He passed them, citing his business as private, and headed for the courtyard. It was quiet and empty at this late hour except for the statues reclaimed from Limbus. Nonetheless, Nitthogr stretched out with his senses in order to detect any life forms who might be present.
Detecting none, Nitthogr threw the bag aside and removed the twisted cage. He worked his stone fist into the interwoven mesh of arcane metal, placing it over the source of his power: the rune his brother had unwittingly delivered before his escape from the void.
Nitthogr meandered through the neatly arranged rows of the statue collection. He summoned the dark energies that coursed through his body; they had gone undetected by the Veritas clerics so far. Power emanated from the rune, spreading out like a corona of eldritch light, but tainted by black clouds. The darklight permeated the garden like a flashing thunderhead and the darquematter cage filtered the raw power as if it were a mesh designed to restrain the rune’s power from effecting the human members of the Prime. Only the vyrm spies and enemies that had been sent to infiltrate Basilisk over the years had been affected by the Rune of Return.
A thin veneer of rocky coating broke away like eggshells as those trapped within emerged. They shook off the chunks of chitinous debris as the cloud of power retracted back within the sorcerer’s stone fist. Double lidded, reptilian eyes blinked back at him, ready to pounce on the High Priest.
Looking like Shjikara, Nitthogr addressed them in the royal vyrmic tongue. [Greetings faithful soldiers—friends, all. I recognize so many of your faces, each one of you was sent on missions throughout the ages and were discovered by Basilisk. You each paid a penalty for his sins. It has been revealed that he has betrayed Sh’logath.]
The suddenly awakened army relaxed their aggressive postures, but many still remained skeptical, still uncertain of what events had occurred during their petrification. Each one of the three hundred warriors, a full third of the statue collection, let down their defenses, revealing themselves to be vyrm shades who had been turned to stone while shape-shifted into various disguises.
[Look around, brothers,] the High Priest insisted. [We have finally breached the castle of the Prime, and I have released you back into service of almighty Sh’logath.]
One of the nearest shades cocked his head in lizard-like fashion. He sought clarification. [Who are you?]
Pushing power through the flesh that encased the sorcerer’s filthy spirit, Shjikara’s features melted away and reformed into that of the Herald of the Apocalypse. “I am Nitthogr—the true servant and heir of Sh’logath. I have returned to fulfill the Awakening in a way never before imagined.” He held aloft his arm of flesh and it split apart, oozing blood and slime that dripped like thick honey as it formed into a writhing mass of Sh’logathian tendrils. “I am here to institute something new—the Awakening cannot happen without first enduring this new and chaotic event: the Birthing.”
Nitthogr’s baleful, yellow eyes surveyed his secret army which gathered closely around him. “I am the child of Sh’logath, more than any mere dunnischktet. I am the Acolyte of the Great Devourer. I am Sh’logath incarnate.”
All around him, the shades began to bow, taking one knee as they pledged their fealty to the sorcerer once again.
Nitthogr opened his mouth to direct them back to the monastery when his eyes caught a glint of light on the terrace above. Only briefly, he spotted the distinct form of Tay-lore as the android slinked backwards and into the shadows near the overlook leading to Respan’s lab where he could usually be found.
A homo diurnus is not alive—of course I could not sense him!
Nitthogr returned to the vyrmic high speech. [We will move out and resume our glorious mission as soon as I return. I have a simple task to perform at once.]
His body exploded in a cloud of mist so that he could not be seen by recording devices that were stationed along various sections of the hallway leading to the lab. The cloud moved swiftly and disappeared through a door leaving behind an army of three hundred shades, milling about in the courtyard.
The shades flexed their distinct muscles and returned to those faces that they had each worn before being trapped in stone.
[Soon,] the secret army hissed. [Soon our true purpose will be revealed.]
Chapter 10
Tay-lore hurried into the lab he shared with Respan. He moved both as quickly and as quietly as he could, hoping that he hadn’t been seen.
I knew it! I knew it all along—something has been wrong with Shjikara all this time. He validated his suspicions with his self talk. Accusing the High Priest without some kind of evidence would not have gone over well… and the sorcerer returned was a formidable foe. Outing him early and without evidence would have proven disastrous.
A message flashed on his console and he accessed it quickly. A simple text thread sent by Vikrum Wiltshire who asked for assistance on a case. Tay-lore almost dismissed it, but he glanced briefly at the attached images and the result made him pause for thought—as much as the analogy worked for an android with such incredible processing power. The “pause” was almost immeasurable by human standards.
He directed some of his computing ability to run facial recognition on the face which he thought seemed familiar. The subroutine picked up key genetic trait markers with high probabilities… could that be a relative of Zabe’s?
Tay-lore didn’t dare to hope that it might have been Zurrah. The android, along with the other members of the werewolf’s inner circle, knew that the boy had been freed from Caivev’s forces when they controlled a time-stasis chamber. Zurrah had been lost in the Darque, forcing Zabe to choose between rescuing the princess or his brother. Bound by duty, Zabe had to leave Zurrah behind in order to stop Sh’logath… but this person’s age did not appear correct for the story’s details.
Facial recognition completed and confirmed the identity as Zurrah with a high probability of accuracy. If Tay-lore had been human, he would have groaned and sighed about the bad timing for good news.
He computed the likelihood of various outcomes; given the resurgence of Nitthogr and the army of shades now hiding within the Prime. His circuits sank when he got the odds and he risked a moment to run the chances of survival against various outcomes from his immediate actions.
The results failed to encourage him.
Tay-lore snatched a hover drone from Respan’s shelf and stuffed it with a few items. He glanced at the star chart and determined the next open portal time and location. Tay-lore programed the drone quickly and then placed it back upon the shelf, knowing that it would automate and fulfill its mission without any further assistance.
He composed a brief response to Vikrum Wiltshire and then sent it. The remote relay system he’d set up to communicate with the Earth dimension, and to scan the various planes of the multi-verse, would deliver the message at the next available planeswalking window which would open a few hours from now.
Tay-lore turned his head to face the monitor from the nearest security checkpoint in the hallway. The video feed revealed nothing except an eerie fog that crawled across the floor like a cloud rolling down the face of a mountain. Such a phenomenon sometimes happened in those halls exposed to the elements, such as the terrace where he’d spied Nitthogr from. He checked the atmospheric data to determine if the weather was right for fog. It was certainly not a natural occurrence; Tay-lore stood straight.
A moment later, a familiar figure darkened his doorway. “Tay-lore, my friend and loyal servant of the crown,” a voice called. “You and I must have a chat.”
Tay-lore did not have emotions per se, but he had a bad feeling about what lurked outside his door.
***
With the early morning sun about to crest the distant mountain vista, Nitthogr wiped the black oil and hydraulic fluid from his forearms and face. He returned to his minions who awaited in the courtyard. As a reminder of his power, he resumed Shjikara’s form. The impostor led his human-looking army from the castle gates and up the hill to the mon
astic cloister.
Members of the Merciful Hammer, the warrior caste, were typically responsible for watching the walls. Upon their leader’s triumphal return, they pointed and shouted, rousing their fellow adherents to welcome the disguised victims into the make-shift encampment they’d assembled to reintegrate and acclimate the un-petrified to their new lives in the future. One of the guards ran to wake Master Druen, the head of the order.
Members of the Merciful Hammer strived for mastery over the physical body, and Druen was a true specimen of perfection with a tight beard, a shoulder length ponytail, and bulging muscles that defied his age. Druen gathered his cohort, so they were ready to serve the wave of incoming refugees. Many of those under his directorship also acted as healers and herbalists; those ones he sent to check the health of the men and women Shjikara led through the gates.
The High Priest clapped grips with Druen and flashed him a fake, weary smile.
“What… how…” Druen found himself at a loss for words.
Nitthogr made up a greasy, self aggrandizing lie about a sudden urge to visit the statue grove and attempt a turning. “I felt inspired in the middle of the night, as if the Architect King himself appointed me to go down and release these captives. But it does take a lot out of me—despite the holy power that I channel. I must return to rest.” He put a heavy hand on Druen’s shoulder and the big man nodded, pledging to oversee the new wards.
A few minutes later, Nitthogr locked himself within the sacristy vault, the safest place in the whole of the monastery. He tossed aside the scepter that represented his authority in the halls of the Veritas—it held no meaning to him, it only mattered to the fools he was deceiving. Shjikara’s form melted away; fat boiled down into muscle and bones shifted as the lithe figure of the dunnischktet formed from the base materials.
Nitthogr felt more comfortable in this state, and he knew the next task would truly tax him. He disrobed and lifted the crown, setting it upon his brow. The sorcerer seated himself upon the cool floor and reached out with his astral senses, sending out dreams and feelings, altering moods and sentiments much as he had done before with Claire Jones, before Zabe had interfered with Nitthogr’s original plans.
Already he could feel the temperature incrementally rising within the room. It had been rather simple when he’d meddled with the disposition of one girl from Earth… it strained him to connect minds to so many at once.
The crown amplified his power as it connected him to the minds of the Black vyrm, the faction that remained mostly loyal to him. Nitthogr had never connected to quite so many before. They were spread across more than thirty planes of reality and the mystic headpiece connected to them by the power of the tesseract.
His dark dreams spread out from him like black, invisible tentacles; they festered in the heart of the lesser reality gems. Their power permeated the substance of the multi-verse and touched Nitthogr’s loyal subjects. His commands echoed through the ether like pinpoints of blackness, rebounding back to signal their allegiance as if it was a kind of arcane transponder.
Hours passed and the temperature within the sacristy sweltered, making Nitthogr wish that he had bent a tarkhūn icelord to his will. He wiped away the sweat from his face and pressed into the connections he formed. Nitthogr ignored the fact that his scales had revealed themselves and separated to let out additional heat and act as cooling fins. His internal body temperature rose beyond the normal tolerance limits of any vyrm or man… but he was no longer either. Nitthogr was dunnischktet—but he was even more: he’d become the Acolyte of Sh’logath.
He growled and shoved his will into the dreams and thoughts of any remaining vyrm minds not genetically aligned to the tarkhūn caste. He sent a siren call to whatever forgotten tribes, mostly made up the rover clans, could hear him. His final push exhausted him and Nitthogr slumped to his side, falling into a deep slumber. The crown rolled from his brow and came to a rest at the base of the racks that lined the sacristy walls.
***
Desolation
Down the mountain slope from where Gerjha had his visions, Chartarra awoke from a vision of his own. He wiped away the cold chill that clung to his scales and sat up. The scars across his neck and torso burned as if they contained fire and the simple sheet provided by the Maethans had soaked through with Chartarra’s sweat.
The memory of the dream clung to him like a bad taste in his mouth. The vision felt more like an experience than a dream. In it, Chartarra cheered on Nitthogr as he led an overwhelming horde of the Black alongside the sorcerer. Together, they overthrew the tarkhūn and completed the Awakening in the heart of the Prime: they loosed the blood of the Architect King’s daughter between the wide-flung doors of the Chamber of Mysteries. Their profane act shattered the Tesseract, and brought about the end of all, finally sating the hunger of Sh’logath.
Chartarra put his feet upon the broken soil beneath his tent and argued with his vision. I am no longer a follower of Sh’logath, he insisted, reassuring himself. I seek Maetha…
His knees buckled below him and he fell back upon the cot. Chartarra tried again, slowly and more cautiously this time. He stumbled on weak legs as he fought off the impulse to seek out other members of the Black and form ranks. The last thing he recalled from the vision was Nitthogr looking directly into his eyes, a personal and empathetic gaze, and the sorcerer insisted in the vyrmic common tongue, [The time of Sh’logath is at hand. I draw near; prepare yourself for the Awakening. The Birthing is complete, and I am made new as the incarnate Acolyte of the Devourer! You will lead His revolt. The Black needs you, Chartarra. I go now to awaken our other brothers, long trapped in darkness and ready to make war.]
Chartarra shook off the villainous premonition and emerged from his tent. He spit, trying to get the taste of bile off of his tongue. So late in the night, the village path was clear of rovers; aisles between the tents of the nomadic maethans would typically remain clear into the early morning. He turned his head and locked eyes with the only other figure to emerge after the sorcerer’s siren call: Klyrtan the simpleton. The chief’s son did not appear as equally sickened by the vision. He searched the trails for others and Chartarra slunk back into his dwelling unseen. Eventually, he heard the rustle of fabrics as Klyrtan did likewise.
What does it mean? Chartarra asked himself. Deep down, he felt sure of the portent’s implications. Nitthogr is alive… and something wicked is coming.
***
Earth
Like a wraith, Sisyphus stalked through the house. It was an enormous and mostly empty place. He paused at a window and glanced out at the overlook featuring the expansive Lake Superior. White caps roiled upon the dark and distant water.
He sensed the two residents of the house, heard their muffled voices and felt the slight vibrations of old floors as they creaked. They were in a distant wing and down one flight of steps.
Sisyphus ran a finger through the accumulated dust upon a stair rail. Many things appeared untouched in years, at least on the top level of the two story home. He grinned and assumed the owners were elderly. Probably don’t do stairs well—this should be an easy job, he thought. The home-owner’s profile, according to property records in the Heptobscurantum’s files seemed to agree with that assumption.
Treading lightly, he descended the stairs as quietly as his bulk allowed and listened for the voices. They laughed and spoke in tones that indicated a belief that their privacy was secure.
Sisyphus paused at the bottom step. The voices were stronger than he expected from a geriatric resident: a woman’s laughter sounded strong and confident. He cocked his head to get a better read. Maybe the lady is the old man’s nurse or a Meals on Wheels driver or something?
A man’s voice echoed two rooms down the hallway. He sounded young as well—if not young, certainly not elderly.
Sisyphus scowled. He was capable of taking on the Scholomance; two surprised opponents did not worry him, but it had been a while since he’d replenished his energies and
he’d come here straight from interrogating Bwbych the Boggart. The big man hadn’t come to fight, but rather to steal the amulets he’d heard might be here.
He prepared himself for the inevitable conflict and began walking towards the voices. Stacks of books reached waist high as they lined the hall. Curio cabinets and decorative shelves boasted knick-knacks from across the world and an oval picture frame displayed a photo of the elderly couple he’d expected to encounter: a black man with stubby white hair and a khaki vest hugged a white woman with silver hair and deep laugh lines. Another framed photo below that one had been taken at an archaeological dig site many years prior to the circular photo; the black man linked arms with a teenage Claire Jones and her father Sam.
Miles Jecima, Sisyphus put a name to the home-owner, though he was unsure who occupied the adjacent room.
Sisyphus wrapped his hands around the handle of his kophesh and prepared for the slaughter. He took a step towards the door and he paused. His footfall creaked beneath his weight on the old hardwood floors. Something caught his eye, and he looked downward at a buffet table next to the doorway.
An opened puzzle box rested atop the counter. Within it rested a collection of darquematter pendants.
Sisyphus grinned and snatched them up. He heard the stranger’s footsteps approach from the other room and the wrestler headed into an adjacent one. He fingered the ear piece he wore, and it connected him to his partner.
“Hello? Is someone there?” the resident asked into the hall—the woman with a strong voice.
Sisyphus spoke quietly and moved swiftly. “Hey Doc. Get me a portal out of here.”
The woman’s steps approached with a cadence that indicated cautious suspicion. Sisyphus estimated she would not arrive in time. A triangular portal ripped open, and he stepped through, letting it wink out of existence again before he could be found.
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