he respond? He was no longer a mere housecat. He, like the children, had been chosen. He’d been given a second chance. What was he going to do with it?

  It didn’t take him long to answer his own query.

  He would embrace his new role and act with the honor and the sense of responsibility a great man, or a great cat, would convey when faced with such a dire challenge. Anthony had stepped forward. He had risen for the sake of his litter. He had silently vowed to protect them from all things bad, whatever the cost. Because of it, Garfield would do the same. Out of the high regard he held for the boy, because of his maturity and his strength. Garfield could do no less. Anthony deserved that, after so long, after so much neglect. He deserved it.

  Absently, he hoped that one day, should they make it through the perils of this place, he would have a son as mighty of heart and as brave of soul as Anthony Herrera. It was a good wish.

  Well, thought Garfield, I will not let him down any longer. I will be at my best, without fault, and completely reliable… for him. I will try to ease some of the strain he feels. I will try!

  The fluttering of wings suddenly brought him back to the present. Garfield opened his eyes to see the bird-slug take to wing. He was astonished to see the creature had grown since he’d last laid eyes upon it and that hadn’t been all that long ago. How did it increase its’ size so quickly? Again, he shivered with revulsion, but didn’t move more. He was unwilling to give away his location over something as insignificant as a bird. However bizarre it may have been.

  Off hand, he wondered how big a creature such as a bird-slug might grow if it had an ample food supply. Come on, Garfield, get it together! You have a job to do.

  He heard the snap of a twig somewhere in the distance. He trained his powerful eyes toward the sound, squinting through the fog of the storm and the swirling snow dancing on the wind. He heard the slushy footfalls of what sounded like a medium-sized, four-legged animal, but was unable to see it from his elevated perch.

  Now was the time to move, he decided.

  He crept carefully toward the left side of the snow-covered pile of boulders, serving as a lookout, cautiously making his way down the jumble of rock. He sniffed at the air, but smelled nothing unusual. He made no sound.

  He reached the bottom in half a minute, was able to see slightly better with a more level view of the ground. He was quickly able to make out a shadow walking slowly, some sixty or seventy feet in front of him, about equidistant from the entrance of the cave. It seemed to pause in place for a moment, bending its head toward the ground, as if it was trying to catch the scent of something. Garfield eased his way a bit closer, every one of his senses heightened to the fullest.

  To his surprise, the shadow stood upright, man-like. Garfield realized he’d been stalking a being that had been crawling on all fours, not walking upon them as he’d first surmised.

  The huge cat inched his way to his right, placing himself in between the man-thing and the cave. He sniffed at the air again, tasting its’ currents with his nose. The wind blew a very man-ish smell his way. It was something he’d smelled on many occasions as a household cat – the body odor of a human being - male, of middle years. This wasn’t the smell of a child or even a teenager. This was different, an older, more rich sort of scent, muskier than the sharpness of a young human. Who in their right mind would be walking out here at night, he thought as he slunk back down on his belly, amongst the packed powdery snow covering every inch of the landscape.

  Then another thought crossed his mind. He was about to act upon it when the man yelled the top of lungs…

  “Give me back my son, you pinché bastards!”

  …Garfield watched, unsure, but curious. The man threw his hands over his head and ran off deeper into the night, flailing about, ripping through bushed and shrubs as he plowed forth, uncaring whether he was hurt or not.

  In a few seconds, he was gone. The silence of the night returned. Garfield frowned after the fleeing man, concerned. Kodiak had told him there would only be the twelve Chosen who would survive the Rending. There would only be children living in the Melded World, none of them would be beyond their teenage years. His memory had not failed him. He had remembered her lecture down the every last word. Yet, there was a man here as well - a grown human being, not a minion of Storm. A human!

  Another thought bubbled to the surface of his mind and he could feel the certainty of it as well. Something else was happening, something unexpected. He frowned anew at the prospect. He abhorred surprises of any kind, but he couldn’t shake the feeling they were all in store for a big one.

  Even hours later, after he had followed behind the strange man and learned a bit about him, the thought plagued him and soured his mood even more.

  Impossible as that may seem. After all, he was such an agreeable feline.

  ~~~~~~~~<<<<<<{ ☼ }>>>>>>~~~~~~~~

  ~ 54 ~

  The Hand

  Day Two, Friday, At the Same Time…

  He sat upon a rough-hewn, three-legged stool before what was currently serving as his desk. It was really no more than four uneven, wooden planks bound tightly together with stout, leather straps, nailed atop the trunk of a medium sized tree, serving to keep the whole thing upright. There hadn’t been sufficient time to procure proper furnishings and other like creature comforts. His typical finery and like accoutrements would be arriving soon from Storm, so he didn’t let the crudity surrounding him rankle. There were other things, much more important and pressing items to consider.

  The urgency of their mission was at stake! Many of his carefully laid plans had been laid to waste! Centuries of preparation, decades of training, and year upon year of consistently proving his worth were now at risk. Would all of his effort pro
ve worth nothing? He had scraped every bit of value he could manage for his race within the many political folds of the Empire and for what? For naught? After all this time, why would failure show its’ fickle face here? Why hadn’t anything gone according to plan? Seeing all of it to go up in flames, in a matter of minutes, made him seethe with fury that boiled down to the very center of his twisted soul.

  He had been so close, by the Storm Lord’s eyes!

  He glared about the animal-skin tent with pure malice dripping from his gaze. He took no notice of the stinking bundle of hides strewn in one corner of the tent, pelts he, at this very moment, should’ve been resting among – a luxury he couldn’t afford now. Not after the disaster of the past thirty-six hours, not after the cursed Fist of the Light had snatched the children from right under his nose and then managed to disappear into thin air, as if they had never been.

  A Fist of the Light! he raged. Here, in the Construct itself, where I was promised complete autonomy! How could that be possible? Five Fingers of Lights alive within the Melded World! How could this be? How could the Lord of the Light have known what they’d been planning for the World of Man?

  May a pox take the Nöhreg and their precious Lord of the Dawn!

  He stood erect in a flash, the stool bouncing backward and into one side of the tent as he smashed a mailed fist onto one of the corners of the desk. A large hunk from one of the planks fell to the ground. He ignored it as it rolled away. Curse the guile of the Lord of the Light! he exclaimed internally, knowing if so much as uttered a single word, he would demolish the entire contents of the tent and possibly it as well.

  Instead, he stood there with his fists clenched at his sides, breathing heavily through his fanged, wolf-like snout, trying with every ounce of control to keep his power at bay. Magical forces of that magnitude could destroy the entire encampment he and his troops had labored to build, since the final iteration of the Melded World had begun to form. He began to pace back and forth, going through detail after detail of what had once been a complicated plan, to say the least.

  Now, it had to be massaged, finessed and properly managed - or salvaged - in order to properly clear the way for the emergence of the Lord of the Storm. He had to somehow gain back the initiative, turn the tide of the impossible events of the past day. He had to. He had no choice in the matter. With his Great Master the rule had always been - succeed or die. He wasn’t about to turn tail and run away like some frightened newborn pup, not with the favor and the power he was poised to claim upon success. He was on the brink of being risen above all within the Six-Fold Empire. His people would be marked for ascension, while he would finally emerge from the long shadow of his father. He would be second to only the great Maelstrom himself – his master, the ancient Snowman.

  Not any time soon, if I cannot round up those spoiled brats posthaste!

  He continued his pacing, lost in thought, his once boiling fury, merely simmering now. He was certain he still held the upper hand. It had to be true. He still had many more resources available to him than that pack of imbecilic animals. His entire Host had arrived now. All fifteen hundred Swüreg warriors were here. Four complete Troupes, painstakingly trained by him and his most trusted servants, his beloved Hross – his Four Harbingers of Strife. Already, the eleven Vyche sorcerers that had come with the Host, had begun the final blending of the planes, bringing into this new world a veritable swarm of creatures dedicated to the ultimate victory of the Storm over the Light. He had Band after Band of Jötun now, complete with hundreds of the lesser versions of themselves – the Tünn – to fill out their ranks. He had Isighünds by the score, commanded by their black-as-night tyrants, the Dēowulf. And, within hours, he would have the Wyrm at his command. Then, his troops would have complete reign of the sky as well.

  Yes, he still had the advantage. He was sure of it, just as he was certain all of the children remained entirely ignorant of their own powers. True, their Gifts would become formidable, but not now. They were mere shades of the power he himself could bring to bear. Since, there was no one who could teach them, no one to show them the Path, the Method or the Way. They were shut off. They’d been banished from their world, hopelessly lacking in training. They would never be able to tap the hidden wellspring of the power within them. They would never realize their true potential. And, they would never truly comprehend their cruciality to the balance of power within the planes of existence, within the four universes that existed now. How could they know? After having lived such soft, carefree lives, devoid of fear and jealousy, torture and rape, mutilation and death, how could they possibly begin to guess at their true importance? It is beyond them. They will forever remain pampered, spoiled children of a misguided race on a soon to be dead world. He smiled evilly at the thought, mercilessly welcoming the pitiful situation confronting the Twelve.

  It would only be a matter of time before he would have them all under the heel of his boot. Soon, he would do with them as he pleased, while they waited in chains for their sacrifice before the great Throne of Jüle, under the malevolent gaze of the Lord of the Storm. He could almost taste their despair!

  First, I will take the maidenhead of the Elemental! I will spill my searing seed into her womb and watch her burn from within. He chuckled, a demented leer skewing his wolven features.

  Yes, he was quite sure, in the end, he would be the one to place the fruits of victory into the hands of the Lord of the Storm himself. He would be forever raised above all others. He would rule beside great Metohkangmi, no longer under the sway of his father. He would be given the power and the wealth he alone had earned. His mind eased at the thought.

  There was movement at the entrance of the tent, distracting him.

  A Swüreg shoved his head through the folds of the animal skins. “M’lord Hand, a messenger to see you,” said the warrior in clipped military fashion.

  “Well, send him in, you idiot! Does it look like I have the entire night to languish away whilst I wait for the likes of you to move your putrid ass!” Fenris’ evil scowl returned with angry vigor.

  The soldier promptly stepped back and held open the tent flap to admit the messenger. It was another Swüreg, only this one was higher ranking, an officer. He glared at the junior warrior in anger over having to wait, even if it had been for a moment or two. The other soldier respectfully did not return his gaze, choosing to remain rigid and unmoving. When the officer passed through the portal, the junior Swüreg promptly released the animal skin, leaving him and Fenris in private.

  “Well, what is it?” urged the wolf-man, his tone rank with contempt.

  The officer turned quickly, as if startled, distracted for the moment. He regained his composure, saluting the Hand by pounding on his chest twice in rapid succession. “My Lord Fenris, we have found the Marker and the entrance to the Tomb.”

  Fenris could feel his lips peel back from his teeth, the rigor mortal grin usually etching his snout when he was very pleased. “Good work , Commander. Have you been able to breach the Tomb itself to ensure the Lost Cavern lies within?”

  The commander shuffled his feet slightly. “No, m’Lord, the Vyche that binds the entrance has been too much for any physical attack to penetrate.”

  Fenris’ grin became a snarl.

  The officer added quickly: “Maybe if we were to attempt to open them with a force similar to that which keeps them shut, we would have better success.” It was almost a question, a suggestion placed as delicately as possible.

  Fenris thought for a moment in silence, his grimace slackening. “Have that cretin, Vallüm, and his Prēost minions return with you to the location of the Tomb. Attempt to open those cursed doors with their command of the Flesh,” then, an afterthought, “but make sure he has finished his other tasks before you make use of him. The way must be opened fully before the rise of the sun. The Melding must be completed on schedule, regardless of whatever setbacks we may have experienced thus far. When this is accomplished, I will send whatever sorcerous
tools we can spare, but until that time, you will have to make do,” he offered in harsh tones, knowing the Swüreg officer understood he still required progress regardless of circumstance. A lack of resources wasn’t excuse enough for a lack of progress.

  The officer frowned at the mentioning of the wizened, little man.

  Fenris was quick to deduce his train of thought. “Yes, yes, I know a Prēost will be of little help with the divination of magics, but he might be of some assistance, nevertheless. I am willing to take advantage of any glimmer of hope at the moment,” added the man-wolf, irritated at having to explain himself, especially when Vallüm was the topic of conversation. He loathed the tiny, dried-up creature, and all of his grotesque practices as well.

  We must endure what we must for the sake of the Storm, he chided himself quietly well aware of the benefits of having a Prēost of Vallüm’s renowned and experience under his command. The small man and his Flesher were world-famous back in Storm, touted as the greatest trackers of flesh to have ever lived. But, he still couldn’t help wrinkling his snout in disgust at the price the rest of them had to pay by having such a vile cretin about.

  The officer saluted when Fenris said no more. “It will be as you wish, my Lord,” and at Fenris’ nod he turned upon a heel and quickly left the tent.

  The man-wolf let his hideous grin return as soon as the commander of his Host of Swüreg left his presence. It was apparent at least some things were going according to plan, possibly even better than expected. He hadn’t expected to find the Tomb so quickly. Although, he had been told it would be nearby. The Tomb of the Guardians was always near the homes of the Twelve, wherever they might have dwelled in the World of Man. The Tomb would always follow, because the spells surrounding the Guardians were great, unimaginably powerful. The Hand knew they would have to proceed with caution, because of it. He couldn’t afford any more mistakes. Errors in the Melded World were proving extremely detrimental to his schemes.