The Unwanted Winter - Volume One of the Saga of the Twelves (74 page)

The urgency of their
mission was at stake! Many of his carefully laid plans had been
laid to waste! Centuries of preparation, decades of training, and
year upon year of consistently proving his worth were now at risk.
Would all of his effort prove worth nothing? He had scraped every
bit of value he could manage for his race within the many political
folds of the Empire and for what? For naught? After all this time,
why would failure show its’ fickle face here? Why hadn’t anything
gone according to plan? Seeing all of it to go up in flames, in a
matter of minutes, made him seethe with fury that boiled down to
the very center of his twisted soul.

He had been so close, by
the Storm Lord’s eyes!

He glared about the
animal-skin tent with pure malice dripping from his gaze. He took
no notice of the stinking bundle of hides strewn in one corner of
the tent, pelts he, at this very moment, should’ve been resting
among – a luxury he couldn’t afford now. Not after the disaster of
the past thirty-six hours, not after the cursed Fist of the Light
had snatched the children from right under his nose and then
managed to disappear into thin air, as if they had never
been.

A Fist of the
Light!
he raged.
Here, in the Construct itself, where I was promised complete
autonomy! How could that be possible? Five Fingers of Lights alive
within the Melded World! How could this be? How could the Lord of
the Light have known what they’d been planning for the World of
Man?

May a pox take the Nöhreg
and their precious Lord of the Dawn!

He stood erect in a flash,
the stool bouncing backward and into one side of the tent as he
smashed a mailed fist onto one of the corners of the desk. A large
hunk from one of the planks fell to the ground. He ignored it as it
rolled away.
Curse the guile of the Lord
of the Light!
he exclaimed internally,
knowing if so much as uttered a single word, he would demolish the
entire contents of the tent and possibly it as well.

Instead, he stood there
with his fists clenched at his sides, breathing heavily through his
fanged, wolf-like snout, trying with every ounce of control to keep
his power at bay. Magical forces of that magnitude could destroy
the entire encampment he and his troops had labored to build, since
the final iteration of the Melded World had begun to form. He began
to pace back and forth, going through detail after detail of what
had once been a complicated plan, to say the least.

Now, it had to be
massaged, finessed and properly managed - or salvaged - in order to
properly clear the way for the emergence of the Lord of the Storm.
He had to somehow gain back the initiative, turn the tide of the
impossible events of the past day. He had to. He had no choice in
the matter. With his Great Master the rule had always been -
succeed or die. He wasn’t about to turn tail and run away like some
frightened newborn pup, not with the favor and the power he was
poised to claim upon success. He was on the brink of being risen
above all within the Six-Fold Empire. His people would be marked
for ascension, while he would finally emerge from the long shadow
of his father. He would be second to only the great Maelstrom
himself – his master, the ancient Snowman.

Not any time soon, if I
cannot round up those spoiled brats posthaste!

He continued his pacing,
lost in thought, his once boiling fury, merely simmering now. He
was certain he still held the upper hand. It had to be true. He
still had many more resources available to him than that pack of
imbecilic animals. His entire Host had arrived now. All fifteen
hundred Swüreg warriors were here. Four complete Troupes,
painstakingly trained by him and his most trusted servants, his
beloved Hross – his Four Harbingers of Strife. Already, the eleven
Vyche sorcerers that had come with the Host, had begun the final
blending of the planes, bringing into this new world a veritable
swarm of creatures dedicated to the ultimate victory of the Storm
over the Light. He had Band after Band of Jötun now, complete with
hundreds of the lesser versions of themselves – the Tünn – to fill
out their ranks. He had Isighünds by the score, commanded by their
black-as-night tyrants, the Dēowulf. And, within hours, he would
have the Wyrm at his command. Then, his troops would have complete
reign of the sky as well.

Yes, he still had the
advantage. He was sure of it, just as he was certain
all
of the children
remained entirely ignorant of their own powers. True, their Gifts
would become formidable, but not now. They were mere shades of the
power he himself could bring to bear. Since, there was no one who
could teach them, no one to show them the Path, the Method or the
Way. They were shut off. They’d been banished from their world,
hopelessly lacking in training. They would never be able to tap the
hidden wellspring of the power within them. They would never
realize their true potential. And, they would never truly
comprehend their cruciality to the balance of power within the
planes of existence, within the four universes that existed now.
How could they know? After having lived such soft, carefree lives,
devoid of fear and jealousy, torture and rape, mutilation and
death, how could they possibly begin to guess at their true
importance?
It is beyond them. They will
forever remain pampered, spoiled children of a misguided race on a
soon to be dead world.
He smiled evilly at
the thought, mercilessly welcoming the pitiful situation
confronting the Twelve.

It would only be a matter
of time before he would have them all under the heel of his boot.
Soon, he would do with them as he pleased, while they waited in
chains for their sacrifice before the great Throne of Jüle, under
the malevolent gaze of the Lord of the Storm. He could almost taste
their despair!

First, I will take the
maidenhead of the Elemental! I will spill my searing seed into her
womb and watch her burn from within.
He
chuckled, a demented leer skewing his wolven features.

Yes, he was quite sure, in
the end, he would be the one to place the fruits of victory into
the hands of the Lord of the Storm himself. He would be forever
raised above all others. He would rule beside great Metohkangmi, no
longer under the sway of his father. He would be given the power
and the wealth he alone had earned. His mind eased at the
thought.

There was movement at the
entrance of the tent, distracting him.

A Swüreg shoved his head
through the folds of the animal skins. “M’lord Hand, a messenger to
see you,” said the warrior in clipped military fashion.

“
Well, send him in, you
idiot! Does it look like I have the entire night to languish away
whilst I wait for the likes of you to move your putrid ass!”
Fenris’ evil scowl returned with angry vigor.

The soldier promptly
stepped back and held open the tent flap to admit the messenger. It
was another Swüreg, only this one was higher ranking, an officer.
He glared at the junior warrior in anger over having to wait, even
if it had been for a moment or two. The other soldier respectfully
did not return his gaze, choosing to remain rigid and unmoving.
When the officer passed through the portal, the junior Swüreg
promptly released the animal skin, leaving him and Fenris in
private.

“
Well, what is it?” urged
the wolf-man, his tone rank with contempt.

The officer turned
quickly, as if startled, distracted for the moment. He regained his
composure, saluting the Hand by pounding on his chest twice in
rapid succession. “My Lord Fenris, we have found the Marker and the
entrance to the Tomb.”

Fenris could feel his lips
peel back from his teeth, the rigor mortal grin usually etching his
snout when he was very pleased. “Good work , Commander. Have you
been able to breach the Tomb itself to ensure the Lost Cavern lies
within?”

The commander shuffled his
feet slightly. “No, m’Lord, the Vyche that binds the entrance has
been too much for any physical attack to penetrate.”

Fenris’ grin became a
snarl.

The officer added quickly:
“Maybe if we were to attempt to open them with a force similar to
that which keeps them shut, we would have better success.” It was
almost a question, a suggestion placed as delicately as
possible.

Fenris thought for a
moment in silence, his grimace slackening. “Have that cretin,
Vallüm, and his Prēost minions return with you to the location of
the Tomb. Attempt to open those cursed doors with their command of
the Flesh,” then, an afterthought, “but make sure he has finished
his other
tasks
before you make use of him. The way must be opened fully
before the rise of the sun. The Melding must be completed on
schedule, regardless of whatever setbacks we may have experienced
thus far. When this is accomplished, I will send whatever sorcerous
tools we can spare, but until that time, you will have to make do,”
he offered in harsh tones, knowing the Swüreg officer understood he
still required progress regardless of circumstance. A lack of
resources wasn’t excuse enough for a lack of progress.

The officer frowned at the
mentioning of the wizened, little man.

Fenris was quick to deduce
his train of thought. “Yes, yes, I know a Prēost will be of little
help with the divination of magics, but he might be of some
assistance, nevertheless. I am willing to take advantage of any
glimmer of hope at the moment,” added the man-wolf, irritated at
having to explain himself, especially when Vallüm was the topic of
conversation. He loathed the tiny, dried-up creature, and all of
his grotesque practices as well.

We must endure what we
must for the sake of the Storm
, he chided
himself quietly well aware of the benefits of having a Prēost of
Vallüm’s renowned and experience under his command. The small man
and his Flesher were world-famous back in Storm, touted as the
greatest trackers of flesh to have ever lived. But, he still
couldn’t help wrinkling his snout in disgust at the price the rest
of them had to pay by having such a vile cretin about.

The officer saluted when
Fenris said no more. “It will be as you wish, my Lord,” and at
Fenris’ nod he turned upon a heel and quickly left the
tent.

The man-wolf let his
hideous grin return as soon as the commander of his Host of Swüreg
left his presence. It was apparent at least some things were going
according to plan, possibly even better than expected. He hadn’t
expected to find the Tomb so quickly. Although, he had been told it
would be nearby. The Tomb of the Guardians was always near the
homes of the Twelve, wherever they might have dwelled in the World
of Man. The Tomb would always follow, because the spells
surrounding the Guardians were great, unimaginably powerful. The
Hand knew they would have to proceed with caution, because of it.
He couldn’t afford any more mistakes. Errors in the Melded World
were proving extremely detrimental to his schemes.

He sighed, sounding more
like an elongated lisp out of the former of his mouth, letting the
frustration drain of his person. Aside from the emergence of the
Fingers of the Light and the subsequent disappearance of the
Chosen, everything else was going quite smoothly. When they opened
the Way entirely, it would only be a matter of time – the children
would be captured and the Fist ground into the snowy dirt. When the
Way opened fully, the forces that the Lord of the Storm would bring
to bear would be too numerous, too powerful to overcome. By then,
the armies of the Six-Fold Empire would be on the march. The fate
of the three - no, four - planes would be decided
forever.

And the Storm will rule
them ALL!

From the tent issued a
laugh as horrid and as evil as the creature exuding it.

~~~~~~~~<<<<<<{ ☼
}>>>>>>~~~~~~~~

The Agony of the
Enigma

Day Two, Friday, 3:27
am…

He knew, somewhere deep
inside his mind, he should’ve been frozen solid by now – dead. His
body should’ve been stiff and unyielding, trapped in time,
soulless. His humanity scooped out like the guts of a Christmas
hog.

Like the ones, we used to
love to eat back in Mexico when I was a little
cabron
.