There was also a proper desk. Piled high with missives and scrolls and hasty volumes bound together by cord and sinew. Behind this, sat a massive chair carved from the blackened bones of what, at one time, must’ve been an ancient IsigWyrm. It was high-backed and overstuffed and, upon which, Fenris was perched, writing angrily and muttering under his breath. There was also a large square table, upon which lay a number of maps and sketches hastily scrawled in charcoal or ink or blood on myriad of skins and hides and the like. Four large braziers, packed to near capacity, attempted to heat the tent well beyond what was necessary to keep warm. At least, that was what the Prēost opined. The floor was strewn with more rugs and carpets (even the odd tapestry) than Vallüm had ever seen, making each footfall seem overly cushioned as if he were walking on springs or something of a similar nature.
Purposefully, the shriveled man approached his liege lord and was about to speak when Fenris forestalled him.
“So, my rapine companion, what in the name of the Storm is so damned important that you must seek an audience with me at this hour. Those officers you saw leave were to be my final congress, so now you are depriving me even more respite,” he growled, his tongue lolling as he spoke, making his words slur and resonate oddly through his snout.
The Prēost glared at his downturned head, wondering if there was a way he could topple one of the braziers and set this pompous tent ablaze before Fenris could react. But, he knew there was little chance he could so much as budge one of cast iron constructs. His days of physical prowess had long since passed.
Instead, he spoke as he stepped within five feet of the desk - any closer and he wouldn’t be able to see the man-wolf sitting behind it. “M’Lord, it has come to my attention over the past day or so, a problem has developed.” He clasped his hands behind him and made a vain attempt at serenity. From that though, he was a thousand leagues distant.
Fenris stopped writing and glared at the little man beneath his brow. If he had wanted to murder the Prēost moments earlier, it looked as though he would settle for nothing less than devouring every ounce of his flesh in that very instant.
“A problem?” he asked.
His tone was so saturated with such innocence, Vallüm inadvertently took a half-step back. That was the tone his lord used when he was but heartbeats from killing. He had heard and seen it a thousand times before. Valiantly, the Prēost cleared his throat and forged on. “Yes, m’Lord, quite possibly a problem none of us have even considered possible. I mean, before we came here, into this place of ever-changing circumstances, that is.”
Fenris’ brow furled. His eyes smoldered beads of malice. “And what in the name of the Storm, do you mean by that?”
Vallüm could sense he was mere seconds from obliteration. The Hand was still very touchy when referencing the fact the Children had been snatched from directly under his nose, in his presence, by a pack of pets! Even the slightest reference to the subject could oftimes send him on a rampage. Already, such forays had led to blood and guts and torn flesh. “I am not referring to any difficulty or mischance we have faced in the past, m’Lord Hand. This one is more recent and by far more urgent.” He wrung his hands before him, unaware he was doing so. Automatically, he sought her with in his mind, trying to force her to answer him, to return to the encampment posthaste, to no avail. She was holed up in some crack in the earth, where exactly he couldn’t discern. Her massive Isighünd was curled about her tiny form, insulating her from the extreme cold that had descended upon the land. This much, at least, he could see.
Fenris glared at him, sitting back into the boney embrace of his garish chair, his hands forming a steeple before him. “Continue,” was all he said.
Vallüm cleared his throat, pulling himself from her, his focus back upon his liege within the tent. He shifted his weight back and forth, from foot to foot, nervous, afraid to show any weakness before the Crown Prince.
“Well, out with it, buffoon! Does it look like I have all day to mince words with the likes of you?” he demanded, though he did not move to strike at the wizened old man.
“We-well,” began the Prēost, “I am beginning to suspect, as the Melding reaches equilibrium, it is changing some of the fundamental characteristics of the Flesher Bylaws in order to do so.”
Fenris sat up straighter, frowning anew.
“I have over the past few hours or so, felt a certain distance growing between me and my Petling,” he clarified.
“How so?” asked the Hand, genuine concern and curiosity lining his tone.
This was what he’d been dreading to explain, because speaking of it meant he had to reveal the fundament from which he suckled his power. “She has been able to resist some of my commands, Your Highness,” he blurted, choosing to address the other with as much formality as possible in hopes to detract how central of an issue this was for the Prēost.
“What?!?” exclaimed the man-wolf. “How is that possible? The bond between Prēost and Nixy is nigh unbreakable. How is it she can now exert a will of her own. By the Storm Lord’s scaled sack, how can that be true after so many years!” He was standing now, at the edge of his desk, one gauntleted hand resting upon a stack of parchments, the other balled in a fist.
“I know not the particulars, m’Lord, but I know it has manifest as a direct result of the Melding. There could be no other explanation,” replied Vallüm, clasping his hands tightly before him, forcing them to stop moving.
“How could this aspect, this condition, have eluded the notice of the Conclave? How is this possible, Prēost?” Fenris was disturbed now, which made some of Vallüm’s earlier uneasiness diminish, though it raised flags of caution in other areas - a frantic Hand was never a good thing, for he often struck out blindly, recklessly. They could ill afford any more mistakes.
“Of the magics – the Vyche, m’Lord, I’m of little help. My area of expertise has always been with flesh,” he offered offhandedly, which was an error one his part.
Fenris rounded on the tiny shriveled man, taking a couple of menacing steps toward him, his finger pointed at him. “I know very well what you are a master of you, beast!” he growled, spittle flying from his snout. He was salivating, the first indication he was about to bite.
Vallüm held up both of his hand before. “I am sorry, Your Highness, please forgive my rash remark, do not -!”
“You filthy defiler of the young, you are lucky I have need of you, dire need. Otherwise, I would tear you limb from limb and feed on you slowly, raw and writhing.” The Snowman’s Hand spun on his heel and strode behind his desk once again. He didn’t sit. He placed both of his hands upon the surface of his desk as he leaned onto them. He inhaled hugely, then exhaled long and slow, calming himself. “Very well, in the worst case, what sort of havoc could a Nixy cause, free and able to do what she wanted?”
That made Vallüm cringe. “M’Lord, please forgive me, but there is a reason why Nixy are held with such binding force and why only we, us Prēosts, are entrusted to maintain them. There is a reason why we kill them the instant they go insane from lack of proper food or show a slice too much will.”
“Pray tell…”
“They change, Your Highness.” Fenris glared at him through furled eyebrows. “Nixae are seekers of flesh, smellers of want, and an insane Nixy, or one allowed to grow to maturity, would acquire power beyond reckoning.” He paused to swallow the lump forming in his throat. “In addition, m’Lord Hand, Inghëldir could become something never witnessed before in Storm, something terrible to behold.”
The man-wolf continued to stand erect, waiting, stoically preparing for what the Prēost was going to say next.
“It’s her age, my Lord. She is more than six and a half centuries old, she is the longest surviving Nixy ever to have walked the Realm of the Great Maelstrom. Her power, if left unchecked, could grow beyond even yours, my Prince.” He finished meekly, feeling Fenris fill with anger and frustration.
“What would she become, precisely?” was all the Ha
nd asked, though he sounded a mere fraction from exploding with rage.
“Of that, even I cannot tell you, but I can guarantee neither of us would want to find out. She would want revenge. Already, I can sense that in her.” Again, his words were no more than murmurs echoing throughout the tent.
“You have kept her alive, because she has made you rich beyond your wildest dreams, because she has always been the best. Her record had remained unmarred after all of this time,” lisped the man-wolf through a tongue he let go lazy as he sat down upon his throne-like chair.
Vallüm merely nodded retrospectively, but stayed otherwise silent.
“You were handpicked by my Father, the great Rigă-Kur of Vülfen Ambalaj himself, because of this perfect performance. You were given onto me to ensure the capture of the Twelve, of which we had most deftly succeeded until the arrival of the Fist changed all of that.
“Yet, now your very presence here, on the Melded World, could jeopardize this entire operation, because the abomination under your direct control may now have the ability to break free of your savage bondage. Am I correct, thus far, Prēost?”
“Y-yes, m’Lord.” What else could he say?
“And, in your expert opinion, do you think that this condition, this alteration in your abilities affects only you and your Inghëldir or would it affect your entire ilk?”
It was another question Vallüm had been dreading to answer.
“It would affect -,” he began before his throat constricted of its own volition, choking him momentarily. He cleared his throat vociferously, all the while, the Crown Prince’s gaze became all the more direct. “Excuse me, m‘Lord, but it would affect all of us, for this place has somehow either infused the Nixy with great degree of will or has diminished the ability for a Prēost to impose his own. I tend to think it is the former that is the issue at hand.”
“Damn you all, Vallüm!” bellowed the Hand, slamming his hand down hard on his desk, rattling everything, sheets and sheets of paper cascading to the floor. “Are you aware of how many Prēosts and Nixae are coming with the Hlāford Dhŏŏm in less than a fortnight?”
“Y-yes, my Prince, scores alone will be in his retinue,” responded the tiny, old man sullenly.
“Do you know what that could spell for us?” he shouted, salivating even more.
“Yes.”
“Do you!?!” It was shriek now. His hands gripped the armrests of his chair with ferociously. It looked to the Prēost, at any moment, the ancient bones of the IsigWyrm would burst into shards.
“It could very well spell our undoing,” he began in earnest. “That is why I requested this time with you, my Lord, because I wanted you to know as soon as I was able to divine the cause, so we would have ample time to delay or overt the effect. We have time, I can find a way to overcome her. I know I can,” he pleaded, though he hadn’t realized he had taken to begging.
Fenris let go of the chair, his long nails scoring the large bones deeply upon either side of him. “You had better, Vallüm… You had better, because it’ll be your neck stretched over this, not mine!” He was nearly heaving with fury. “Now leave me, and be about it, you wasted imp. I must speak with the Hross. Hopefully, we can fathom a way to message the King of the Swüreg, or anyone who might be able to help, before we are deluged with Nixae we can no longer control. Get out of my sight!”
The Prēost scurried from the tent and back out into the blizzard, grateful he’d escaped without a single blemish, his mindset, his will, focused. Inghëldir would be his again! By the end of the day he would plunging himself into her sweet folds with such vigor she would nevermore resist his will, ever again… the little bitch!
You are mine, Inghëldir. Mine, forever!
All about, everywhere, within the Melded Word changes came – plant and beast alike – across this vast new world. Some popped into existence and were immediately attacked, mercilessly savaged. Others, those nimble enough, sought shelter, scampering out of harm’s way. Others stood their ground, hackles or stalks or spines raised. Terrible, vicious fights to the death ensued. While, overhead, the storm continued to rage. It was the second marker. A sign this mixed plane struggled to find balance, to become a universe onto itself, unique and never before seen. With this ever-growing equilibrium came an upsetting of the rules, both physical and sorcerous. A strange dance between the wonders of science and the mystics of magic twirled and swirled about. Their unexpected offspring would shock them all.
~~~~~~~~<<<<<<{ ☼ }>>>>>>~~~~~~~~
~ 73 ~
Wonderment
Day Three, Saturday, 11:07 am…
It had been hours since they’d all washed-up, straightened where they’d slept, folded the throw blankets, and readjusted the furniture pads that had skewed during the night. Lastly, they had eaten. It was yet another meal wonderfully prepared - as far as Anthony was concerned - by the girl who had been occupying his mind the entire morning. When compared to what his mother sometimes prepared for the family on Sundays, it wasn’t much, but here in the freezing grip of the Melded World it might as well been Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Three eggs over easy, four strips of bacon, warm bread buttered until it dripped and, of course, coffee for the older kids and hot chocolate for the younger ones. What more could they have asked for?
He had grown tired of the conversation engaged about the fire pit as most of the teenagers prattled on about this or that, harkening back to home. His mind was preoccupied by what Jason - and Andrew - had told him earlier in the day. He couldn’t help but ask himself, repeatedly… Was it true Sophie Reed likes me? Would one of the prettiest girls in school really want to spend time with me?
He had sauntered over to one of the “beds” and grabbed one of the folded throw blankets lying atop the pile. He had tossed it halfway over himself as he laid back one foot still on the ground, the other across the padding. He had placed one hand under his head and was staring up at the uneven ceiling. His mind was unable to shake the worry that had descended upon his shoulders the moment his newfound companions had told him the white-haired girl wanted him in a more than friendly capacity. That was when the questions began to spin in his head, and the dreaded hope began to build in his chest. What if she did like him? What if she did see more in him than the skinny, computer nerd he felt he projected to the world around him? What would he do then? If it were true, how would he approach her? How would he broach the subject in conversation? How would he get around to asking? How would she react if he totally screwed things up? What if she didn’t really like him at all? What if Jason was just talking out of his ass? What would he do then? How would he ever be able to live it down with all of them in such close proximity for so many hours of the day?
Jesus Christ, there was only twelve of them!
On and on, his brain tumbled over the same questions, over and over. He was entirely overwhelmed. He felt the urge to do something, but was fearful of making an ass out of himself in the eyes of the others. Yet, he had to do something in order to quell the thoughts circling before his eyes like angry hornets out to protect their nest. They would drive him mad otherwise.
That had been almost a half hour ago and still, he lay there paralyzed with hope and fear, caught between the two conflicting emotions, unable to move, unable to focus long enough to develop a proper course of action.
Why had he been cursed with such a monumental problem?
“What are you doing over here all by yourself?” came the sweet melodic voice of the very creature he’d been puzzling over for so long his head hurt.
Anthony looked from the ceiling and into the clear blue eyes of Sophie Reed, feeling only unbelievable pressure behind his own. Absently, he pondered if they were bloodshot. “Na-nothing,” he croaked, his throat betraying him. Being silent for extended period of time tended to do that to him. “Just thinking, I guess,” he added after a quick pause, swallowing deeply.
Her thin eyebrows knitted.
He marveled, even when she frowned she looked exqu
isite.
“About what?” she inquired sitting down next to him, her bottom near his elbow.
He scooted over allowing her to sit more comfortably upon the makeshift bed.
She took advantage of the extra room, pushing herself farther onto the mats and blankets.
“About everything, I guess. Our situation, all that we still have to do. About what we are up against, things I’ve heard – a whole slew of stuff, I guess,” he said, grimacing at the fact he had repeated the same phrase twice in the span of three sentences. She’s gonna think I’m a retard!
She seemed to consider what he said, glancing down to peer into her lap at her hands. “Yeah that does sound like a lot,” she mumbled for his ears only. “But why come all the way over here by yourself and worry all alone? We’re a team right? I’m sure any one of us could help you work through whatever it is bothering you. That’s what we’re here for,” she said the last part as cheerfully as she could manage, which made Anthony smile despite the growing dread in his breast.
“Well, some of it is a little personal in nature and… well, I’m not sure I’d be ready to blurt out all of my private crap on all of you guys right now.” He was staring at her when her eyes found his again. Though he was trying with all of his will, he couldn’t quell the anxiety rampaging through his mind. He could feel them fill with it.
Why did this have to happen? Why now?
Her face lost some of the animation she’d displayed moments ago with her sunny statement. Her gaze intensified as she searched his face for meaning, understanding. It didn’t take long. She realized the import of his words, his look, and the stiffness of his body as he lay there upon the furniture pads.
The Unwanted Winter - Volume One of the Saga of the Twelves Page 66
