“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.
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.<
br />
“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?”
You are not my family, you fiend! thought the Hand.
The only sound was Malik's uncontrolled giggle.
~~~~~~~<<< ᴥ >>>~~~~~~~
Part Two:
The Completed Wheel
A real friend is one who walks in when the rest of the world walks out.
- Walter Winchell
No person is your friend who demands your silence or denies your right to grow.
-Alice Walker
~~~~~~~<<< ᴥ >>>~~~~~~~
~ 13 ~
Assuage
Day Four, Sunday, 8:55 am…
Elena had expected at some point Anthony was going to call on her from the fringe. It was what he always did; bring forth the doll-faced sister to put them at ease. Next, he would summon the cute, cuddly sister to melt their hearts. If there was thing she could always count on when it came to her brother, it was his consistency. Once he found something that worked for him, he would never change it.
How many times now had he done this to put other kids at ease or to make them stop being shy? How many times had he introduced them or entered them into conversations as icebreakers of a sort? Time and time again. It was nothing new to Elena. He had even done it with their younger cousins. Whenever they came over to spend the night and cried for their parents in those first initial moments. The technique he would employ and within minutes they’d be as right as rain.
Why stop now, she thought. I just wish he didn’t have to be such a butthole about it!
She came forward, out of the snow-sodden forest, walking steady. Without worry, she strode toward her brother and the three frightened newcomers.
They all watched her as she approached. First, they stared at her as if she were some apparition, a ghost haunting the area, not a little girl at all. As she drew nearer though, they seemed to relax, realizing she was no different than any of them, only younger.
The closest to both her and her brother was the boy – Derek. As she approached them from the cover of the trees, she could already make out he was the youngest of the group. He was about five-foot-five, with hair cropped short against his scalp, worn in a simple, clean looking style. As she had noted before, he was African American, a welcomed dark to contrast with all the white about her. He had a gentle, rounded face with deep brown eyes and a broad nose. He had thin lips and somewhat small ears, laying back against the side of his head as if glued down, looking unnatural. He wore a large three-quarter length, black parka with a large Nike swoosh emblazoned on the back. Below that, he was wearing a pair of black jeans. Maybe they were a size too big for him. But, they were not the monstrosities that were ten sizes too big she has seen some of the kids wearing around the neighborhood. Upon his feet, he wore a pair of yellow Timberland, high-top work boots
, unlaced and with the tongue flapping forward.
From the moment her feet touched the pathway with a slippery crunch, Derek smiled at her and she knew they could be friends. He had an open, honest face.
Standing behind Derek, on Elena’s left, stood Kimberly. Her face etched with skepticism and doubt.
Elena knew at once she was a cynic. She was a purveyor of the glass half-empty, always seeing things in the negative when she came across anything new.
She was pretty, despite the black lipstick and overzealous use of black eyeliner. She sported a narrow, bird-like face with an aquiline nose and prominent cheekbones. She looked as though she powdered her face with white cover-up. Something she would do to extenuate the contrast between her black lips and eyes against her Caucasian complexion.
But as she moved closer, Elena realized that was not the case. Kimberly was just pale.
Her blue eyes also stood out against the dark of her hair and her fair skin. A perfect configuration, they were the only color amidst the absence of color. She was a few inches shorter than Derek, slim-built, lacking the girlish curves Sophie had a plenty. Although, she was not boy-like in any way, she was just not as developed. She wore the ubiquitous, black denim jacket patched and re-sewn in a hundred places. Front and back both displayed the names of countless punk and Skä bands she followed. They were placards screaming out loud she was Goth. Underneath, she had on a thick, knitted, gray sweater and a pair of black jeans, also torn and patched in a multitude of places. Upon her feet were gray, fifteen-holed Doc Martins. Tied to only the eighth hole, they folded back onto themselves, flopping whenever she took a step.
She peered over at Elena as she approached. Her face fluttered between distrust and hope as if she were struggling over how to feel about her.
Come on, Kimberly, I’m a likable little girl.
Maybe she just struggles with anything new. Some people were like that.
Winter's Fury - Volume Two of The Saga of the Twelves Page 16