Howling Thunder Ch41: Titans

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A gust of wind blasts along the walls, carrying Miklos away at increasing speed. The large tornado seems to have moved to the center of the white canyon.

The silver wolf's ice wings shatter and reform over him like a crystalline armor. The lips of his massive wolf maw curl up in a mischievous grin as he bolts forward to the end of the ice branch.

As he jumps, a new tree like branch of ice erupts from the next clear tower just in time for him to continue racing in pursuit. More and more ice spires rise and reform to create a path as the great white beast sprints through the air, each leap of faith bringing him closer to the bird warrior’s tail.

Miklos suddenly goes into a dive towards the base of the dangerous gale. As if lifting a gentle hand to catch him, the funnel base lifts and curls up to receive the golden general.

The entire storm mass within the arena begins to coil and wind through the ice spires like a serpent, no....

A great, beaked, head takes shape at the front of the cyclone. Like some form of bird headed dragon it opens the beak to release a bird cry that overpowers the sound of the wind. Instead the wind only serves to amplify the sound causing every seat to vibrate as it echoes in the arena.

Thunderous cracking noises further shake everyone on the balconies as the massive forest of ice shatters all at once. Thousands of ice shards fly out in every direction for only a moment before being drawn back in all at once towards a falling wolf.

The ice covers the Fenrir’s figure and his from begins to grow. What takes shape is a being so large that one could only guess it to be a god at first sight. Many would be too busy pissing themselves to even think that much.

A true behemoth, so tall he reaches the upper balconies. Wolf head, massive arms with dangerous black claws, wolf legs and tail, all made of ice with bits of black metal for teeth.

Mora mutters behind me, “A vulkodlak? The Fenrir can take the form of a werewolf?”

I glance back to Ulfa, she’s got a rather large grin showing off her wicked fangs. She once mentioned such foul creatures were a possible curse of Freki… the forgotten matron goddess of our tribe.

Again the seats on the balconies shake as the monster releases a great howl towards the heavens. The winds in the arena are pressed back, the bird faced cyclone shifts its form to that of a massive bird of prey created from the dark swirling winds with the occasional flash of gold.

Talons strike forward to the sound of a bird cry, the Fenrir bats them away with his massive arms as the two monstrosities begin their deadly melee. The canyon walls vibrate with each step of the wolf, wind whips through the audience with each flap of the grand falcon’s wings.

Claws rake through the wind form with seeming little effect as each strike of the golden talons carves away ice which then crashes down to the arena floor only to slowly lift back up and fall right back into place.

This is how I imagined a battle of gods, this brutal combat of titans.

As the Fenrir charges through the Turul Falcon and shredding it from the inside, another great bird cry vibrates off the canyon walls. Hundreds of cracks splinter out on Father’s icy body as the bird splits into several smaller wind form falcons. They methodically dive at the ice and cut away at the cracks as the titanic wolf man swings wildly with his claws.

With every bird destroyed another takes its place. A pure sense of anger and frustration erupts by means of another great howl to the heavens. The werewolf form shatters into a dense and violent blizzard which blocks one side of the canyon audience from seeing the other. All traces of the wind birds are eliminated.

The snow storm slows and reveals a large spiral pattern of jagged ice on the arena floor. Amidst the now gentle snow fall inside the already white canyon, two figures face of below, both breathing heavily.

Father in the black plate mail with his axe readied to his side, this time he is without the jackal helm. Not a single scratch can be seen in the dark metal.

Miklos crouched, a long and narrow saber of brilliant gold poised behind him. The sword looks like a long pheasant feather, surely in any other situation it would send hundreds of heads flying from shoulders. However, here in this moment, it will clash against the black crescent head of the Nemesis Axe.

The crowd goes silent, everyone can feel that this is the end of a fight which will be told of for generations.

Miklos smiles, his feathers falling onto arena floor at a rapid pace, “Let me see that foolhardy, fanged grin of yours Skoll. Know that your oldest friend will have the god’s justice on his side once I reach the heavens. I’ve heard the voices of the great winds in this battle, they call for me to serve.”

Father does grin, but it feels halfhearted. I catch the slight movement of his eyes towards our direction.

The Golden Feathered General of the skies yells out, “For Yoden, and the Glory of the Turul!”

His taloned bird feet sprint across the white stone, bloody prints left with each step.

Yoden’s Fenrir doesn’t take a single step, as Miklos makes a drawing strike towards him he suddenly spins the axe. In one fluid rotation he parries the long feather blade, and swings across the opponent's neck.

Miklos collapses to his knees, eyes shut, smiling towards the sky.

Cheers erupt only to be stifled by the raised hand of the Fenrir.

A chill runs down my tail as I look up. The wind has died down, the rain has ceased. Beams of light shine down through the clouds as they visibly drift away, scattered in a gentle breeze.

The light seems centered on Miklos’ body as the storm which lasted all week clears with the closing of this event.

Father declares to the city in attendance, “Tonight the city feasts, we celebrate the life of a great man, a hero of the people of Yoden, General Miklos Turul!”

As we file out of the arena I glance down once more at Father. His solemn figure seems to be staring at the black axe in his hands with remorse. The black jackal helm forms over his head to block my watching as he strides out the pit exit.

No one seems to have anything to say for the longest time as we head towards the castle dining hall through the private royal passageways.

Finally Aka asks, “Mother, what did he mean by the wind calls him?”

Mother sighs, “The gods ruling the winds must have shown favor towards him. He will become one of their agents much in the same way as Ulfy here.”

Ulfa nods in agreement, “It is a great honor to serve, Miss Moranna, such is also the way of Valkyries.”

Mora mumbles, as if repeating a line she’s memorized. “We fight, strive, die, and continue to serve the gods who've chosen us.”

The dinner is more cheerful than it has been all week, at least on the few nights I attended. Even tonight, the various lords from other territories offer their congratulations to the Fenrir while their daughters silently stand at their father's’ tails.

While Phix was the only one to outright say it, all of them hint that they will be leaving their daughters with relatives within the city. I can only guess that my having three mates encouraged their hope of ties with the royal family.

Really three is plenty, glancing over I spot Patra and Asta arguing over the last bit of pheasant at the table while Lupa tries to ignore them. Neither Lupa or I seem too eager to eat bird tonight.

The next month passes by slowly, I spend most of it in between the academy and the workshop.

In the city, the only thing of note which happens is the burning of a lesser noble, weasel family manor. The next day, a few dozen humans and a small number of weasel beastmen turn themselves into the city guard.

Lupa’s father, General Ivan, seems amused while they admit to their crimes of sneaking slaves in and out of the city. Each criminal seems to be clutching a poorly bandaged missing limb of one sort or another. Claw and fang wounds visible on their bodies as the nervously look about during the whole event.

It's not hard for me to guess by Ulfa’s lazy attitude that morning that she and Maug have been busy all this while.

One early afternoon I wake alone in Patra’s bed with a nice lazy stretch. An odd cold feeling itches me from beneath the sheets.

Pulling them aside I view my tail. About the length of a finger has been shaved clean from the tip…..

“PATRA!!!!!”

Running downstairs past a few customers and Copper who only gets out, “Um, Nox?”

Skipping steps down into the workshop I yell at Patra who is grinning with her legs crossed at her work bench seat, “What the hell is this about?”

I hold my tail up for her to see, a burst of clear giggles comes from behind me followed by a small yelp.

Lupa is adjusting a dress on Asta, she glares at a long cut slowly closing itself on her thumb with a dull glow.

“Dammit girl, you need to hold still and focus.”

Asta smiles and gives a small bow towards Lupa, “Sorry, I couldn’t help it.”

Small needles of ice float around her, Lupa grabs one and threads it to continue her work.

Patra giggles slightly, “Asta did it Fuzzy.”

The wild girl sticks her tongue out at Patra, “Well Patra told me too.”

Looking back at the grinning Patra, she points behind me, “It was Lupa’s idea.”

“Bullshit.”

“Bullshit.”

Lupa and I shout at the same time.

Patra smiles, “Whatever, you’ll thank me, it was for the last piece of your new toy.”

She points to a wrapped object on the table about the length of my height, just over seven feet.

I walk over and unwrap it. Revealed is a long black haft that glimmers in the light of the lit forge. The base pommel looks round, the top of the pole is wrapped with black fur from my tail, a bit of red color on the handle beneath it. The head is like a long spear head split down the middle, the base like small axe heads.

“What is this even called, it is awesome looking no doubt.”

Patra gives a haughty laugh, “This, my first masterpiece, is named Rost. The pommel is the polished tide jewel you won from Kreiz. The haft is made from the same bone as Mora’s spear, it’s marrow filled with the lion gold, and then coated in molten silver and iron with a bit of copper. That’s a layer of bronze at the top. The overall alloy makes up the head with some variance along the blades which is why the main body is dark while the cutting edges have that slight hint of gold. Technically it’s a partisan, bident hybrid, give it a charge!”

I pull a bit of red energy and let it flow into the intricately crafted weapon. Within the head, at the round base of the bident split, a red glow smoothly forms, arcs curl up the narrow gap, ready to fire off in a beam with only a little more power. I can feel my magic smoothly flowing without the strange spear heating up at all.

Patra hops up with a grin and her hands on her hips, “This thing should last you quite a while, even the Lord Raijin asked if he could have it, and by the way I’m pregnant.”

...what?!

“Wait, run that,”

Asta calls over, “Oh, me too!”

I look back and forth between them. They both look over to Lupa.

She throws down the ice needle which breaks on the floor, “Don’t you horn dogs look at me, my heat isn’t for a few more months and he won’t be using my bed before then! Now on that note, Nox, if you’re done playing with your new toy would you please go put some clothes on, I hate to think what the customers thought of you running about naked!”

Who cares about clothes right now?!

Chuckling at myself, I shrug, “Oops.”

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