Winter's Fury - Volume Two of The Saga of the Twelves (22 page)

At the moment, his mouth
moved rapid as he spoke in some gruesome, guttural
language.

He was Fenris dok Kór, the
Snowman’s Hand, Commander of the Vanguard and the Crown Prince of
the Vülfen Kur Ambalaj.

The four others spoke as
well. Only their voices audible, their mouths concealed within the
deep folds of their hooded robes. Their hands they had raised above
their heads as well, stretched as wide as they could span. The
timbre and enunciation of each syllable uttered was in exact rhythm
with that of the Hand. When they finished, the strange, abnormal
slice of gray space they were facing grew two feet wider, a foot
taller. It was an opaque construct. It did not reflect or absorb
light in any way. It was just there.

They stopped in unison,
silent, watching the slate colored portal in the young rays of the
day.

The four hooded figures
turned to stare at Fenris as one.

The Hand did not return
their gazes, but nodded as if he could feel their individual
stares.

Again as one - the silent
command given – the four turned aside. They made their way toward
one side of the portal, fifteen feet behind its’ improbable
surface.

On the other side of the
unnatural structure, a tiny voice echoed across the bowl shaped
ravine wherein they stood. “M’Lord Fenris, the portal is ready for
passage.”

It sounded like sandpaper,
and irked Fenris to the marrow of every bone in his body. “Tell
them to come,” was all he said.

The small form of Vallüm
nodded. He turned toward the portal, dipping his head, for a few
heartbeats, as if in prayer and then stood erect once more. “They
come, my Prince.”

Fenris grunted, all that
was necessary, and waited.
I am not your
Prince, you filth!

Half a minute later, a
blob of color, large and blurred began to form from the center of
the construct. Outward from the middle, it grew, larger and larger.
Seconds later, it filled the entire surface of the
portal.

The moment they appeared,
the colors began to reform, become more linear. The blotches of
color turned into distinct forms. They became clearer, something
the mind could comprehend. At first, there appeared two figures,
but within seconds they became a small ambling line of forms. They
were more distinct now, in focus, within the now glimmering
rectangle.

They came four abreast
with the last – a fifth - a step or two behind. They were in a
loose, if not haphazard formation, stepping tentative as if they
were unsure of their footing. The elbows of the outermost of them
almost brushed against the edge of the portal itself. They were
diminutive. Their bodies, bent and misshapen, appeared odd. This
despite their true forms remained hidden behind fine robes of
combed black wool. All but their chins stayed behind heavy cowls,
keeping the rest of their faces in shadow. Despite the coverings,
it as easy to mark them for what they were. Their sick, sallow skin
was the key. The yellowish and pot-marked surface belied recovery
from some sort of hideous disease. Maybe an illness that had left
them forever marred in its’ wake. That distinction was false. They
were something else.

They wore soft, leather
sandals dyed jet, with heavy stitching, lined with the downy hair
of unborn calves. Their belts were thick bands of hide, studded and
hardened through their manufacture. Three of them wore short swords
sheathed in jeweled scabbards. This was an odd spectacle to behold.
One would never suspect a Fleshmaster to arm himself with such a
crude weapon. They had the
meat
of all things at their trembling command. Why
would they?

Yet, these were not your
average, run-of-the-mill Prēosts either. No, they were Ŏu-Prēosts,
or Potentiates. They were apprentice Fleshmasters. They had yet to
surrender their physical prowess for the rigors of bending bone and
muscle, sinew and tendon. Though, they had yet to meet the mental
capacity of a Master Creator, their brute strength was undeniable.
Unlike the aged, wrinkled Vallüm, these shrunken, deformed
creatures were fast, durable and deadly with their
blades.

They had to be considering
the fourth member of their group. He was the one they surrounded in
a protective semi-circle. He stood an inch or so shorter than the
three Ŏu-Prēosts. He had a drooping, malformed snout that at one
time might have looked much like that of the Hand’s. It had since
become something else, something terrifying and gruesome at the
same time.

“
It is good to see you
again, Your Highness,” rasped this hooded figure as the fifth of
their party stepped from the Portal and onto the snow-covered
ground within the Encampment.

The strange grayness
winked out of sight with a loud “popping” sound.

“
You may forgo the
formalities I should think, my dear uncle. There is no time for
pretense within a realm such as this melded one,” answered Fenris
with his usual lisping snarl. He motioned about with a gauntleted
hand.

“
Ah, but you are still the
Crown Prince of our beloved Vülfen Kur Ambalaj. You are still first
in line to succeed my great grandnephew to the throne of our
people. And… I am still the Mheto-Prēost of the Fleshmasters, the
greatest of all the Creators upon Storm, correct? Has anything
changed those facts?” countered the shriveled creature as it
reached up and drew back its hood, revealing his wolf-like skull
and visage. Both were malformed as if he was thousands of years
old, but that was not the case. This was due to the titanic amounts
of power he had used throughout his long, long life. He bore the
consequence of the power he had used to corrupt the living to his
will upon his visage. The toll of it was palatable, even to Fenris
who had seen him many times.

His snout sagged and
dangled like a flaccid cucumber left far too long in the hot summer
sun. His red skin had long since begun to bleach and lose its’
luster. It was now more pinkish, like blood diluted in water –
light in some places, darker in others. His once proud mane of hair
had fallen out in many places, so that only dead, lifeless
splotches of slate remained. They were no more than tufts, briny
patches sprouting at random about his scalp, his face and
neck.

Fenris peered down at him
with no outward reaction. He was long passed the days when the mere
sight of his great, great grandfather’s brother scared him. Often
his fright was so profound, he would let loose his bowels and shame
himself before his father’s court.

“
The facts remain as they
are, High Prēost. It is the conditions that have changed. And I
would venture to say, in some areas, this change is more dramatic
than in others,” stated the Hand. Out of habit, he clacked the
heels of his boots together. He leaned forward as he did so,
bending at the waist to make his point.

The wasted Vülfen squinted
up at him through the sunlight, and then chortled of a sudden. “Ha,
that would seem correct as well, and on both counts.” He glanced
about, his eyes settling on Vallüm, who seemed to squirm under the
gaze of the Supreme Leader of his Order.

Serves you right, you vile
bastard,
thought the Hand, but remained
silent.

“
You are right, nephew, we
should dispense with the titles. And, all the pomp that comes with
them. We must get about the business of the Great Maelstrom.” He
paused to clear his throat. “So, what is it I should call you?
Little Fenny? Like I used to back in those days when you were more
apt to shit yourself than speak?”

From a distance, the four
hooded figures who had assisted Fenris with the opening of the
Portal, growled as one. Each took an aggressive step
forward.

The Hand stopped them with
a look.

“
Fenris is quite alright
with me, Malik,” he began behind half-lidded eyes. “May I call you
that? We are after all… family.”

Though I would still slit
your throat if it came down to it, you rancid pecker!

The guards of the
Mheto-Prēost bristled at that.

The wizened Vülfen
forestalled with a wave of his hand and a gurgling chortle. His
gaze drifted back toward Fenris, a lopsided smile stretching his
abused snout. It did not reach his eyes. “You have… grown, nephew,”
he uttered with soft undertones the Hand understood all too
well.

In just about every
capacity since we last laid eyes upon one other, uncle.

A tense silence befell
them as everyone about the two Vülfen shuffled their feet or
shifted their weight. All were unsure if they should prepare
themselves for combat. Or relax should an awkward truce become a
viable reality between the two estranged family members.

I don’t have time to
measure whose cock is longer!
seethed
Fenris as he broke the quiet with a stern command. “Hross, assist
the Vyche with the last of the fortifications of the Encampment. I
do not care how bad the weather may turn; I want it completed
within a day’s time. No exceptions! Or I will be dining upon your
flesh at tomorrow’s evening meal with a great degree of
relish.”

The four hooded forms
saluted the Hand, each with a fist across the chest and sauntered
off back into the large camp proper. It was finally a hive of
activity.

All the hustle and bustle
made Fenris smirke with pleasure. Now, the entire Host was present.
Now, they could begin to search for the Chosen in earnest. Soon,
his fortress would transmute here. Nothing would please him more
than to have it arrive simultaneous with the recapture of those
spoiled brats. Then, he could throw them all into its deepest,
dampest dungeons, especially the little ones.
Ignorant pups!
Ah, to hear them weep
in despair -.

“
So, Fenny,” said his
uncle, interrupting his thoughts.

Immediately, he rankled
with rage at the use of his childhood moniker.

“
I was informed you have
experienced an issue with one of my get. What-ever seems to be the
problem?”

“
You know very well what
the ‘issue’ is, Malik. My father would have told you in detail by
now. Otherwise, you would not have come yourself,” slurred the
Hand. “And since this is not my prevue, I say ask your sordid
minion here to speak to the specifics.” Fenris gestured toward
Vallüm with a disdainful wave of his hand.

The Master Prēost did not
wait and took a few unsteady steps forward. “Your Imminence, m’Lord
on High, I greet you. I am your humble servant -.”

Malik cut off the
shrunken, old man. “Get to the heart of the matter, Vallüm! My
nephew has already wasted enough of our precious time!”

Fenris felt himself grin,
an insane leer.
Oh, how I would love to
rip your limbs from your body, dear uncle, and see if I could put
you back together. I wonder if you’d remain the defiler you’ve
become over the years. Would your shriveled sex still work after
such an ordeal?

Vallüm gulped, nodding so
fast he could not stop. He continued to do so even as he spoke. “It
seems, Imminence… Well, it appears…" A longer pause ensued. "There
has been some sort of miscalculation with the construction of this
place. There is some sort of, heretofore, unconceivable condition
existing here and nowhere else.”

The Mheto-Prēost nodded as
if he already knew what Vallüm was talking about.

He did, figured the Hand.
Fenris knew his father would have been thorough in his dealings
with his uncle. It was well known the Grandmaster of the Flesh was
a conniving, slippery serpent who had no issue with sluicing
through the muck.

The dried-up man forged
on. “It appears the Melded World, during the course of attaining
equilibrium has made one of two things possible. It has either
unraveled some of the control we Prēosts have over our Nixae. Or it
has somehow made the Nixae capable of resisting our commands…,
somehow made them stronger.”

“
And which do you surmise
is the correct effect this place is having on our tasty, little
girls?” queried Malik his stare unwavering.

“
Your Imminence, the more
I think on it, the more I test the extant of my will over my Nixy,
I am beginning to believe that it is both, m’Lord. If that is
somehow possible,” explained the worn and weary Prēost.

“
I believe you are
correct,” said the Mheto-Prēost at once. “That is why we are
altering our strategy for the subjugation of this
place.”

“
Oh, my Lord?” wondered
Vallüm, aloud.

“
I have decreed that only
recently harvested Nixae are to be brought here. They are to be
paired up with the strongest of our rank and file. And, we will
only bring the necessary numbers to enforce the plans of the Great
Maelstrom. It is ever so important we have the means to deliver up
the much needed examples. Those who stray from the Righteous
Tempest deserve proper punishment,” announced Malik. He finished
with a flourish that made Fenris frown.

What the fuck are you
doing mooning around as if you have given a great speech? You
imbecile, there are no trumpets here!

“
And… and how many Nixae
will the Hlāford Dhŏŏm be bringing now?” asked Vallüm, wringing his
hands, nervous.