The Unwanted Winter - Volume One of the Saga of the Twelves (77 page)

“
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.

Asmodemus went cold, no
flame, no smoldering fire, and no magma-like skin-flows. “Of
course, we are. It is my prevue as the Vicar of Storm to protect
the Great Maelstrom from all enemies, homegrown or otherwise. As
Councilors, it is yours as well. Besides, do we really need her
riff-raff minions underfoot?”

“
She has
millions, Sanctus Magnus. Her aerial forces alone outnumber our
combined
ground
forces a thousand to one. I don’t even wish to consider who
much bigger her army may be.” The Hlāford Dhŏŏm’s bassatone voice
stopped in dramatic fashion.

He is entirely devoid
aplomb
, thought Claudiu with a slight
shake of his head.

“
They’ve never been
counted, you know,” added the Swüreg King, his bushy eyebrows
bobbing much like his outlandish ears that had begun to droop with
age.

The point, though, rang
true. The Rigă-Kur could not deny the obvious. “She would make a
formidable enemy,” he said, almost mumbling.

“
Oh, Vûhkta-shit!”
exclaimed the Demon Lord, his flames returned full-force. “The
Antitheus Battle-Daemons could slay thousands by themselves. She is
no threat to us.” His tone was intense. If it were possible to show
them, Claudiu was certain he would’ve seen the cords in his neck
strain, veins upon his forehead throb. He was a true Furian though.
Such features were far too humanoid for the likes of
him.

“
She
has
millions
,”
reiterated Ghregûr, as if the Great Spirit was daft of a
sudden.

“
Maybe as many as one
thousand million,” added Claudiu for spice. He loved to see the
pompous Da-Manga Furia squirm. “What if she allies with the
Twelve…?” He was laughing raucously from within. On the outside, he
was stone, though the notion was utter nonsense. Every demon
abhorred the Twelves. They’d been diametrically opposed before time
had been time. Each set of Twelve Guardians had been the arch enemy
of every demon. Rakel Angantýr was no different. She might be the
Grän Herra, ruler of the Skrímsli, but she’d been born a Furian, as
pure of blood as the Sanctus Magnus himself.

“
Enough!” shouted
Asmodemus. “Enough!” He took a few large breaths, then: “If she
proves troublesome, I will deal with her myself.”