Winter's Fury - Volume Two of The Saga of the Twelves (23 page)

Malik let his hand drop to
his side as he considered the other’s question. “I should say no
more than ten scored at the most,” he responded after a few
seconds.

“
Ten score? Is that wise,
uncle?” piped-in the Hand, allowing his concern to show.

“
Of course it is! We will
indeed suffer losses over the course of this enterprise. Our troops
will need replenishing, you scamp!” bellowed the Mheto-Prēost,
whipping his head around to stare at the Crown Prince. “Besides, it
is, because I say it is, boy. Since you have already concluded this
is not your area of expertise, I suggest you keep your council to
yourself!”

Fenris gave his great,
great uncle the mock bow he was due. “It will be your neck
stretching should you have… miscalculated as your minion has put
it.” Undeterred, he was not in the least bit frightened.

Yes, those days of
shitting his pants had
long
passed, indeed.

“
Of course, we wouldn’t
want to put any more stains upon the reputation of the Snowman’s
Hand, now would we? After his unfortunate mishap in his dealings
with the Chosen, it could prove detrimental to his health.” Malik
smiled, vicious, bearing his fangs. They shook like noodles with
every breath. Even from a few feet away, they looked more like
gelatin than teeth to the Crown Prince.

Sick of the sight of him,
Fenris thought about leaping for his age-old uncle. But, he stopped
cold when the ancient Vülfen spoke anew, as if he had little care
the Hand had been quite ready to rip out his throat.

“
Besides, if things begin
to deteriorate, we will use our safeguard against any ornery Nixae.
In the past, when the situation grew beyond our ability to control,
it is what we have always done.”

Fenris was ill prepared
for Vallüm’s reaction.

He screamed.

The Hand took an
involuntary step back in surprise, reaching for the sword that was
not belted to his waist.

“
NO! M’lord… I mean, Your
Imminence! You cannot!”

Malik frowned deep. “Why
not?”

Fenris was certain the
Prēost sounded outraged by this.

“
Because, Your Imminence,
it would be too horrid,” retorted the tiny, dried-up man in
anguish.

Horrid?
thought Fenris.
What
could be more horrid than sucking power via the constant rape of a
creature kept in the permanent state of childhood? What could be
worse than that?
Maybe it was the Prēosts
who were insane, and not the lowly creatures they
created.

“
Have
you lost your mind, Vallüm?” questioned Malik. “This is the
End Game
we are playing
now. This is not some half-baked scheme dreamed up by some faction
within the Six-Fold Empire to gain favor over another. This is not
about a jostling for power or influence or even glory. This is the
final war we are waging now, you groveling worm! Storm is on the
march for the first time in countless centuries and you worry about
something as trivial -. No! As
inconsequential
as the manner with
which the Nixae are treated? Are you daft?” The Mheto-Prēost moved
closer to his underling. He glared into the others’ face, stabbing
him with his vision. “I am beginning to wonder if you are the right
Prēost for this undertaking, maybe the Rigă-Kur and I were wrong
about you…”

“
Y-y-your Imminence,
forgive -.”

“
What is this
countermeasure of which you speak? Is it a spell of some sort?”
interrupted Fenris, harsh, impatient with the back and forth
between the Prēosts, family or not.

“
My dear nephew, since
when would I dabble in the crude arts of the Vyche?”

The Hand could only shake
his head in agitated confusion.

“
This is no sorcerer’s
ploy. I speak of the Pixae - nothing more, nothing less.” He said
in clipped tones.

This put Fenris on his
guard almost immediately. “A what?” The Hand had never heard of
such a thing before. “Is this a beast of some sort?”

“
It is a Pixy,” reiterated
the Mheto-Prēost as he pointed toward the fifth member of the group
who had come through the Portal with him.

Fenris’ eyes followed to
where his great, great uncle’s extended finger indicated. The fifth
robed and hooded figure came closer. At Malik’s urging, it reached
up and removed the covering from its’ head. Its’ face came forth
into the bright, though weak rays of the sun.

The Hand went rigid with
shock, utter motionlessness followed when he saw the angelic face
of a boy. He was human, no more than a decade old staring back at
him with illuminate, gray-blue eyes. He was about two inches taller
than the tallest of the Prēosts in the immediate vicinity. He was
slim of form with features fine and delicate as if carved from
porcelain. He possessed a thin ridge for a nose, ending in a
blushing bulb; arched cheekbones, prominent and rosy as if the cold
air had made them so. He had a squarish chin, accentuating the
chiseled look of him. He had hair the color of wet stone, worn with
bangs, sheared about his eyebrows and cut in the back to the length
of its shoulders.

Fenris imagined, if he
were human, he would have felt he had just laid eyes upon the most
beautiful male being of that misguided race.

“
This is your safeguard?”
asked the Hand in disbelief.

“
Oh, yes indeed,” cooed
Malik as if the sight of the Pixy was exciting him in ways that
Fenris felt repulsive.

“
M’Lord, please… please
reconsider,” begged Vallüm.

“
Reconsider what, you
mumbling idiot?” demanded the Mheto-Prēost. He was angry now.
“Reconsider you as a candidate for the Wezzeinate as was our pact?
Your supposed usefulness in this undertaking no longer seems to be
the case. Maybe you have become a liability. Maybe I should
reconsider what we of the High Order have promised you and find a
suitable replacement? What say you?!?”

So that was to be your
reward for assisting with the capture of the Twelve, eh?
thought Fenris, chewing on the thought, over and
over like an unyielding hunk of gristle.
Your affirmation to the Prēost High Council would have made
you even more powerful than you could have ever imagined. With your
ancient Inghëldir at your side, who could stop you? Was my uncle’s
seat of power your ultimate goal?

Ironic… is it not? Well,
so much for that now…
He laughed to
himself.
Ironic, indeed.

“
No, Your Imminence,” went
on Vallüm. “I only ask that you do not use the Pixae here. We do
not know if there will be consequences.”

Fenris had never heard the
self-righteous, little bastard grovel like a common serf
before.

It was
refreshing.

“
They will be fine, they
all will, you sniveling lump. They abide by a different set of
rules,” said Malik, walking toward the cherubic boy. Then to the
Pixy, he said: “You do have what is necessary to track her, do you
not?”

“
Yes, master, I do,”
replied the boy in a singsong, almost musical voice. He pulled
forth from within the fold of his robe, a small white dress white a
blue ribbon tied about the waist. He extended it toward the
Fleshmaster.

“
Good,” soothed the
Mheto-Prēost.

“
Where did you get that!”
clamored Vallüm, so violent spittle drooled down his yellowed
chin.

“
That?” said Malik,
playful now, though Fenris could sense the malice behind it. It was
a Vülfen expression. “I got that from your private sanctum on
Storm, master Prēost. My beautiful Enricht here will use it to hunt
down your wayward Nixy and neutralize the threat she poses to us
all.”

“
No, Your Imminence! No! I
am certain I can bring her back under my control well before we
would have to sink to such drastic measures. Please do not send
him! I only need a few more days. By then I will have her back
under my boot.” Vallüm fell to his knobbed knees before his supreme
overlord.

Malik stared at him for a
while, his face blank, his eyes flat.

The Hand knew what the
expression meant when worn upon the face of a Vülfen. Even one as
far removed from the Ambalaj as was his uncle, Malik was on the
verge of killing. Fenris could not help but smile. This could prove
entertaining to watch.

Instead, his uncle spoke.
“Then I suggest you get on with it, Vallüm, because time is not on
your side. Soon your Nixy will be too far gone and you might well
lose all ability to control her. I suggest, you redouble your
efforts. Either you bring your Nixy back or Enricht will take care
of her in a much more intimate fashion.”

Vallüm stared back as if
pole-axed, frozen in place.

“
GO!!!” yelled the
deformed Vülfen.

The wasted, old man jumped
to his feet with a screech of his own. He ran toward his tent
somewhere within the ever-growing Encampment. He left as fast as
his gnarled legs could take him, through the snow and uneven
ground.

Fenris watched after him
for a time, and then turned back toward Malik.

The Mheto-Prēost was
speaking to the boy with a face of an angel. “Go and find yourself
a new plaything and tickle her until her lifeblood is oozing from
every orifice in her body.”

The boy nodded and
grinned. He was eager, bouncing upon the balls of his feet. Then,
he brought the dress up to his face and inhaled, filling his lungs
to capacity.

The Hand cocked his head
to one side when the boy’s nose split open. Along the axis of its’
ridge, scores of gangly filaments - each topped with an inquisitive
node - sprouted forth. Immediately, they began caressing the cloth,
writhing and wriggling over the fabric. It was some sort of
disciplined memorization, storing away distinct qualities for later
use. The boy canted his head skyward, howled like a dog. He took
off into the snow-covered landscape, gone within
moments.

“
What will this Pixy do
once he finds Inghëldir?” asked Fenris. His voice he kept low,
still looking at the spot where the boy had vanished into the
trees, heading east and north.

Hmmm, he heads
northeast…
, thought the Hand. He filed
that little nugget of information away in his mind for
later.

“
He will do what he is
made to do,” replied Malik as a matter of fact.

“
And that
being?”

His great, great uncle
turned to from the tree line to look up at him, a wicked gleam in
his eye. “All Pixae maintain a tremendous phallus, long and wide of
girth. We create them this way for a specific reason. They use this
blood-filled weapon upon their prey in one long, continuous
session. Always, their victim dies from the ordeal. The seed of the
Pixy, released into the victim with such volume, overwhelms the
flesh of its’ prey. It will begin to reform it, unmake it so to
speak until, in a few years, it will no longer look like it once
had. Rather, it will resemble a chrysalis, a vessel of
transformation - complete and ready for use.”

“
A what?” question the
Hand; already sorry he had inquired in the first place.

“
The seed pod, if you
will, when matured will crack open and reveal yet another Pixy.
Although, such an emergence would be few decades in the future, for
the process is arduous with many steps and requires a good amount
of attention.” He answered as if he were speaking about the
weather.

Vallüm was correct after
all
, thought Fenris.
This was horrid.

“
All Pixae are fashioned
this way,” went on the decrepit man-wolf. “Thus, nothing goes to
waste, the flesh is… how you say… recycled? Yes, I think that is
the correct word.”

Horrid, indeed!

Then another thought
entered the mind of the Hand. “You sent the creature anyhow, great
uncle, even though you made it seem to the Prēost that he had time
to attempt to bring his Nixy under heel. Why is that?”

Malik sighed, weary,
“Vallüm has already lost that battle, nephew. His Nixy has been
alive for far too long. I fear if it were not for Enricht, she
might grow into something monstrous, something none of us wish to
see.”

Fenris saw his uncle had
noticed the fear in his expression, and he made no move to conceal
it. It was too late for that.

“
Do not worry, Your
Highness, Enricht will not fail. He never has…”

Fenris nodded, but stayed
silent.

“
Come, nephew, show me
around this Encampment of yours. Let’s find something to amuse
ourselves. Shall we?

The Mheto-Prēost had
already put the topic out of his mind.

They walked back toward
the home of the Host.

Fenris with his hands
clasped behind his back. “What will become of Vallüm, Your
imminence?”

“
Not sure, my Crown
Prince, maybe I will send Enricht to him in the dead of night.
Wouldn’t that be delightful to watch?”