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

by Richard Heredia

The Six-Fold Empire was now mobilizing, gathering its’ incredible might to the field. They would wage a war unlike any ever seen before, upon a world that shouldn’t have existed, but did nonetheless. This would be the war to end all others. After this, one way or the other, the greatest questions of the Multiverse would be answered, finally and in totality. By the end of this conflict, there would be but one victor, and he would rule everything.

  She was the Grän Herra, the High Lady of the Skrímsli, the exiled Arch-Demon of the Antithues, and the Supreme Mistress of all upon the vast continent of Richuese. Though within, she contained a titanic wellspring of Vyche, a skill beyond even that of the grandest of grandmasters, she was a rather diminutive figure when compared to others of like power and influence. When she stood, she was a mere four inches above five feet in height or eight inches shy of a cable’s length, depending upon which scale of linear measurement one preferred. She was thin hipped, big breasted and equally proportioned throughout with small hands and feet. Her hair was the color of the darkest night and was offset, nicely against a complexion so pale it was almost translucent, though it didn’t appear wrinkled or parchment-like. Her skin was perfect, without a blemish of any sort. Her features tended toward petite or thin, depending upon ones’ perspective. It was her eyes and her lips that stood out the most – molten lava and bloody crimson respectively.

  She was clad in a sheer, crimson gown of chiffon, a slit higher than mid-thigh upon her left side with an intricately beaded bodice plunging at the neckline to show of her ample cleavage. As ageless as she was, there was no need for propriety or modesty. She would walk naked if she so chose, who about her could stop her from doing what she wished? She smiled, fingering a flawless, ermine cloak, white, extending all the way down to her feet. She had encased them in long, red hose under soft, leather slippers matching her dress.

  She was seated behind her plateau of a desk, her firm bottom upon an over-sized chair so massive she couldn’t move it physically, rather she was reduced to using her mind to shift its great bulk this way or that, pursuant to her needs at a given time. She would have destroyed the whole damned thing ages ago, but it had been a gift given to by her people as a symbol of her might. So, out of respect of their workmanship, she had endured it.

  Who would think an Arch-Demon would care about respect, she thought as she pushed away the vellum sheets before her and sat back into the soft, warm confines of her chair, absently rubbing at her temples. Well, that was one good thing about this cursed seat, she mused internally, for one of the perpetuating spells forged into the very wood and steel and cushions and fabrics of the chair was a simple one of warmth. It would always make her feel comfortably cocooned with the precise amount of heat she desired. Maybe that’s why I haven’t thrown this monstrosity into the hearth.

  She had been up all night, preparing, organizing, re-organizing, thinking, plotting, scheming, tallying, planning, construing, and even scrying - to the best of her limited ability to do so in that form of Vyche. All of it was in lieu of her moving the largest concentration of armed forces into the Construct. These were the forces that were to await the Lord of the Storm’s victory over the Twelve and the subsequent opening of the way into the World of Man. The Skrímsli were to be the foremost assault upon mankind, an endless wave of beings, creatures and entities that would smash themselves onto the unsuspecting, technological weapons of that infantile race. It would be a sight to behold indeed, for nothing, in all of time, had ever positioned two armies upon the field of battle as different as those of the Skrímsli and those of the World of Man.

  She smiled inwardly, though betrayed none of her mirth upon her face or in her carriage. She merely sank deeper into her chair and gazed about the room, her private chambers. She was deep within the confines of her Dread Fortress of Dǿd, nestled in the vast Plains of Aramont, placed somewhat centrally within the continent of Richuese of which was hers in its entirety.

  Her innermost sanctum was vast, but just about everything with the Skrímsli was such. It was roughly octagonal, but wasn’t symmetrical, having four of its walls considerably shorter than the others, so it was much more square than anything else. The stone ceiling was supported by four huge, Corinthian columns set, one each, in the angled corners of the room, as thick as three-hundred-year-old elms. She sat in between two great swaths of stained glass decorating the wall behind her, depicting the Skrímsli’s rise from obscurity to full acceptance into the rank and file of the Six-Fold Empire. To either side of her were various iron bound chests and armored armoires holding many if the things she considered most valuable to her and to her people, though none of it was treasure. That was someplace else and more heavily guarded than her bedchamber.

  To her left, the southern portion of the chamber was the wide bed upon which she slept and made love to her consort, but did little else upon. She was never one to lie about, supine and vulnerable. No, she preferred to sit or stand upright, poised for whatever may come, ready for the next challenge. Though there hadn’t been one in longer than she cared to remember.

  To her right, was a pair of towering bookshelves that held the contents of the private library she had amassed over the course of the years following the Wars of Unification. Between them, were the colossal twin doors leading from her private quarters to the ante-chamber beyond. The foyer itself was a large space that typically housed a squad or two of her fiercest fighters, all of whom would lay down their lives to protect her. Before the doors and to either side of the bookshelves, stood four huge were-bears, as unmoving as stone, though they missed not a thing. They were forced-turned, meaning they could never shape-shift back to their original species, having volunteered to do so in defense of their beloved Mistress. They wore boiled, studded leather cuirasses flaring at the waist, providing protective leather flaps about their legs and backsides, but nothing else, except the iron shod, knee-high boots of hardened leather. Each was armed with a Guisarme as thick as an oak sapling, easily three cable’s-lengths long, a heavy bastard sword belted and sheathed at the waist, a set of matching daggers tucked into their wide belts.

  There were others guarding her person, but for the moment they couldn’t be seen by the naked eye. She knew precisely where they were, for none of the Skrímsli could ever hide from her.

  She was their mistress.

  She was their savior.

  She alone had raised them all too equal status among the other five master races. They had pledged everything to her, including their abilities to mask themselves from her mind. It was a small price to pay, but one paid nonetheless, for those vowing allegiance to her. Those who had not, she had slain herself.

  There were only two others doors leading from her private apartment – one leading to her dressing rooms and wardrobes and the other to the small private kitchen that served only her and any visitors she sought to feed upon a whim.

  Before her, beyond her spacious desk and the chairs before it, was a small council table surrounded by even larger, more comfortable chairs where she sometimes took her meals, but where she, more often, met with the senior members of her Privy Council to discuss the weighty matters of her people.

  Further, to the far western portions of the chamber, sat great over-stuffed couches and reclining chairs atop a plush rug made of more than a score of Tünn hides stitched together with such expertise that one could not tell where one skin ended and another began. All of this stood before a truly gigantic hearth made of dark-stained granite that stretched across a sixty-foot expanse. The fireplace was so wide and deep that whole tree trunks could be place upon its heavy grates - an amount of wood that could burn for half a week and still keep the entire bedchamber warm.

  She gazed over her most private possessions for a second time, reluctant to return to the doldrums of paperwork that kept the great machinery of her government moving, a hulking bureaucracy that grew like an entity onto itself though she was a despot and shared rule with no one.

  Even before the knock resounded aga
inst the surface of doors leading to her sanctum proper, she knew someone had come to see her. She sat erect and folded her thin-fingered hands in her lap, muting the fire in her eyes so her gaze merely smoldered.

  Thunk! Thunk! Thunk!, went to sound. Then, “My Lady, the Mörgum Sterdum, to see you!” came the muted voice from beyond the portal.

  She waited for one of the lumbering doors to open a creak. “Show him in!” she answered briskly. She remained sitting, though she smiled inwardly. She was more than passed the time for a little nasty cuddling upon her bed with her most trusted advisor, who also served as her current bedwarmer. It was his incredible regenerative powers that made their love making so deliciously debased and violent. She vet tremendous amounts of hurt upon him and still he would strive forth to meet her lusty exertions. Others, she would’ve been slain long ago, but not the Mörgum Sterdum. He had always lived to see yet another decadent session with her and her wonton womanhood.

  He strode briskly through the doors as they were only partially opened to allow him access to the private chamber of the Gran Herra. He was all business with the clipped rigidity of his military upbringing. He was human, or had been once. That was so long ago. Both the language and the nation of his birth hadn’t only vanished from the face of the World of Man, but had faded into legend and myth as well. He was a good-sized human, seven inches taller than a cable’s length and half that wide at the shoulder. His waist and hips were as narrow as they day he turned thirty annums, despite the fact that milestone had been at least ten thousand years agone. His face was chiseled and broad ending in a square chin, a deep cleft at its middle covered by yesterday’s stubble. His lips were wide and thin, devoid of blood, though his eyes shone with fire, but it was a flame very different from hers. His was icy, piercing and strikingly azure, sharing none of the molten ferocity dwelling within her orbs. His most striking feature, at least to her, was his hair. It was long and streaked with alternating ribbons of the brightest blue followed by the deepest obsidian and matched the color of his irises perfectly.

  He wore what he always wore when he was on duty – a thick over-cloak atop his cape, heavy boots and a full body compliment of scale armor enameled in swirls of black and navy making his armor appear like a wild extension of his hair. It was an illusion sometimes confusing to peer upon, a tool he often employed in battle. At his waist was his log sword, strapped to a thick leather combat belt, a typical accessory as well.

  He took only a few steps into the recesses of the room and stopped, suddenly frozen solid, his eyes gazing off the left shoulder of the Gran Herra, awaiting her notice.

  Rakel Angantýr, the Overlord of the Skrímsli, stared at him for a few seconds, taking in the magnificent sight of him, feeling herself burn with pleasure in the middle of her gut. I feel for this one, she thought. A swift blink of her eyes was the only indication she’d thought something so intimate. The last time I desired such as this it nearly killed me…

  He remained immovable and she sighed. “Leave us!” she commanded.

  At once, the Were-bears saluted and began to march from the chamber. She counted to three to see if the others would take heed, then allowed an annoyed twinge dance across the left corner of her lips. “I meant for all of you to leave,” she said evenly. Since none would dare defy her, there was no need to exhibit anything beyond that.

  From various spots about the room emerged a squad of ghosts, spirits, haunts and poltergeists - all there for her protection from entities and weapons of the less corporeal sort. She wasn’t above taking chances, she had learned that lesson long, long ago.

  As they faded into the walls beyond, she stood of a sudden and came around the broad desk to face Rikhardt Mortenson, which was most likely not the name of his birth. She mulled the notion, deciding the one he bore now was better suited more modern times. Even then, his moniker would still be considered medieval in the World of Man.

  And still the Mörgum Sterdum didn’t move.

  “My Lord of the Lycanthropes, please be at ease when we are alone,” she murmured, her lips barely moving.

  Rikhardt only moved his gaze, his eyes on her soulless globes. “Your Highness, I would never stoop to disrespect and will always follow the strictest of protocol in all matters regarding you.” His voice was as clipped as his mannerisms.

  She finally allowed a dribble of emotion to etch her face. “Is that true when you throw me between my sheets and ravish me again and again, my Lord?”

  Now, it was his turn to smirk, even if it was only the slightest evidence of expression, but he stayed silent.

  “Very well,” began Rakel, “I command you to stop standing there, wasting precious time and come into my arms so that my hold you. Or, I shall have you flogged before the court!” Her smile was wicked and sumptuous at the same time.

  Rikhardt lost all vestiges of convention and rushed across the chamber, his own arms wide as he came to his liege and hugged her fiercely.

  She held him with equal ferocity, making the thick scales of his armor squeal and creaked under the pressure.

  Then his lips fell onto her hers. She felt the fire in her belly turn to nova in her loins, her nipples hardening under the chiffon she wore. She never wore undergarments, so the effect of her sensitivity there, as it slowly rubbed against the wispy material, was almost more than she could handle. She almost lost control. And if it had not been for Rikhardt, she might very well have indeed.

  Her lover kissed her for a few minutes longer, his own ardor evident between them as she felt his member grow against her belly, which in itself was impressive because of the thick leather he wore there. Then, he pulled from her lips, though he still embraced her.

  Hungrily, if not somewhat angry and petulant, she rubbed her pelvis into him, reaching for his lips once more.

  “Your Highness, I am sorry, but… even though I want nothing more than to have you this very instant -,” he paused as her lips found his temporarily, before he came away from her once more. “My Lady, I bring news. My Lady, you must allow me to speak.”

  “I am allowing you to fuck me, so fuck me!” she demanded, her lust building within her, almost to the boiling point.

  “Your Highness, please!” exclaimed the Mörgum Sterdum as he abruptly twisted, catching both of her wrists in one massive palm and sundered their embrace in one swift, adept motion.

  Rakel was turned slightly to her right, her footing imbalanced, which gave Rikhardt time to step away.

  “How dare you!” she bellowed, her ire rising, her eyes blazing with fire and flame. A faint quaff of brimstone suddenly permeated the air about both of them.

  “My Lady, wait!” pleaded Rikhardt, falling to one knee before her, his head bowed.

  That stopped her at once.

  She stood there, trying to hover over him, but failed, even though he was kneeling and hunched before her, the back of his head was still equal to the height of her shoulder. He was one, big human…

  She sighed again, feeling adolescent at having lost herself with desire. She of all demons should know better than that! Especially after what had happened to her the last time, she should know better by now.

  She let a full minute pass, gaining her composure, straightening her hair, and her dress and cloak.

  “My Lord, what news have you?” she asked as if nothing had transpired between them.

  The Mörgum Sterdum raised his head but didn’t stand. His eyes looked grateful. “Gran Herra,” he began formally, which immediately put Rakel on edge, “it seems as though the ley-lines, the permanent ways, the telepaths, even the scrying crystals and stones have either gone silent or have been somehow severed or cut away from us.”

  “What do you mean? How many?” she demanded at once, her petite brow furling.

  “My Lady that is what I am trying to convey to you.”

  “Then do so…”

  “All of them, Your Highness.”

  Rakel stepped forward so fast Rikhardt didn’t have time to react as she c
upped him viciously under the chin, her small hands digging deep into his flesh. She felt one portion of his jaw snap under her demon-grip. “What do you mean, all of them?”

  “We are completely cut off from the rest of the Six-Fold Empire,” he said awkwardly around her crushing clasp and his broken jaw.

  She let him go and he lurched forward, his hand coming up to his face, but he regained his balance before he went headlong onto the carpeted floor. She crossed her arms beneath her jutting breasts and paced about the chairs before her desk.

  Rikhardt stood, if not a bit wobbly, yet already she could hear his bones creak and crackle as his jaw began to heal.

  She whirled toward him. “Have those forces not already encamped about the Dǿd began a forced march hither at once and summon the Radid, I want everyone here in less than three days’ time from now!”

  “A forced march will kill many warriors, m’Lady.”

  “I do not care.” It was delivered quietly. The threat was as palatable as thunder.

  “At once, Your Highness,” replied the Mörgum Sterdum and began walking toward the forty foot doors he’d come through minutes before. There, he faltered and gazed back at her with longing she barely noticed out of the corner of her molten eye. “Shall I return, My Lady.”

  She came to stare at him directly. “No, I think not. You know how much I abhor refusal.”

  “As you wish, Your Highness.” Rikhardt clapped the heels of his boots and strode from her bedchamber, his stiff military bearing returning full force.

  Rakel turned from him, a malevolent, grin upon her lips. I will let him think he is in my disfavor for the remainder of the day… and then I will find him in deepest of the night… I will exact my revenge upon every part of his person. I will make him limp for a week!

  It had always been ill-advised to refute the wishes of Rakel Angantýr. Regardless of what was done to her, she would always come back. She was the very essence of revenge. It was a pity the most powerful of the Storm Lords had forgotten that about her. If they hadn’t, they might’ve been deterred from their current course of action.