The Unwanted Winter - Volume One of the Saga of the Twelves (100 page)

An Unsettling
Disturbance

Day Three, Saturday, 9:37
am…

He stood before the tent
of the Lord of the Host, the Snowman’s Hand and Crown Prince of the
Vülfen Kur Ambalaj, waiting upon the pleasure of Fenris dok Kór in
the blinding cold that should’ve frozen him to the core. It didn’t,
though. The chill he felt in the deep recesses of his gut was far
more icy, forever more disconcerting than the mere frigidity of a
blizzard. Weather of this sort was nothing when compared to the
tumult of his thoughts. The very prospect of what might be
occurring out there in this ever-changing landscape called, the
Construct, had chilled him to the core. This place was supposed to
be the grand masterpiece of their divine master, the Great
Maelstrom. In this place they were supposed to have complete
control, a realm of penultimate dominion of Storm, and
yet…

Something was wrong.
Something was inexorably corrupt about this plane. He could feel it
in his marrow. Something was off.

He could feel her presence
in his mind much as he had for more than six centuries. He could
track and follow her movements as deftly as he could sense her
emotions and thoughts. He could still project himself into any one
of her senses and feel or taste or smell whatever she felt or
tasted or smelt, but that wasn’t the problem. All of that was
simply child’s play when weighed against the exertion of his will.
Anything other than his absolute control over her could spell
ruination for the lot of them, for even the tiniest babe was well
aware an untamed Nixy spelled nothing short of doom.

As horrid as that
statement might appear, the truth of what he faced here was by far
much worse. The potential hell a Nixy of her age, her experience,
her power, could unleash was so incredible, it was beyond his
ability to imagine. Prēosts weren’t very left-brain, but he knew
Inghëldir running amok could be catastrophic.

She was the mother,
no!
, the grandmother of
all grandmothers her ilk. She so ancient she had been considered a
relic five hundred years ago. The devastation she could work in the
Melded World might very well result in their utter and total
failure here. It could spell the end of their entire cause. The
will of the Lord of the Storm would be thwarted. The Grand Design
would fail.

Where would that leave
him? Dismemberment, death, or one hundred years within the vile
hands of the Sanctus Magnus and his demons of torture, was this to
be his fate?
Is this the road I am fated
to tread? Is this the ironic ending I was fated to live after so
many years of prosperity and wealth? By the Storm Lord’s horned
prick, how were you able to escape me!

He fought to gain control
of his rampaging thoughts, pulling at his soiled black robe. It
kept unfolding. He struggled to keep the coif of his hood secured.
He turned away from the screaming wind and, for the umpteenth time,
fixed the garment squarely upon his head.

He stood near the center
of a large clearing nestled up in the hills from where the Twelve
were rumored to have lived. Their sprawling camp was within a
bowl-like valley copied to the last rock from the World of Man,
there it was known as Chavez Ravine. Here, though, it had been
claimed by the Host and formally named, the Encampment. It would
become the local Seat of Power. When it was completed it would
consist of a fort with a double palisade, shallow moat, and a
medium sized castle. One, Fenris’ beloved Hross were laboring day
and night to transmute from Storm.

At the moment,
nonetheless, all construction on the fort had been suspended to due
to the weather. So, all standing about him was tents and crude
lean-to’s pitched this way and that, half buried in the snow, many
of them glowing from within. Their various occupants were trying to
stay warm by whatever means. Above him, the storm raged as it had
been for some time now. It was the second “marker” of three
designating the true melding of the World of Man with the World of
Storm, each part representing an ever-greater solidification of
this plane of existence and the overall permanence of this fourth
and final universe.

The storm itself was a
physical byproduct of two separate laws of physics, two different
alignments of the elements, a dichotomy of climates, etc., etc.,
etc. - all of them vying for dominance over the other. Over time, a
degree of equilibrium would forever form this final place and
things would settle. Everything would calm down.

Or, so it had been
postulated.

Now, it was this new
balance being struck that was beginning to worry him, had him on
the verge of insane fear. If the line demarking his degree of
control over his Nixy fell any farther from where it was drawn in
the blackened snow of Storm, he might very well lose control of his
pet. She was his sweet, ageless plaything - the source of his
power, the vessel of his lust, and the creature he wanted nothing
more than to torture to a very edge of death, endlessly.

I cannot lose her
now!
I need her, Light be damned! She is
such sweet flesh to poke, such a terrific wellspring of scream and
terror, such… Curse it all, I do not want another!

The heavy flaps of the
entrance to the large tent serving as the shelter for the Snowman’s
Hand opened of a sudden. A pair of Swüreg officers emerged shouting
at each other, each bellow a futile attempt at being heard over the
constant shriek of the wind. Vallüm, Fleshmaster and Chief Prēost
of the Host, glared balefully in their direction, wondering if
either one of the gray-skinned warriors would take note of him.
They did not. They kept on walking, shouting back and forth, each
of them shaking their heads when they couldn’t make out what the
other was saying. The expectant cast of his face, turned to hate as
he watched them dissolve before his eye, the storm slowly consuming
them until they were nigh invisible.
Yet
another pair of mindless dolts
, he seethed
quietly, though he could’ve shouted it at the tops of lungs and
still no one would have heard him.

“
Vallüm!”
came his name upon the
wind.

He froze for a second
thinking it had come from within his mind.
Is she calling for me? Has she finally come to her senses and
decided being with me is best? Does she wish for a quick romp? We
can always use this pure snow as a bed…
Nothing looked more divine than a piddle or two of blood
splashed and squirted about a pristine array of the spectacularly
white precipitation, nothing. Ah, just the thought of spilling his
seed into –.

“
Vallüm, you filthy cur, I
am calling on you!”

This wasn’t his precious
Inghëldir speaking to him. This was someone much different, though
expected. The tiny Prēost turned back into the wind and saw Fenris’
angry face sticking out from the tent, his fangs bared menacingly,
his eyes dancing with murder.

“
Attend me, you rancid
sack!” and then he was gone, seemingly unwilling to spend much more
than a few seconds in the biting wind.

Vallüm felt a long, thin
grin etch across his face. It was funny to him that of the six
ruling races of Storm, it was the Vülfen who were the most
susceptible to the cold. Whereas he - though he had long forgotten
what race he’d once belonged - could stand in cold like this for
days and not be in the least bit affected.
Ah well, though, a Vülfen isn’t too far removed from a wolf
and a wolf isn’t too far removed from a dog,
he mused.
Don’t dogs eat their own
shit…?
He chuckled to himself as he moved
through the storm and entered the Hand’s domain.

This tent was much larger
and much sturdier than the first one Fenris dok Kór had occupied
when they’d first Rent the World of Man and entered this Melded
one. It was outfitted much more to the liking of the Crown Prince
as well. No longer was there a mere pile of furs and hides within
which Fenris must sleep. Now, there was a bed of decent sized,
stuffed with the finest, downy hair of human infants as well as an
ornate set of oil lamps, polished to a high sheen, their flickering
wicks sending the shadows this way and that. Try as he might to
banish the cold, there were still errant currents of air moving
about the heavy canvassed chamber.

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.