Winter's Fury - Volume Two of The Saga of the Twelves (68 page)

The cursed name Skrímsli
became that of a new race, her race. Her one-time lover promised,
they would go unmolested so long as she and her people proved loyal
to the will of the Great Maelstrom.

That was when Chaos became
Storm and the focus of all things began to turn toward the World of
Man and its’ ultimate destruction.

She had pledged
then.

And He had
promised.

Until now. Or so it
appeared…

She pushed the heat from
the center of her demon body outward, making it radiate from her
with more and more strength. She opened her molten eyes to see
white snow melt from her body. She saw she was still clad in her
long flowing robes of white ermine, covering her short, voluptuous
form from neck to foot. Upon her feet, she could still feel her
silken slippers. She reached out with her mind, lifting herself
from her horizontal position until she was levitating.

In a few moments, she was
upright, some three feet off the ground.

A hurricane of immense
proportions was blasting the land. The wind pulled at the heavy
folds of her robes, threatening to tear them from her
body.

She glanced about. She
sent a powerful incantation to alter the weather, but the wind
mangled it, ripping to shreds in seconds. She was one of the
strongest with the Vyche and still her power paled in comparison to
the tempest raging everywhere she looked.

So, this is no natural
storm, I see.

In place of that spell,
she forged with the will of her mind, a mental shield. She placed
it about an inch beyond the outer layers of her garments. Thus, she
encased herself from head to toe, from hand to hand, in a form
fitting bubble that moved when she moved, but did much more than
that. It kept the elements at bay. The wind and snow pummeled the
shield with ungodly malevolence, but did not get through to her
robes or better yet, beneath them. Her flowing garments fell about
her, draped, unmoving, as though she was walking about on a mild,
spring day.

She looked around, turning
herself, three hundred and sixty degrees, still hovering above the
ground as she did so. She was on the great plains of Aramont as she
had been moments before. And, she was most likely levitating over
the exact same spot where her council chamber had been on the
ground floor of her palatial Fortress of Dǿd.

Now, though, there was no
such palace. There were no fortifications stretching for miles
around in all directions. There was nothing. Not even a piece of
furniture.

They have left me with
nothing! Again, they have stripped me of all that was
mine!

She would have continued
along this same train of thought. She would have shrieked above the
sound of the wind and blasted the land with her magic. But
something made her stop.

She saw him lying in the
white snow at her feet still clad in the scale armor he often wore
to formal events. As he had when he had sat to her immediate left
as she spoke within the confines of her Privy Chamber, he was
wearing his boots and cloak as well. Even his long sword was still
fastened at his waist, strapped to the heavy belt of leather he
always wore. She could not make out his face, but she knew it was
him just the same. His hair she would recognize anywhere and under
any conditions. It was long and streaked with alternating ribbons
of the brightest blue followed by the deepest black. He was
Rikhardt Mortenson, the Mörgum Sterdum and the High King of the
Lycanthropes. Her most trusted advisor…

…
And, her exuberant
lover.

So, I am not alone this
time around, eh?

He stirred with a jolt as
did someone else beside him, who was so covered in snow she could
not discern, at first, who it might be. But she could guess with a
degree of certainty because of his distinct horse-like body. It
would be none other than the Gran Riddar, the Herdmaster. He had
been standing next to Rikhardt before everything had
changed.

They have sent many
companions with me this time
, she thought
to herself. She gazed further out from where she floated, seeing
lump after lump of supine forms under the snow. She altered her
vision so she could see even farther through the storm. She saw
what she had expected to see – more lumps, more figures stirring
and coming awake. She changed her vision yet again, and still saw
more. Again. And the outcome was the same until she maximized her
sight. She pushed it to its’ limits, a task that always left her
with a blinding headache. She did not care. She knew the great
plains of Aramont were about six hundred leagues square. In her
current state, she could see about half of it. And still, she spied
bodies lying upon the ground. She saw them over small hillocks and
within shallow valleys. She saw them about long swaths of flat
earth and in places where jumbles of rocks sometimes made things
tight and cramped. She knew there were more beyond her ability to
see. But, she had seen enough. Instead, she made her vision return
to normal, seething with rage.

They were her
people,
every last one
! They were all exiled… outcasts…

For a second
time!

“
My Lady what is
happening?” asked Rikhardt from below her dangling slippers,
looking into her eyes of melted gold. His orbs danced over the
delicate features of her face.

She could see the love and
admiration behind the confusion dominating everything about
him.

“
You wish to know what is
happening, my Lord?” She answered with a question of her
own.

“
Yes, Grän Herra,” he
replied just above the wind.

“
War,” she responded,
simple.

“
War?” he asked startled,
his blue-black hair wiping in the wind revealing most of his
human-looking face.

“
Yes, Mörgum Sterdum, war
is coming to the Six-Fold Empire.” She smiled at him like an
innocent schoolgirl caught doing something bad.

“
How do you know there
will be war within the Empire, my Dark Queen?”

“
Because, my dear, I am
about to wage it.”

She let herself come to
the ground as Rikhardt gathered his feet to stand beside
her.

The others around him were
beginning to sit up, glancing about in bewilderment.

“
Call the High Radid to
session once again, my sweet Rikhardt. We have work to
do.”

He drew his long blade so
fast; it was hard for her to follow the motion. He yelled as loud
as he could. “Come to order! The High Radid must come together
again! Rise! Stand! The Grän Herra has spoken! Rise! Stand with
your Demon Queen!”

They will
all
pay this time… that
I vow.

*****

In the World of Man, Mount
Saint Helen's was the most active volcano in North
America.

In the Melded War it was
the Throne of Jüle. And about its’ ever growing column of rock and
ash, within the
entire
expanse of its’ near-collapsed caldera, lay the foundations
of a mighty fortress. Huge stones, some thirty feet in length and a
third of that in height and width, were place by tens of
thousands.

From nearby, they all
chanted. They sang to the stone, reshaping them. They made them
stronger, placing them side by side with seams that were mere
hundredths of an inch apart.

They were the Wërggig of
the Warren, the great masons of Storm, who could walk and work
unencumbered by the storm. They appeared as stone themselves with
broad shoulders and arms and legs like rocky tree trunks. Most of
them moved about in only a thin loincloth, covering their blocky
genitalia as they went about their work. They were as featureless
as wind-blown rock. They had slits for mouths, gashes for eye
sockets and had nothing that resembling a nose on the front of
their faces. Their ears were mere holes in their heads, lacking
lobes of any sort. They were hairless. They had skin resembling the
color of a boulder draped in lichen. It was gray and white in some
places, splotched with various shades of green or brown or yellow
in others. They were tireless, requiring little sleep or food or
drink. And even when they did partake of sustenance, it was only on
a most minimal level. They would work until they dropped. Only
then, would they eat or rest, but only for a few minutes. Not long
after, they would resume their work - whatever it may be - until
there was no more to do.

In this case, they built
the Citadel of Jüle. It would be the greatest structure ever
constructed by the minions of Storm. It would rival all the palaces
and castles of the three other universes. It would be the site
where a Ring of Twelve would give their lifeblood to rend a hole
into the World of Man. Soon after, the Lord of the Storm would
wreak havoc and rule with unquestioned supremacy...
forever.

*****

From deep within the
ground spewed huge gouts of steam and flame, from the hidden mouth
of the cave itself. Every so often, the ground would shake.
Sometimes this was violent. Sometimes it was steady and for long
periods of time as if vibrating with some terrible vitality growing
in strength. It was a power that grew with each passing minute, an
exponential leap each time.

If one had been standing
nearby, their hackles might have stood on end. Gooseflesh might
have arisen at the electricity that was sometimes in the air during
one of those long pulsating events. The wind lashed the barren land
above the cave, uprooting cacti and throwing tumbleweeds about with
merciless energy. They were deadly missiles capable of braining any
living thing that stalked the land. There was no safe passage
here.

Above all else was the
sound of hammering.

These were huge poundings
of mallets wielded by giants. It was constant and unstopping, thud
upon thud upon thud. It was many rhythms as if a gaggle of
blacksmiths were working below ground, within the caves had once
existed upon the World of Man.

But unlike Mount Saint
Helen's, these were not copies. Rather, the entire serpentine
structure had been rent from that world and brought to the Melded
one like a tumor cut from one’s body. Done with meticulous care,
not a single necessary stone remained behind. For these caves had
something that did not exist anywhere else in all existence, but in
the World of Man alone. They held the largest and purest crystals
ever made - a geological miracle unlike any other.

In the World of Man, there
were bank vaults with less security than this place. Access to it
was always restricted with the same level of scrutiny as seen at a
nuclear power plant.

This was Lechuguilla and
deep within it was the Chandelier Ballroom.

Someone, or something, was
tearing it apart.

*****

As she walked from the
gray nothingness of the portal, she swallowed to push down the bile
that has risen in her throat. She stepped onto the Melded World for
the first time. She told herself to “be brave”. She forced herself
to think of anything other than the fact she was further away from
her home, and her family, than she had ever been in her entire
life.

The life of a Vülfen
Princess of the Royal House was a sheltered one. At times, she
could be lonely with only members of her family to talk with, to
interact with and to pass the time.

Time, she had spent in
preparation for this day.

All the teachings pounded
into her memory since the day of her birth were to now bear fruit.
By tomorrow, she would emerge from her father’s bedchamber a
recognized Vülfen
suk
. And if all went as planned, she would be pregnant with the
first of many litters.

Of that, she was scared as
well.

Though she knew in detail
what would happen and had trained with fervor to perform to the
standards her father would need of her. She was still a little
apprehensive at the thought of what was at stake. She did not want
to disappoint her family by not fulfilling her duty as eldest
daughter of her father’s
Familie
. This was a Vülfen term used
to describe an extended family unit. It comprised the head of the
household, his first mates, his first brothers, his first sisters
and his immediate elders as well as their many offspring. All
functioned as parents, caregivers and providers for the Familie.
But, it was always the eldest daughter of the head of the house who
would give birth to the next patriarch.

That was why she was here
in the Melded World. That was why she was so far from everything
she had even known. This duty demanded she leave even while war was
afoot across several different universes at once.

The Code demanded it.
There was no denying the Code.

She smoothed her hands
over her long robes of red. It was the only garment she could wear,
until her father broke her maidenhead and made her a
suk
, worthy of
adulthood.

Unsure why, she wiggled
her long toes in the soft, skinned leather slippers she wore over
her feet.