Winter's Fury - Volume Two of The Saga of the Twelves (58 page)

The long-eared officer
just stared down at him in disdain, his expression unchanged. His
eyes flicked toward what Vallüm assumed were each of the
Jötun.

Vallüm did not have much
time. He could almost feel the hatred flowing off the Swüreg’s
body.

“
I would not want to be
the one who kept vital information from the Hand. This is
information that might well lead to our undoing. Non-conveyance in
a timely fashion would lead to disaster. You wouldn't want to be
party to that, now would you, Lieutenant ,” uttered the twisted old
man, his voice heavy with implication. He needed to sound
convincing, and fast. “I imagine that person would be flayed alive
and consumed.” He chuckled, gleeful. But he forced it. He prayed he
was good enough at playacting to scare the dull-witted soldier in
action.

The Lieutenant’s eyes
narrowed. His body stiffened. He knew full well what the Prēost
said was close to the truth. Close enough to garner merit. He
glanced at the Jötuns again, in rapid succession, shaking his head
imperceptively. He turned to glare down at Vallüm. “Let the baggage
in,” he called, sounding bored. He looked up into the storm, then
at their surroundings, anywhere but not at Vallüm. “I don’t have
time to dawdle with the likes of you and your foul ilk, while all
around this world freezes. In with you!”

Vallüm smiled, his face
angelic, though his eyes burned. “Thank you, Lieutenant. I will
make it a point to let the Hand know how
helpful
you were.”

The Swüreg officer reached
for his weapon, but stopped when Vallüm showed his teeth through
his vacuous grin.

The decrepit old man was
nodding his head, urging the other to attack.

The Lieutenant growled
instead, spun on his heel and stalked deeper into the shadowy
alcove recessed into the wall. It would seem, he had not been as
eager for a fight after all.

Idiot, all bluster and no
balls!
It would not have taken much of his
power to make the stupid Swüreg’s neck bulge and then break. Vallüm
kept the grin in place as he moved to stand before the doors. The
dullard did not know how close he had come to death. But then, most
folk do not know much about Prēost combat techniques.

The Fleshmasters liked to
keep that aspect of their abilities secret. They would not show
them until the need was great, because if they did, they would have
to kill everyone in sight. There could be no survivors.
Confidentiality in such matters must remain intact. They might be
small in stature and fraught disease, but neither condition meant
they were not mighty in their own manner.

Vallüm heard the great
wooden timber, barring the portal from within, thud against the
inner sides of the doors. He imagined as the guards within lifted
it from the massive latches holding it in place. He moved sideways
a few steps, as the fifteen-foot doors opened, pulled by yet
another pair of Jötun. Their splotchy hides looked combed and
clean. It was obvious they had not been outside for a while. They
eyed him down their pushed-in, ape-like noses. Both of them snorted
aloud as the winds of the storm carried his smell toward them in
relentless gusts.

He smiled, knowing he
smelled like a cistern. He always did, especially after he had
expended so much energy getting that bitch Inghëldir to heed him.
He did not care if he smelled like the ass-end of a Lyzürd. There
were more important things were transpiring. Personal hygiene did
not rank high on his list of priorities currently.

The brutish primates
opened the portal wide enough to omit the sallow, aged man and no
more. They slammed it shut once he stepped past them. Already, they
were beginning to replace the twenty-foot long piece of timber back
into place. It nestled within the four, huge steel brackets that
barred the portal against the unwanted.

Vallüm winced in spite of
himself when the heavy, two-foot square beam fell into place with a
tremendous clamor.

“
What is it you want,
Vallüm? The great Mheto is indisposed at the moment,” said a small
voice, as hoarse and raspy as his own.

He turned to see it was
one of the Ŏu-Prēosts. He wore boiled leather armor and had a sword
belted to waist. He had come up from some deeper corner of the
vaulted chamber. Vallüm had not seen when he had
entered.

The Master Flesher did not
respond right away. Instead, he glanced around, taking in his
environs, thinking how strange it was to be in this particular
Keep. The last time he had set foot within these stony walls, he
(and it) had been back in the World of Storm. Though he had not
come to Fenris’s mountain fort all that much, he still recalled the
high hall he now found himself within.

He stood between two
identical rows of arches, traversing the long axis of the room -
one on his left, and the other on his right. There were seven
arches in all, stretching before him to the wall at far end of the
chamber. Where these arches came together, they shared a common
skewback. There they intersected a third, longer arch perpendicular
to their position. These ones reached across the chamber to either
side of the Prēost. All the arches were supported by thick, square
imposts that lead down to impressive columns of granite in gradual
arches. The columns themselves were twenty feet in height and
spaced about ten feet apart. Fitted into them, at regular intervals
around, were thick, iron brackets. Within each sat four sets of
ensconced torches that lit up the space so brilliant there was no
shadow. Between each pairing of columns where the crosswise arches
curved at a smooth angle to fit into the walls of the space. There
was one door for each. There were fourteen total - leading to other
parts of the Tor.

Having been within Fenris’
fort before, the Prēost knew these doors led to other ancillary
rooms of the keep. There were guard barracks, the low kitchen,
holding cells, a mess hall and storage rooms branching off from
this central chamber.

He ignored all that
though, pushing it from his mind. His eyes glued onto another set
of double doors, opposite him. These were about half the size of
the outer doors. Before them stood another a pair of hulking Jötun,
both of whom regarded him and the Ŏu-Prēost with mild
interest.

“
I am not here to call on
our Great Master, Ŏu-ur,” replied the Fleshmaster after a time. He
used the derogatory term used for one of lower rank. “I am here to
see Fenris. Is he in his office or his solarium?” Vallüm looked at
the other out of the corner of his eye, but kept glancing about. He
marveled over the fact they had moved the whole edifice from one
universe to another in a matter of few days’ time. The
Vyche-trained could do some amazing things when they finally
decided to get off of their lazy asses and get about their
work.

The hard part was getting
them off those same blasted asses in the first place.

The Potentiate did not
immediately reply.

Vallüm stopped his gazing
back and forth, and steadied his vision on the robed figure before
him. A few moments passed, then a few more. Vallüm’s brow began to
knit. He moved his feet as if to take a step forward.

The under-Prēost realized
then he had not answered back – a huge mistake - and took an
immediate step in retreat. Both of his hands came up before him as
if he were expecting a physical attack.

Imbecile!
raged the Prēost.
And
this bumbler is to be one of us someday? By the Storm Lord’s prick
what have we let ourselves become?

“
The Lord Hand is in
council, m’Lord, with his Hross. Our Great Master and few others of
the Host are with them as well,” the Ŏu-Prēost blurted. He cringed
now as if he was certain Vallüm would strike him down. He knew the
Fleshmaster could break his body like kindling at any moment. “The
Lord Hand… well, he asked not to be disturbed and sealed off the
great room some time ago.” The other motioned to the large room
that Vallüm knew was beyond the smaller set of doors.

“
Go and fetch me a robe
and then announce me. I have urgent news the Hand must hear at
once,” commanded Vallüm. He looked down at himself for the first
time, wishing he had taken the time to fix himself before he had
run like new-raped Nixy from his tent. He could not go into a
council with his master in attendance looking like a houseless
Skrímsli. He must show at least a shred of decency or account of
ceremony.

“
But, m’Lord Prēost, he
said -,” began the Ŏu-Prēost.

“
I DO
NOT CARE WHAT HE SAID, YOU MAGGOT! FETCH ME A ROBE AND ANNOUNCE
ME
!” boomed Vallüm, his mind touching the
cells of the other, thrusting his will throughout the others’ body.
The under-Prēost quivered with the sheer volume of it. He was
helpless before Vallüm’s onslaught.

The Master Flesher was
pleased to find the under-Prēost had vanished by the time he
glanced up . He reminded himself he would have to refrain from
using such gross displays of power in the future. Now that
Inghëldir was growing beyond his ability to control. He would have
to conserve his strength for the time being, at least until he
could throw her upon his bed and take from her what he needed. The
thought of his seed filling her tight holes made him shiver with
delight. Inghëldir had a magical cunt indeed.

Less than a minute later,
the Potentiate returned through one of the doors.

Vallüm took little
notice.

He come forth with a robe
in hand and handed it to the Prēost. He spun so quick upon his
heel, he almost lost his balance and fell. He steadied himself at
the last minute, a fraction of a second before he crashed
head-first onto the stone floor.

You could have saved us
both a lot of misery by staving-in your dung-filled
skull
, thought the Prēost, snide. He put
on the robe without delay, which was only a little too big on him.
It was close enough of a fit to go unnoticed, he hoped. At least,
it was long enough to cover his nasty feet with their cracked and
broken nails, and cancerous boils.

“
Now announce me,” he
murmured when he had finished. The other walked up to the doors and
motioned for the Jötuns to move aside.

They did so without
complaint.

Vallüm knew in an instant
the Hand had left extra orders. Should an emergency arise he was to
receive notification immediately. Otherwise, the great apes of
Storm would never have moved aside for a low Ŏu-Prēost.

The Potentiate grabbed a
hold of the large knocker hanging to right of the door latch. He
pounded the large bulbous end against the door. Three tremendous
thuds echoed throughout the chamber. He waited a breath, maybe two,
and then entered the chamber beyond, speaking as he entered: “My
Lord Hand. Vallüm, Master Prēost, seeks a word with you.” His was
voice was loud, but to the yellowish, old man’s delight it still
warbled with a tinge of fear.

“
Concerning what?” came
Fenris’ lisping tones.

Vallüm could tell his
agitation was the direct result of a mountain of
fatigue.

The Potentiate
stiffened.

Vallüm had not mentioned
the specifics of his request. So, instead of wasting any more time,
the Prēost shoved his way passed the embattled Ŏu-Prēost. He
entered the confines that served as both audience hall and council
chamber for the Crown Prince here on the Melded World.

It was a large affair,
some fifty yards square with an arching wall opposite the main
entrance from which Vallüm had emerged. At its’ middle stood the
ageless, monolithic throne of the Vülfen Heir to the Ambalaj. The
Seat of the Dragon Skull as it was known back in Storm. In truth,
it was an uncomfortable affair constructed of the gaping jaws of an
ancient IsigWyrm. It belonged to a fell beast that was once been
the scourge of the entire Vülfen Race.

He had been, or so the
legend went, a creature of gigantic proportions. The Ivory Death
was his name and, ages ago, he was the bane of Fenris’ people.
Until the then Crown Prince of the Vülfen, Zdravăn dok Sdur the
Great, came upon him on the field of battle. He slew the beast upon
the foothills of the ancestral home of the Vülfen, at the feet of
the merciless Frostwort Mountains. It had been after an unforgiving
week of battle, after they had laid waste to the countryside. The
IsigWyrm’s skull was then brought before the King of the Vülfen as
a prize beyond imagining.

This ancient King was of a
different mind though. For he felt It should not be a gift for him,
and him alone. No! He decreed the skull would be forged into a
throne of bone and metal for all the future Crown Prince’s to sit
while they prepared themselves for rule. It was to be a grand
reminder of their duty and loyalty to the Kur Ambalaj.

It would have been from
this seat of majesty and grandeur that Fenris would have sat and
dispense father’s will. Every time he held court and paid heed to
the hundreds of petitioners he would see on any given day, Fenris
would dispense judgment. Each ruling would then be scrutinized by
his father and Vülfen High Ambalai, each determination weighed to
see whether Fenris was fit for rule.

A tedious
process
, mused the Prēost. But then, the
Vülfen had always been over-meticulous.