Winter's Fury - Volume Two of The Saga of the Twelves (59 page)

Now though, the throne was
vacant. There were no such duties here the Melded World. The
torches about it were dim and sputtered from lack of attention.
They cast the further portions of the chamber into flickering
shadow. While the torches nearer the Hand and his council were much
brighter and sent light dancing in all directions.

Vallüm stepped forward,
stopping some feet from the thick, oaken table the others sat
around. His gaze traveled about the room.

At the far end of the
table sat the Crown Prince, resplendent in his black, studded
leather armor and boots. Over it all, he wore a thick cape wrapped
about his person. Vallüm guessed it was to ward off some of the
cold that had still managed to penetrate the confines of the
chamber. This despite the twin hearths set inside either of the
sidewalls, both ablaze with tremendous flames.

To the left sat Leonif
Choachesnu, the Lord Commander of the Host. He was the
highest-ranking officer of their group after a Fenris himself. He
was a veteran of many wars, including the Great War of
Consolidation. The conflict that had molded the World of Storm into
what it was now - a vast empire controlled by the Six Great Races,
over which ruled the Great Maelstrom.

Leonif's build was much
like Fenris, though his fur had long began to pepper with gray and
white hair. His skin faded to pink from the bright crimson it had
been when he was younger. He was sturdy Vülfen in identical armor
to that of his lord. He was prideful and thus predictable in
Vallüm's eyes. He was just another indoctrinated soldier, loyal to
the point of stupidity, quite lustful of power he could never hope
to gain. He just lacked the mental fortitude to do so.

To Fenris, right sat
Malik-Käi, the Mheto-Prēost of the Fleshmasters. He was Vallüm’s
Overlord and - by some unfortunate twist of fate - Fenris’ aged
ancestor. The shriveled Vülfen of an age long forgotten gazed at
him with eyes made fierce with anger. He had noticed Vallüm was in
no way groomed and looked like a common serf.

Thank the Maelstrom he had
put on a decent robe.

The diminutive Malik sat
upon a couple of voluminous cushions, so he could see over the edge
of the table. This made him appear comical even though Vallüm was
wont to look him in the eyes. The Mheto-Prēost was not someone to
underestimate. There was a reason he was the Mheto-Prēost and most
of it had nothing to do with his strength as a
Fleshmaster.

Behind the Mheto-Prēost
stood the two other of the Ŏu-Prēosts who had accompanied Malik
from Storm. They were silent and unmoving. Their swords scabbarded
at their waists, they stood a few steps beyond the high-backed
chairs.

Next to Leonif sat yet
another Vülfen. He was much younger than the Lord Commander. His
fur was the night personified, fathomless obsidian. His skin was a
striking crimson, devoid of wrinkles and age spots. He appeared,
even while sitting, eager to prove himself. He knew full well this
incursion into the Melded World as an honored member of the Great
Maelstrom’s Vanguard could very well mean the beginning of an
illustrious career. His name was Rodíc Banciu, the High Lieutenant
of the Beasts. He served as headmaster to all the various creatures
the Host would bring into battle should one arise. He was larger
than both of his commanding officers, broad of chest and lumbering.
He wore scale mail, blackened and lacquered, underneath an
oversized and padded jerkin of red and white velvet of sufficient
size to fit over his armor. No doubt, he was clad in matching
leather breeks. Though from his current vantage, Vallüm could not
know for certain if that was the case.

But a
pup
, Vallüm mused in the silence of his
mind.

The rest of the occupants
about the table were the four members of the Hross, Fenris’
brother-Vyche, who had been at his side since birth. They always
wore the same dark robes, their bodies identical, in both size and
shape. Since he did not know their names and had never seen their
faces, he could not begin to single them out as individuals. To the
Prēost (and everyone else), they were the Hross, a single entity
with four bodies, never apart and never far from the side of the
Hand.

“
Vallüm, why do you come
before us looking as a vagabond?” demanded Malik almost at
once.

“
Your Imminence, forgive
me. I came as fast as I could. The moment I learned we may have a
serious problem, I came posthaste. If my appearance offends you, I
do apologize,” replied Vallüm. He hoped the pending doom of his
message was enough to beseech forgiveness.

The Mheto-Prēost did not
reply. He continued to stare at him, searching over his person,
searching for meaning.

Fenris cleared his throat.
“Explain what you have learned,” he commanded. His tone was less
harsh than would have been outside of the presence of his great,
great uncle.

He did not wish to meddle
in Prēost politics.
How wise of
him.

“
M’Lord
Hand,” began Vallüm. He shuffled forward on caked and cracked feet.
“I have succeeded with my Nixy -,”
not a
complete truth, but who was keeping count
,
“- I have learned some startling news from her.” He clasped his
hands before him, glancing at all about the
table.

“
Continue.” It was Malik
this time.

“
Imminence, My Lords, it
seems there is an anomaly of some sort walking the Melded World.
There is an entity aligned with neither Storm nor the Light. It is
a being onto itself and already in possession of tremendous power.
He bears Gifts unlike any I have ever heard described to me or
scryed from the brain of my Nixy.”

He watched the various
reactions of the others to his words. There was skepticism from the
Hand, introspection from the Mheto-Prēost and rapt attention from
all four members of the Hross. Indifference flowed from Rodíc and a
bland expression exuded from Leonif.

It was Malik who spoke
first. “What sort of Gifts?”

Vallüm outlined everything
Inghëldir had told him as well as all he was able to pull from her
mind itself.

The others listened in
silence.

When he finished, Fenris
brought his hands together, a steeple of fingers just underneath
his chin. He squinted with a query in his eye. “Why would the
Vyche, our great sorcerers, not warn us of this possibility before
our coming here? I am certain they would have foreseen something,
no?”

The Conclave, are you
serious?
Vallüm thought, incredulous and
chuffed in annoyance. “Forgive me, Crown Prince. But, I have found
over the years, through many a discourse with the Vyche that they
often boast more of their great abilities and what wonders they can
work, while they tend to keep quiet the side effects that always
seem to follow their incantations.”

Though both Fenris and the
Hross were Vyche-trained, none of them bristled at Vallüm’s
remarks. Their allegiances lay elsewhere. The Prēost knew this well
enough and spoke his mind without fear of reprisal.

Malik-Käi was already
nodding his head in agreement.

The Hand seemed to take
the comment for what is was worth and glanced over at the
Mheto-Prēost. “Do you think Rûdulfolo and his Conclave could have
overlooked a possibility of this size?” he asked without a shred of
guile or sarcasm.

“
I am not sure the word
‘overlooked’ is the correct word for what might have transpired
here,” replied Malik-Käi. He rapped the table before him with the
gnarled remnants of a wolf-like paw. “Though I am not a
spiritualist as is the Vicar of the Storm, he is likely the best
candidate to pose questions of this nature.

“
Nonetheless, even as a
Fleshmaster, I can speculate. This is an undertaking never before
attempted in the past. There could be outcomes or consequences no
one could have foreseen. Building a Construct Universe and then
filling it with aspects of two separate planes of existence was a
monumental feat. It is likely the greatest ever accomplished in all
time, next to the Creation of time and space itself. One would have
to assume there would be some things that would slip through the
cracks or fill heretofore unknown voids, holes, etc. The
possibilities are quite endless, the more one considers the
situation. After all, it was a herculean task.”

Vallüm watched as the
Crown Prince of the Vülfen considered the words of his ancient
ancestor. He seemed to weigh the various aspects of the situation
in his head.

“
We should send out a
search party. We should give them specific orders to find this
entity and it destroyed before it grows any stronger,” suggested
Rodíc. He appeared smug and confident in his words. His eyes were
narrow and piercing, though to the Prēost it looked like an
act.

Leonif took a deep breath
and made a gallant effort to not roll his eyes, but it was Fenris
who answered. “So, High Lieutenant, who do you propose we send?
Inghëldir could not catch this thing, this paradoxical creature as
she describes. And she is better suited to the task than any of
your beasts or my dear uncle’s underlings. Even the Hross would be
hard-pressed to ensnare such an entity. I would not want to waste
their time chasing after ghosts. There is still much we have to do
before the arrival of the Hlāford Dhŏŏm and the army his is
bringing with him.” He paused to look at each one of them at a
time. “Beside that point, the Twelve are still of a higher priority
as far as I am concerned. They are the ones we will waste resources
searching for, precious resources if need be. All else is
secondary.”

The Hand continued. “No,
we will send nothing after this being. We will not waste ourselves,
or our time, as Vallüm’s wayward plaything has done. It was a waste
of time to pursue that which she could not hope to catch. In the
end, if we capture the Twelve and he has allied himself with them…
well, then he will come to us. If he remains neutral, then the
point is moot. Our plans remain intact.” Fenris smiled like a fiend
as he finished and then his eyes falling upon his uncle. Together
they shared a slight nod.

Vallüm began to wonder if
there was more happening here with the Vülfen than he had first
anticipated. True, Malik-Käi was the Mheto-Prēost of the
Fleshmasters, but he had been a Vülfen first…

Leonif was glaring at
Rodíc, who seemed to have shriveled in his seat.

“
Vallüm!” shouted Fenris
startling the Prēost from his thoughts.

“
Y-yes, m’Lord?” he
stammered as all eyes turned upon him.

“
You
have done well and for that I commend you. If you would now
instruct your Nixy to come back to the Encampment, it would be
greatly appreciated. She needs to undergo a more in-depth
cross-examination by my Hross." He nodded at Vallüm. "Even if we do
not move against this being, I want to know
everything
there is to know of him.
Is that clear?” His rasping lisp set Vallüm’s ears on
edge.

He had no choice,
especially with his Overlord looking on, titling his head in
agreement with the Hand. “Yes, Crown Prince, I already have
instructed her to do just that,” was his meek reply.

“
Uncle, do you think you
could call off your Pixy to allow Inghëldir to return unmolested
and be of some use to us?”

What is this?
Vallüm thought, outraged.
The twisted, little Vülfen had sent Enricht anyway! After he
had promised I had time enough to recover her…

“
I can only attempt to,
Crown Prince,” began Malik with a salacious smirk at Vallüm. “If he
has caught her scent… well, nothing can stop him…”

“
I see,” was Fenris’ curt
response. “Oh well, try just the same. We’ll all hope for the best,
eh?”

“
Of course, my Lord,”
crooned the Mheto-Prēost.

“
Good! This is prodigious
indeed,” announced the Hand with a lolling smile. “Now, the rest of
you, get out. There are some delicate details of our mission I must
discuss with my uncle in private. Please, be gone.”

With that, Vallüm turned
upon his heel and made his way for the towering doors, more at ease
than before, but resigned as well. If the Pixy got a hold of his
precious Inghëldir and pumped her to the brim with his seed, she
would be just as lost to him. It would prove the same though if the
Hross got their hands upon her. Either way what he got back would
be much too little to play with in a proper fashion. She would be
useless to him no matter what.

As a group, they all
exited the council chamber, leaving behind the Hand and the
Mheto-Prēost.

Vallüm took a deep draught
of air and exhaled, slow and long.
Nothing
lasts forever
, he thought to himself,
already devising in his mind, the face he would put on the next
Nixy he would forge.

The Kring-Hël’s youngest
sibling was delightful enough to gaze upon. Maybe I will put a
replica of her sweet, innocent visage upon my next toy.

Yessss… that would be
perfect.

~~~~~~~<<<
ᴥ
>>>~~~~~~~

~ 35 ~