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

by Richard Heredia

  Joaquin shrugged his shoulders, embarrassed at his lack of knowledge. And yet, he was utterly unsure why he should feel that way in the first place. All of this was utterly confused to him. It might as well have been Greek.

  “Search within you, Lordling,” urged Röjan.

  Joaquin thought for a while. Gift am I? What the hell is he talking about? Then, he remembered something. “Well, now that you mentioned it, I kept getting these strange thoughts in my head, thought that don’t seem to come from me. So, I am guessing, if I were supposed to be - or have to be - some kind of Gift as you say, then I guess it would mean I have some sort of informational thingy in me…” He trailed off uneasy. “Right?” He glanced from brother to brother to brother feeling very vulnerable and exposed.

  “That is very close actually,” grinned Knüd as he bowed an admiring head toward Joaquin. “Your Gift, Joaquin Barrientos, is Knowledge. It is termed, the My-Ėind, in the ancient tongue of us Nöhreg. It states, simply, that you shall always know what needs to be known at the specific time of need. A very useful and prodigious tool if you ask me.” He paused to chuckle into a fisted hand. “Your companions, some of which you have not met yet, will have gifts of Strength, Chance, Transparency, Mind, Air, Speed, Laughter, Dance, Light –.”

  “And Weather!” exclaimed Joaquin unexpectedly. He almost clamped his hands over his mouth, not sure how he knew that, but it had burst into his mind so quickly he couldn’t help himself.

  All three of the brothers laughed aloud.

  “It seems as though your Gift is quite strong already,” mused Slind.

  After a time, Knüd continued, “Indeed, young man, indeed, but there is one more Gift that is the cornerstone of all the other Gifts. It is the one that binds them together. It forms a Wheel of Light so mighty, once created, it cannot be torn asunder. It is said to be very difficult to defeat.”

  “You speak of the Kring-Hël.” Joaquin had suspected that on his own, without the use of any “power” or “tool” he might’ve had inside him.

  “Yes, I do, the Kring-Hël. He is the Spirit of the Light, who has been charged with holding the center of the Twelve. He is their wellspring and the very key that unlocks the true potential of all their Gifts. The Kring-Hël is the Leader and the Guide of the Twelve, bestowed the same sorceries once safeguarded by the Lord of Light himself. He holds within his grasp tremendous power and carries a tremendous burden as well, for it is he that is charged with keeping the Storm at bay. It is his responsibility to make certain the ancient Snowman, the vile Maelstrom, gets not even a toehold in the World of Man, for then the delicate balance that exists between the Light and the Storm would be upset.” He paused to take a slow, long breath. “Whenever there has been a threat to your world, Kring-Hëls of the past have always been able to allow their Gifts to mature naturally, with time and practice, and eventually the threat was thwarted and banished forthwith…,” he trailed off, glancing at each of his brothers, who both nodded for him to continue. “This time, however, the current Kring-Hël might be forced to go along a different path, one that requires him to accelerate the process of maturing the Twelve Gifts by becoming something else entirely, something of legend.”

  “Of what?” asked Joaquin, still no closer to understanding what the Nöhreg was speaking.

  “It is said in the oldest of our myths and has long been forgotten by most. Now, it is something only postulated in the high councils of the Light,” answered Knüd. “ It is what we call, the Final Iteration, the higher form of the Kring-Hël, the one who must die and be reborn into his final form. Once given his rebirth, he will become a being so infused with the Light, he will be forever changed. For all of time, he will turn into something quite different and unexpected.

  “In the many, many millennia that the Guardians have watched over the World of Man, no one has ever laid eyes upon this Reborn Spirit of the Light. Not even I could tell you what would be unleashed upon the universes if the Final Iteration were realized. Though this struggle between the Light and the Storm has been raging for more years than you can imagine, never has the Reborn Kring-Hël walked the earth, not a single time.

  “Up until now, there has been no need great enough to call this wondrous, transformed being into existence.” He stopped to gather himself. “Please, understand, Joaquin, there have been other Kring-Hëls striding about, marching or teaching or giving or resisting throughout the many lands and countries and nations of your great universe, putting down great uprisings of evil and destruction in their times. Although, their methods and manners were each onto themselves, as vastly different as individual flakes of snow, in the end, they were all, one in the same. They were unrealized Kring-Hëls. They were necessary to oppose the forces of the Storm and its’ evil master - Metohkangmi or Nicor or Ahriman, or whatever else he is calling himself these days - but they were adequate enough to banish the evil spreading into the World of Man. They were fortunate, young man. They were facing but a fraction of the might of Storm, no more than a pinprick, a nuisance, nothing more. They were not coerced into the final form of the Kring-Hël, because there was no need to call upon him. His spirit may only be summoned in the darkest hour, when the situation is dire and there is little hope for all of your kind - mankind.” He paused, clasping his hands before him, though they were hidden in the voluminous sleeves of his robe.

  Joaquin sighed, apprehension rising. Something unsavory was about to come his way.

  “This time, though,” began the Nöhreg, “the Lord of the Storm means to end the struggle once and for all. He intends to enter the World of Men himself. His has put forth his grand design and, the final step of its’ preamble, he set into motion the day before yesterday. He has done what was thought to be impossible by even the wisest and most learned of us Teachers. He has done something deviously ingenious and abhorrent to the natural order of things. He has circumvented the boundaries and shackles of his prison. He has constructed the Melded World, a plane consisting of some of the elements of your world, but representative of even more elements of his own grotesque plane of existence. In this Melded World he has not only control, but he now has a means, with only the most minor of incantation and ceremony, to enter it himself, bodily. This is why he has created another universe in the first place. This is why he has taken you and your companions from the World of Man, the Twelve Guardians, and placed you there. You twelve children are the most powerful of all forces allied against him in your universe. It is his scheme to kill you all on this unlikely plane; thus, leaving the World of Man defenseless against his final assault. This is why you were put upon the Melded World.

  “It is also the reason why, in this chapter of the struggle of all struggles, the Kring-Hël, in all of his Truth and Glory, must be reborn. His true powers must be realized for the first time in history.”

  He stopped again, swallowing, a crude gesture when expressed by a Nöhreg.

  Seconds passed, uneasy, the sounds of the fire suddenly growling with anger.

  Here it comes, thought Joaquin.

  “This monumental task has been bestowed upon your newfound friend, Anthony Herrera,” expounded Knüd with a shuddering breath.

  Joaquin could only stare back at first. All of what Knüd said ringing truthful against the unleashed knowledge of his gift, then, “Wait a minute… are you telling me Anthony must die?” He couldn’t help but repeat Knüd’s dread-filled expulsion of air.

  “That is correct.” They all spoke at once, in unison.

  “Well, shit, that sucks!”

  The Nöhreg, as one, lifted an eyebrow each, their expression disdainfully similar.

  “It is what must be done or the Lord of the Storm will rule all four planes,” replied Slind succinctly.

  “But, can’t you guys help us out? I mean, why we have to do this on our own. Surely, the Light can provide more, right?” asked Joaquin, his voice becoming shriller as he continued talking.

  “We would if we could, Joaquin,” began Röjan sadly,
“but, unfortunately, this will be the last assistance the Light will be able to provide you. For this, we are deeply sorry. You see, The Lord of the Storm has made this combined plane inaccessible to any and all of the Light. Even to send a Fist of the Light to aid you, took several thousand of us, using all of our powers together, stretching ourselves to the very extant of our abilities, before we could manage the task. This meeting here, now, could only take place, while you were asleep and with the aid of even more of us Teachers and Students. The Lord of the Storm’s grip on this plane is tightening, as his power continues to grow and fester upon it. We only hope not so many will perish this time, as had the last time we made an attempt to contact the Melded World.”

  “Aaaah, my god, that’s not good to hear,” mumbled Joaquin feeling the tears beginning to well in his eyes. “How are we going to stand up to something as terrible as this Storm Lord guy if we don’t even know what the hell we are doing?”

  “Do not despair, My Lord,” offered Slind, seeing the crestfallen cast of Joaquin’s face. “There is still a bit of knowledge we will help you unlock. Hopefully, it will tip the scales more evenly.”

  Joaquin wiped at his eyes, already dreading what he would have to tell the others, not sure, he could look Anthony in the eyes when he told him he was their sacrificial lamb. “What knowledge?” he asked simply. It was all he could manage. His voice had deserted him. All he could do was listen to what they had to say.

  “Knowledge, my dear boy, of what I mentioned before, you must use it to your advantage. It is the only one you have left. You must find the Legacy of Truth, the very Talisman of the Kring-Hël, the key that slays him, unlocks him, and grants his rebirth,” said Röjan with an ever warming smile, attempting to ease some of Joaquin’s uneasiness.

  Without warning, a frown creased his brow. He winced, as if in pain, turning to look at his brothers, concern etching his face.

  Joaquin could see that the others were in pain as well.

  “This is all we can endure, Joaquin Barrientos, Lord of the Lore. We must go,” announced Knüd with visible sadness, the effects of some unseen agony written plainly upon his visage. With each second, it was more heavily laced with a growing urgency.

  “They come...,” stated Slind, anguish beginning to fill his eyes.

  “Wait! Wait! Can’t you tell me more?” yelled Joaquin in desperation. “That can’t be everything you guys can give me! I need more information! How am I going to help the others if I don’t know what I am doing? How are we going to survive against all those, those… things that are out there trying to hurt us? You said they were going to kill us, for Pete sake! I need more information! I need more, god damn it!”

  All three of them smiled back, accepting the boy’s vehemence stoically.

  Röjan spoke. “Use your power, delve into your Gift and seek what it is you need to know, Lord of the Lore, it is yours now. May the blessing of the Light shine forever upon you…”

  Joaquin tried with every ounce of will he could to get their attention again, knowing there was something sorcerous about this place. He knew it had something to do with the power of the mind.

  He was momentarily heartened when Slind suddenly looked upon him with an intense gaze, peering through the hurt.

  Joaquin was about to voice his thoughts when instead the sheer volume of the Nöhreg’s voice overpowered all of his thoughts. Suddenly, the Nöhreg had to shout to ensure he would be heard.

  “…ONE MORE THING, LORD OF THE LORE…, THERE HAS ALWAYS BEEN BALANCE WITHIN THE UNIVERSES… ALWAYS! WHENEVER THIS BALANCE WAS TIPPED OR SLANTED THINGS TO FAVOR A GIVEN SIDE, WHETHER GOOD OR EVIL…, RIGHT OR LEFT…, POSITIVE OR NEGATIVE…, LIGHT OR DARK… THE WAY OF THINGS HAS ALWAYS MOVED TO RIGHT THE IMPERFECTION…!

  “THE MELDED WORLD IS AN ABOMINATION TO THIS BALANCE, BUT ABOMINATION OR NO, THE UNIVERSES WILL REACT… LOOK FOR THE PROTECTOR… ONE EXISTS FOR EVERY PLANE; IT HAS BEEN THE WAY OF THINGS SINCE TIME BEFORE TIME BEFORE TIME… SOMETHING IS OCCURRING THAT HAS NEVER OCCURRED BEFORE. WE, TEACHERS, BELIEVE IT IS A THING OF ‘BALANCE’”.

  “DO…

  “…NOT…

  “…FORGET…”

  And with that, they were gone. So quickly, it was as though some huge aperture squeezed shut and squirted him into nothing but darkness and…

  ~~~~~~~~<<<<<<{ ☼ }>>>>>>~~~~~~~~

  ~ Interlude ~

  Voices of the Isig-Vültriäk

  In a Timeless Place…

  He sat within the immensity that was his throne room, atop a six-stepped dais, raised a cables-length above the throng that typically attended him when he held court. The vaulted chamber was empty now. Only he, the Royal Throne of the Vülfen Kur Ambalaj and two Holo-Crys filled the space capable of housing ten thousand souls. Huge braziers stuffed with hot coals attempted to warm the air, but never really managed to do so. There was always an odd draft here and again. Heavy clothing was a necessity. Along the walls and the many wide pillars holding up the ceiling were hundreds of ensconced brands, providing adequate luminance. This, despite the fact he could’ve seen just as well in the dark. Vülfen had excellent eyesight. The light was more of an extravagance, expressing the wealth of the King, the prosperity of the Rigă-Kur and the rest of his Familie.

  He wore the royal robes of his rank, the battle standard of his Familie emblazoned upon the exquisite, black leather jerkin he wore underneath – a blood-colored scene silhouetting a blackened Vülfen figure atop a pile of vanquished enemies. His matching leather breeks and boots stood out here and there, where his majestic robes fell away. He was old, even for a Vülfen, though he looked as hale as he had when he’d been middle-aged hundreds of years in the past. His coat of fur was more white-haired now than black. His once bright crimson skin had dulled and wrinkled with time. His eyes, though, were clear and sharp as they’d ever been, belying a cunning, malevolent intelligence behind black within black irises. He was large like most of his ilk. House Kór boasted very few runts. If standing, he would’ve reached over six and a half feet tall and weighed over seventeen-stones without his armor.

  He sat there, implacable, eyes hooded, gazing at the full-bodied projections of two of his peers. All three of them were members of the Grand Council, the ruling elite of the World of Storm. Though it was true the Great Maelstrom was the despot of the Realm. It was, nonetheless, the Council that enforced his ironclad will. There were eight possible sitting councilors, though at the time there were only seven. There was the Dýnmani, the Yíyak Strong One, who was the Lord of the giants – the great armorers of Storm; The König-Hoch, the Wërgig Thain, was the High King of the masons of Storm. Also upon the Council was the Mheto-Prēost, the Fleshmaster, who was the Overlord of all the Prēosts and a distant relative to boot; followed by the Vyche-Rex, the Overlord of the Magics; and the Hand, who was a much closer relative and currently toiling upon the Melded World as they spoke. The last of Council was the Grän Herra, the High lady of the Skrímsli, who was the topic of their conversation at the moment.

  He let the silence continue for a while longer.

  His eyes strayed over to the Hlāford Dhŏŏm, floating in the air before him. His name was Ghregûr andwas King of the Swüreg, a regal though cruel looking figure. Already, he was clad in his battle regalia, made even larger in his black armor and gauntlets, a magnificent crown of gold and gems upon his head. Soon most of his nation would move in force against the Melded World, making certain the Hand had things under control, which apparently was not the case at the moment. He was a powerful ally, for the time being.

  The other, hovering, appeared as menacing as always, was Asmodemus. He was the only member of the Grand Council to hold two chairs, which made him the most powerful of them all – next to the Great Maelstrom, of course. He was Da-Manga Furia, the Great Spirit of the Antitheus, the demons of Storm. He was also the Sanctus Magnus, the Vicar of Storm - the Supreme Cleric of the Dark Convocation of Ahriman. He was the holiest of holy men.

  The aged Vülfen was
Claudiu dok Kór, father of Fenris, the Snowman’s Hand, and… he was skeptical. “Pray tell, my old friend, why is this rouse necessary, especially now?” he asked of the flame-haired Sanctus Magnus.

  Asmodemus puffed up within his robes of amethyst and obsidian, the air above his scalp smoldering hotly for an instant. He didn’t like being questioned.

  The pompous ass, thought Claudiu, though his face betrayed nothing.

  “My one-time Aunt cannot be allowed to rise any further within the Isig-Vültriäk,” was his simple response, which was totally inadequate.

  Both Ghregûr and the Rigă-Kur rumbled with amused chortles. They both knew the current Da-Manga Furia had, long ago, coveted the pliant flesh between his Aunt’s legs more than anything else in the then three universes. When she had chosen to lie in the bed of their great Lord after a short dalliance, Asmodemus had never forgiven her.

  “Do you think it prudent?” asked the lumbering Ghregûr, somehow managing to do that while sitting. “Don’t you think our Lord might object to the vast exile you have planned?”

  “First and foremost,” began the Great Spirit, “it is not my plan, my Lords. It is our plan. In that, there can be no denying. You both agreed to this many centuries ago. Secondly, our Lord Ahriman will not be bothered by one who has been plotting to betray him at the most crucial time in history. He will reward us all profusely for our foresight and sound judgment on his behalf.”

  “That’s what bothers me,” said Claudiu at once, syllables clipped.

  Asmodemus frowned, his brow rippling with lava. “What bothers you, my brother?”

  Claudiu hid a sneer beneath the ample skin flaps of his jowls. There was no need to bare teeth quite yet. “Are we doing this on his behalf?”

  Ghregûr leaned forward upon his throne, his gaze plastered to the Demon Lord.