by J. Langland
“What?” Tal Gor asked. He did a double take and had to glance at the glowing bowl to stabilize himself. The orc that had identified himself as Fer-Rog did look like Fer-Rog, the D’Orc boy from Mount Doom; that was why he looked familiar, Tal Gor suddenly realized. And the one claiming to be the son of Lord Tommus did sound like Rupert.
“How?” Tal Gor asked in surprise and shock.
“Skinwalking,” Beya Fei Geist said, smiling gently at Tal Gor.
“Skinwalking? D’Orcs and demons can skinwalk?” This was incredible, and more than a little disturbing.
Beya chuckled. “Of course, or at least some of them can. Do you not remember Lord Tommus masquerading as Edwyrd the human animage?”
Tal Gor shook his head in amazement. “Yes, but… well, he’s Lord Tommus, the Heir of Orcus. He can do whatever he pleases.”
Rupert chuckled. “He’s also my dad! I’ve got a human form as well; I thought it would be good to also have an orc form.”
“And Rupert taught me how to do it too!” Fer-Rog said excitedly.
“Interesting,” Farsooth Gore Tusk said, suddenly appearing sitting to Tal Gor’s left.
“Indeed,” Ragala-nargoloth snorted, also appearing in the circle on the other side of Farsooth. Is she smoking a cigar? Tal Gor wondered in shock, looking over at the shaman. How does one smoke an astral cigar?
“Ah, greetings!” Beya told the other shamans.
“Yes, as I was about to explain, Lord Tommus has asked me, and by extension the rest of you, to help train Fer-Rog and Rupert in the shamanic tradition. We will be needing more shamans; particularly on the Mount Doom side,” Beya told them.
Ragala-nargoloth nodded her head. “Excellent idea.”
“It should also be easier for them to blend in and learn orc traditions if they look normal. Demons and D’Orcs are more likely to provoke a violent response in those that are not familiar with them,” Farsooth commented.
“What is the other pillow for?” Ragala-nargoloth asked Beya.
“We have one more guest for this evening; one of us who was not able to attend the celebration,” Beya explained even as the pillow was filled by a new orc.
“That would be me,” the new orc said as he arrived. “My apologies for running late. I was detained on my shift, transcribing a very long-winded order from Admiral General Darth Nargolos’s second assistant deputy.”
Tal Gor and the rest nodded, not completely understanding what the very oddly dressed shaman was saying. Oddly dressed was perhaps an understatement, Tal Gor reflected.
The orc was wearing a sleeveless black silk vest-like tunic, trimmed in silver and belted at the waist with what appeared to be a woven metal belt about a claw’s length in width. He wore matching black silk pants that opened up wider at the ankle to cover very large boots made of some very unusual material. His wrists were encased in very odd gauntlets, each with a glass surface with glowing and blinking lights on it. His arms bore various tattoos, many of which were fairly traditional for a shaman, but some of which made no sense at all, at least not to Tal Gor.
He also wore a small coronet with a few gems mounted on the front, and metal strands or wires running down to his ears to join with an earring, at least on Tal Gor’s side. His head was shaven except for a very long ponytail from the rear crown of his head. Not a completely uncommon style, but the metal wires lacing it were quite unusual.
“I am Leftenant Trig Bioblast, Second Shaman of the OCSS Skull Crusher,” the newest orc introduced himself.
“Greetings, Leftenant.” Beya nodded at the shaman. “I am Beya Fei Geist, Shaman Mistress of the Olafa Horde on Ithgar. We Dream Spoke previously.”
“Indeed; a pleasure to astrascope you,” the leftenant said.
“Farsooth Goretusk, Vice Shaman of the Rockgut Horde on Romdan,” Farsooth introduced himself. “I must ask, what is an OCSS Skull Crusher?”
The leftenant grinned. “The Oak Clan Star Ship Skull Crusher.”
“Starship?” Rupert asked. “Sorry—I am Rupert, Lord Tommus’s son and apprentice to Beya Fei Geist.”
Trig Bioblast arched an eyebrow and nodded in recognition to Rupert. He did not seem surprised that the Lord of Doom appeared to have an orc son. “Greetings, Prince Rupert.” He grinned. “Lord Tommus informed me that most of you were from technology-suppressed realms. A starship is an enclosed ship that travels not between continents but rather between the stars.”
Ragala-nargoloth choked on her cigar. “You mean the lights in the sky at night?”
The leftenant grinned and nodded. “Indeed; stars with planets around them and various races living on them.”
“Incredible!” Ragala-nargoloth shook her head. “Ragala-nargoloth, First Shaman of the Nart Tribe on Etterdam.”
“I will need to learn more of your strange world,” Tal Gor said, trying to sound more confident and experienced than he felt at the moment. “I am Tal Gor El Crooked Stick, Assistant Shaman to the Crooked Sticks of Astlan.” He had no desire to admit that he was technically only an apprentice.
“And I am Fer-Rog, son of Zelda, Steward of the Mount and Ser-Rog of the Bear Clan of Veresai,” Fer-Rog said proudly. “Oh, and apprentice of Beya Fei Geist.”
Trig Bioblast grinned at the boy and nodded in recognition.
“Well, now that we have the introductions done,” Beya said, “we have much to discuss, much work to do to reestablish the links and gateways between the worlds so that the Restoration of Glory may proceed at a pace satisfactory to the Lord of Doom.”
Trig Bioblast chuckled. “Ah, yes. Nothing like a good campaign of interdimensional conquest!”
Several others chuckled at that.
“If I could, I would drink to that!” Ragala-nargoloth said, pulling the cigar from her mouth. “Oh wait, I can!” She reached down beside her pillow, where a goblet suddenly appeared in her hand. She brought it up to her face and gestured in a salute before taking a drink.
Trig Bioblast glanced to Tal Gor. “She is quite skilled.”
Tal Gor could only nod in agreement at the leftenant and look in admiration at the hard-living shaman as she took her drink. Smoking and drinking while in a trance was certainly impressive.
Etterdam: Mid Sixth Period Courts of Chaos time, Dawn Local Etterdam Time
“This place has seriously gone downhill,” Sentir Fallon observed, standing on the top floor of the long-abandoned tower in which the three of them were meeting.
“We haven’t used it in four thousand years, and we have never allowed any of our servants to know of this place,” Lilith replied.
“Enough small talk,” Aodh said. “We agreed that meeting here at our old location in Etterdam was far safer than meeting in the Abyss or the Outer Planes, and for the same reasons we had four thousand years ago.”
“Agreed,” Lilith said. “Sentir, I believe you said you had a favor to ask?”
“A favor, an early offer of negotiation,” Sentir Fallon replied.
“Very well; you know how I enjoy deal-making.” Lilith grinned maliciously. “What is your proposal?”
Sentir Fallon sighed. “Apparently some very foolish members of our Church and the Rod, in pursuit of this greater demon currently hiding in Mount Doom, joined forces with the Oorstemothians and have decided to invade the Abyss.”
Lilith blinked twice and then shook her head. “They what?”
Sentir Fallon sighed again. “Yes, apparently the Oorstemothians have built some sort extra-dimensional paddy wagon, allowing them to travel anywhere in the multiverse and serve up their idea of justice.”
Aodh made a snorting noise. Sentir Fallon and Lilith both looked at the avatar, who was covering his mouth to suppress a laugh. Sentir had not been aware that Aodh was capable of humor.
Lilith chuckled as well. “So, what—they loaded it up with a bunch of priests and Knights Rampant?”
Sentir Fallon shrugged. “So it appears.”
Aodh looked questioningly at Sentir Fallon and asked,
“They are looking for a single knight, who was kidnapped by a so-called greater demon and could be anywhere in the Abyss?” He shook his head in amazement. “How do they expect to find this knight? They do realize that the Abyss is slightly infinite?”
Sentir Fallon rolled his neck on his head in frustration. “Mortals do not often think clearly.”
“Often? Try never,” Aodh replied smugly, shaking his head.
“So what do you want me to do?” Lilith asked.
“If you or your agents encounter them, try not to kill all of them. We will ransom their return,” Sentir Fallon said.
Lilith shrugged. “Very well.” Sentir Fallon felt a wave of relief, she was being quite reasonable. “Of course,” she continued, “I cannot vouch for Sammael. Even if I cared to inform him of this event, I would have no way to explain how I know about it. I am not about to reveal our machinations.”
“You may not,” Aodh said firmly. Lilith gave him a small glare of annoyance.
Sentir Fallon nodded. “I understand. We shall just have to hope that Sammael does not discover their existence.”
“So, now on to more interesting topics,” Aodh said, changing the subject. “Any word from the Lords of Chaos?”
Mount Doom: Late Sixth Period
Reggie stood in his room, turning, twisting and flexing in front of his full-length mirror, trying to determine the best possible poses to showcase his absolutely stunning muscle development. He was, he had to admit, incredibly handsome and gorgeous. More than he could have ever dreamed of being in his old life.
He was so incredibly beautiful he often found himself just looking at himself lustfully, or gently caressing his own arms, legs and every other inch of his hunky purplish body. He was a walking, talking, living, breathing (when he needed to talk, at least) sex machine! The perfect embodiment of male sexual perfection!
To add to that, he had been learning all sorts of new positions and maneuvers designed to please his partners from his accursed mistress, the bodaciously built black beauty, Merit-Ptah. He was the perfect lover, or would be once she finished his training. And that, right there, was the problem! He was not training! He had not seen his bootylicious babe of a mistress in several days, not since she had freaked out about learning that he was on a first-name basis with her boss. Well, her god rather, but he was pretty sure it was the same idea. He hoped that hadn’t offended her. He could not imagine that it would have intimidated such a strong-willed woman.
Reggie sighed. To say he was feeling frustrated, meaning sexually frustrated, would be an understatement. Things were worse now than they had been on Earth, where he had literally gotten no action that wasn’t his own! He had gotten so accustomed to the all-night love sessions with Merit-Ptah that he was now feeling this giant passion hole at the center of his being. He’d have called it a case of “blue balls,” but his were already a really dark purple, so that might not have made sense. Of course, that expression made no sense either; was it blue from cold?
He shook his head, frustrated at his unmet needs. Of course, he had to admit, it wasn’t like he wasn’t getting any action. Sure, there were a huge number of really hot and horny D’Orcettes or Lady D’Orcs or whatever they were called, and they were not at all shy; anything but! He was routinely groped by them while walking down the corridors. It was quite fun, and sure, he probably made love to seven or eight of them a day, but that was not the same. Plus, that only accounted for what? Eleven or twelve hours out of his day?
Sure, he was learning quite a bit from the Lady D’Orcs. They were incredibly strong, so doing things like making love standing, or upside-down in a handstand, was pretty cool. As was sex on the wing above Mount Doom, but he just felt like something was lacking. Hell, he had even played around with a couple of those demon attendant guys at the Doom Spa! He had never seen himself as gay or bi or anything, but hell, it had been fun. Just not as fun as with his accursed mistress. He really missed her.
He wished there was some way he could make her summon him. He knew that it wasn’t supposed to work that way, but he wished he could. He longed to follow that binding link coming out of his chest, follow it right through the Astral Plane to Merit-Ptah’s house. Reggie closed his eyes, imagining how he’d do it.
Just like in his dream-loving sessions, he would follow the link through the crazy lights until he saw her sleeping form. There, resting in her bed, sound asleep, her more-than-ample bosom slowly rising and falling under her nightgown. He would sneak into her dream bedroom, lift the covers at the foot of the bed, and slide upward towards her warmth. He would nestle in gently and softly, his tongue reaching out to—
“Reggie!” he heard Merit-Ptah exclaim. He glanced up to see her sitting up, in her dream, and lifting the bed covers to peer down at him to see what was going on. “What are you doing here?” She seemed surprised.
Reggie felt hurt, and he knew it must have shown on his face. “I missed you, my dearest mistress. I needed your warmth, your love, your passion!”
Merit-Ptah blinked a few times, and suddenly her expression softened with love. “I’m sorry, my pet. I did not mean to neglect you. Let me make it all better…”
Reggie grinned at her from under the covers with unfettered joy, and an incredible amount of lust.
The Inferno
Sir Samwell was passing by the officer’s mess on the way to his cabin when he noted that Wing Arms Master Heron was alone in the mess, going over numerous documents spread before him on the table. This might be a good information gathering opportunity, Sammael thought to himself.
“You are working late,” Sir Samwell said.
“Late? I have no idea how one determines time in this place,” Heron replied, looking up as Samwell entered the small room.
“A good point. However, even after all this time—and especially odd given the fact that we do not need to sleep here—I still find myself thinking in terms of night and day.” Sir Samwell grinned and then frowned. “Actually, now that I think of it, many demons do the same. Even the Courts of Chaos have magically simulated night and day.”
Heron shrugged. “I suspect it is ingrained in everyone.”
“But why in demons?” Sir Samwell asked. “There is no fierd in the Abyss; why would beings from a world without a fierd have any sort of inherent desire to organize time as mortals would?”
Heron blinked in surprise, not having thought of that before. “That is unusual. Are you certain of this?”
“Well, if one is in the Courts of Chaos, it’s pretty hard to miss the fact that it gets very dark and lamps are turned on for half the day.” Samwell shrugged.
“That is odd,” Heron noted. “It is almost as if demons were not actually native to the Abyss.”
Sir Samwell chuckled. “I would not mention that to your religious comrades; I suspect such a statement would be considered heresy.”
Heron grinned at the knight.
Samwell sat down across the table from the Wing Arms Master. “So, I am a bit curious.”
Heron tilted his head questioningly.
“I get the impression that locating and rescuing me may not have been your primary goal on this venture. Am I correct?” Sir Samwell asked.
Heron suddenly looked a bit uncomfortable. “I will admit, finding you, and doing so this quickly, was a bit of a surprise. After all, the Abyss is a big place.”
“Indeed,” Sir Samwell agreed, nodding. “So, since it was not your knight that was kidnapped by this greater demon, what exactly is your, or rather, our—Oorstemoth’s—goal in this venture? What does Oorstemoth get out of it? Other than yours truly?”
Heron sighed, sitting back. “Well, that is a bit complicated.”
Sir Samwell nodded for the Wing Arms Master to continue.
“The Church and Rod of Tiernon became involved with this greater demon when one of their priests accidentally summoned the greater demon, who proceeded to open an Abyssal gateway and bring forth a party of mortals in the small city of Gizzor Del,�
� Heron said.
“Gizzor Del?” Sir Samwell asked in surprise. “Is that tiny hellhole of a city still around?”
“It is,” Heron said while Sir Samwell shook his head in disbelief. “In any event, this party booked passage to Norelon aboard the vessel of a smuggler wanted on multiple warrants for illegal trade, falsified permits, tax evasion, larceny, general perfidy and a host of other illicit activities,” Heron continued. “The Constabulary had word that he was in Gizzor Del and were waiting for him to leave so that they might execute the warrants against him.”
“A demon booked passage on a smuggler’s ship?” Sir Samwell asked, puzzled. “What sort of smuggler books demons as passengers?” He shook his head. “The moral turpitude of Gizzor Del must have sunk to levels even lower than in my day!”
“Well, not exactly. While the city has very few laws, it is not quite that bad yet,” Heron answered. “The demon came through with a second demon and three mortals. At some point in Gizzor Del, the greater demon disappeared and a fourth mortal, a Lord Edwyrd, appeared. It was Lord Edwyrd that booked passage. The second demon was also not present until much later. So Asmeth would not have been aware of the demons.”
“Ah-hah,” Sir Samwell said.
“To make a long story short, our Protectors intercepted the ship and demanded that they submit to summary high justice,” Heron told the knight.
“I would assume that in this particular case, the correct judicial sentence would be the destruction of the vessel and imprisonment or termination of the criminal and all associated parties?” Sir Samwell asked.
“Indeed.” Heron nodded.
“And I take it that this Lord Edwyrd and his party resisted the Order of Summary High Justice?” Samwell asked.
“Indeed, which automatically condemned them to their own Order of Summary High Justice,” Heron replied.
“Foolish of them. If they were truly innocent passengers, they should have worked to hand the criminals over to the Protectors and then submitted themselves for trial on the grounds of criminal ignorance of the law,” Sir Samwell said.
