by J. Langland
Elrose shook his head sadly. “Absolutely nothing. No extra-dimensional activity. The Nyjyr Ennead appear to be as dead as ever.”
“Given this, and we’ve all reviewed the data several times over,” Trevin said, “we must decide whether this lead is worth pursuing to Najaar and then to Natoor, or should we be paying more attention to the D’Orcs?”
“The closest of the major temple ruins in Najaar is approximately eight hundred leagues, about three and a half days’ travel for the Nimbus,” the captain informed them. “Four days, if we are a bit more circumspect in our path.”
Gastropé shook his head. That sort of speed was simply unimaginable. He still could not get over how fast this cloud could move. “And how many ruins will we need to be investigated there?” he asked.
“There are, I believe, a great many,” Elrose said. “One would hope that if any of them are in use at any level, we would be able to detect sympathetic reverberations.”
Maelen shrugged, indicating doubt. “I suspect that many of the sites will be too ruined, too desecrated to function at any level. We will probably need to check several sites to find the least damaged.”
“The other side of the coin is that things are getting quite tense in the United Federation, and from what I hear secondhand, in Kel Femaer as well,” the captain said.
Aêthêal nodded. “I hear that the priests of Nét are arguing for preemptive strikes against various orc tribes.”
Captain Ehéarellis glanced towards his first mate with a small grin. “So the aetós are now paying attention to alfar priests?”
“When they seek war?” Aêthêal nodded. “Then we do pay attention. In particular, my people living near Jötunnhenj have spotted alvaran sky patrols.”
“Near Jötunnhenj?” Trevin asked with grave concern as she sat up in her chair.
“Indeed.” Aêthêal nodded.
“That is not a good sign,” the captain noted.
“That is the heart of orc and jötunnkind territory,” Trevin said. “They could only be more provocative if they sent patrols circling Mount Orc!” She shook her head. “What are they thinking?”
“I suspect they are thinking that the D’Orcs may try to reopen their base of operations in Astlan,” Captain Ehéarellis replied.
“Their base of operations?” Jenn asked. “They had a base in Astlan?”
“Indeed, or so the stories go. This is all before my time, but I know the stories. My grandfather fought them at Mount Orc and near Jötunnhenj, where their base of operations was.”
“I have never heard of any of these locations,” Gastropé said. “Where are they?”
The captain tilted his head from side to side. “Mount Orc is the ancestral home of the orcs in Astlan, or so the legends go. It is an extremely large mountain rising out of the middle of the plains with a fortress on top, capping perhaps the largest labyrinth on the planet. It is about ninety leagues northeast of Murgatroy. Jötunnhenj is said to be the ancestral home of all jötunnkind in Astlan. It is about two hundred and seventy-plus leagues from Murgatroy.”
Maelen frowned. “So this Jötunnhenj is quite a bit closer to us then the closest ruins in Najaar?”
Aêthêal nodded. “Less than half the distance.”
“So which has the more likely payout?” Elrose asked.
Trevin sighed, shaking her head. “I am thinking that preventing a war between orcs and the alfar takes precedence. We need to convince those sky patrols to stand down. It will infuriate the tribes on the plains.”
Aêthêal nodded in acceptance of Trevin’s decision. “We shall conclude things here, load the ship and chart our course. We should be able to leave by midnight.”
Etterdam, Nart Camp: DOA + 10, Early Sixth Period
Ragala-nargoloth checked her runes one last time. They were solid. Actually, there wasn’t as much to check with these runes as she would for most summonings. It was no dark spirit or long-lost soul she was summoning that might require protection. No, this was a demon summoning.
She chuckled to herself. Obviously, anyone in their right mind summoning a demon would want to have protections upon their protection to the highest degree. It was well known to all that a summoned demon that broke through the summoner’s projections would perform unspeakably abhorrent and depraved violations of the flesh upon the summoner.
In this case, Ragala-nargoloth was hoping for some unspeakably abhorrent depravity to be performed upon herself. She grinned in anticipation as she looked around her travel tent, ensuring that all was in place. Nodding in satisfaction, she poured a small sack of crushed herbs upon the fire in the brazier to her right. Smoke and the scent of the burning herbs began to fill the tent.
“Ackrotha tor-norgomonos. Vechkt bratzlaven copen doorscht. Vasloning gbharghostvertung, nas dicht trofflachtus.” Uracai, the highest language of the orcs, could get very complicated to speak. She personally did not enjoy speaking it, but for many rituals it was a necessity.
Ragala-nargoloth spit into the brazier, causing it to sputter and sizzle. “Voghdaskanare gorbhalemcht nasvarghblhast vekkumtosdt.” She centered her mind and reached out through the bracelet upon her left arm. Technically, it was a ring for its owner, but on Ragala-nargoloth it was a bracelet.
She continued to chant in Uracai, allowing the words to wash over her as she followed the linkage. There! She felt her target! “Dossdachnt tor-norgomonos, bratlzven torvoldhuzt!”
The larger brazier in the center of her runes suddenly burst out brighter and stronger, smoke billowing as a rumble of thunder came from within the fire.
“Who summons me?” boomed a loud voice in normal orcish.
“It is I, Ragala-nargoloth, First Shaman of the Nart Tribe of Etterdam! By the power of my legendary ancestor, Arg-nargoloth the Left Hand of Doom, I command you to appear!”
“You do, do you?” the voice boomed.
“I do,” Ragala-nargoloth stated firmly.
“I sense no protections upon you worthy of my might. You do understand that by summoning me without protection, I will be free to do the most ungodly and perverted tortures upon your body?”
“I am counting on it!” Ragala-nargoloth chortled.
The booming voice laughed as well. “Very well then, my luscious victim, prepare to be ravaged!”
Arg-nargoloth stepped through the flames and into Ragala-nargoloth’s tent. “I have been awaiting your summons with great anticipation of our planned perversions.”
“Welcome, my lover! Mama’s got an itch deep inside; it needs to be scratched!”
Fort Murgatroid: DOA + 10, Shortly After Lunch
Iskerus watched the Rangers, who had only arrived this morning, reorganize in preparation for departing once more, this time for the Citadel of Light. Iskerus shook his head at the name; it was rather grandiose. Different worlds, different standards, he supposed.
The Citadel of Light, as it was called, was the largest Etonian city/fortress in Nysegard, apparently. Iskerus had virtually no knowledge of Nysegard, other than that it was a place no one in their right mind would venture to, second only to the Abyss. Of course, given that he had sent a large Rod contingent to the Abyss, he was not exactly in a position to throw stones.
He supposed he should be grateful that Teragdor and his people were willing to rescue Talarius. However, he had to admit some guilt at staying here rather than venturing to Nysegard to rescue the knight himself.
“Here you go!” Iskerus turned to see Teragdor dragging a large wheeled trunk behind him, stopping to Iskerus’s left.
“Here I go?” Iskerus asked, staring at the trunk, obviously not understanding.
“Well, recognizing that you had no change of clothing with you, Stevos requisitioned from Tierhallon robes, clothing, undergarments, armor and accessories for one of your station in Nysegard.” Teragdor smiled happily at the Arch-Diocate.
“Appropriate for one of my station in Nysegard?” Iskerus echoed with a sinking feeling.
“Of course. Sur
ely you want to go along to rescue Talarius, be the friendly face that he recognizes. He will need someone he is comfortable with, someone he trusts and with whom he can open up about his ordeal!” the apostle said with a broad grin.
“Yes. Of course. How generous of Saint Stevos!” Iskerus tried his best to look grateful and hide his shock.
“They don’t call them saints for nothing!” Teragdor said, patting Iskerus on the back. “We expect to depart within about two hours.”
Nysegard, Citadel of Light: Dusk
Karis Crooked Stick, Battle Priestess of Tiernon and squad leader of the Night’s Watch, removed her helmet as she marched across the common area of the lower east guard hall. She needed to report her squad’s findings to Vicar General Grob Darkness Slayer.
She hung her helmet and small shield upon their hooks and continued on up the steeply winding ramp towards the sixth floor, eight levels up from the guard hall. There were very few stairs in the Citadel; it was critical that they be able to deploy large equipment and weaponry wherever needed. Most of the larger pieces were on wheels, but the rest were bulky enough that stairs would be treacherous for lugging the devices.
Exiting on the sixth floor, she made her way down the corridor to the debriefing room. She knocked on the door and received a grunt of acknowledgement from the other side. She twisted the handle and marched in to find, as expected, Vicar General Grob Darkness Slayer sitting at his map table. Slightly less expected was Diocate Aeris, who was apparently consulting with the Vicar General.
Her surprise was due to finding the two of them alone in the same room; Karis had the impression that Aeris and Grob did not like each other. They rarely shared words when in common company. Which, of course, was not that unexpected, given that Grob was an orc and Aeris an alfar.
“Battle Priestess Karis Crooked Stick reporting,” Karis informed the two.
“Agh, my ugliest trainee!” Grob roared.
Since Karis was at attention, she refrained from making an obscene gesture at her superior—said gesture being her normal response to his ribbing. Full-blooded orcs often found her to be rather homely, like all half-bloods; however, numerous men, both human and orc, found her attractive, so her old instructor’s ribbing was simply an orc social grace, to which a rude gesture would be appropriate.
“Vicar General, Diocate.” Karis nodded.
“What news have you?” Aeris asked, getting straight to the point.
“Earlier reports are correct. The ring settlements are starting to receive refugees from the border farms. The Storm Lords appear to be advancing. We spotted a vampire squadron and came across a cadaver trail.” This was the beaten path left by a zombie horde, littered with various bits of flesh that had fallen off the zombies as they moved.
“Where?” Grob looked at his maps with a piece of charcoal.
Karis placed her rolled-up written report on the stack of reports on his desk. “The trail was a league east of Dob’s Den,” she replied. “The vampire squad had raided March’s End three nights ago, and we trailed them to a temporary nest about two leagues southeast of March’s End.”
“Did you engage?” Diocate Aeris asked.
“Negative. Our orders were to observe and report only,” Karis replied.
Grob nodded. “We need information at this point; reports from genpop are starting to come in rapidly, so we need our trained recon teams to move fast and gather as much intel was they can and get it back to us ASAP.”
Aeris nodded. “That makes sense.”
“Glad you approve,” Grob snarked. The alfar ignored him, gesturing for Karis to sit to continue their debriefing.
Citadel of Light: Mid Sixth Period
Karis had finished her dinner and made her way down to the small chapel deep in the bowels of the citadel, which she and her squad used for their worship services. It was a very old and rather small chapel, rarely used in recent decades; she had discovered it years ago as a young girl and fallen in love with the ancient baroque stone carvings. The chapel’s main room was about thirteen by twenty feet, with the altar at the far end. The side walls were lined with small alcoves, each about five feet deep with ornately carved curved archways.
The local radiance of her Heavenly Handfire cast deep shadows into the archways, creating a mood of deep, peaceful calm. Tonight she worshipped alone; her squad was tired and in need of some drink after their mission. She would give thanks to Tiernon for their safety on their behalf. She was sure the saints would be fine with that. At least, they had never complained.
Karis chuckled at that. Legends held that the saints used to go into battle against the darkness alongside the men and women of the Citadel; however, it had been nearly a thousand years since the last recorded divine visitation. Many of the soldiers morosely joked that the saints had forgotten them.
She lit the candles around the altar and doused her ball of Heavenly Handfire, allowing only the natural light of candles to illuminate the room. She genuflected, making the sign of Tiernon in the traditional beginning to the majority of worship rituals. Tonight, as always upon returning from a mission, she would perform Saint Caftar’s Ritual of Thanks and Blessing.
She rose from her genuflection and inhaled to begin the Incantation of Thanks when out of the corner of her eye she noticed flashing light from behind and to her right. There should be no light behind her. She turned to see who had entered.
No one had entered, the light was emanating from the ornate edging on the archway of the middle alcove. What had not been completely obvious before, due to the worn nature of the carvings, was that the carvings were runes. Runes in High Script, the sacred writings of the Five Siblings, appeared now that they were lit. They were flashing in various sequences: one rune would light, go dark and then another would light. At different points, different runes glowed different colors.
Karis drew her formal sword; she had left her full battle gear in her small bedroom. She only had the ceremonial blade used in worship services. Fortunately, while technically ceremonial, it was, nonetheless, quite sharp. She moved into position facing the archway, trying to discern what exactly was going on.
She blinked rapidly as the room was suddenly lit by what appeared to be mid- or late-afternoon atunshine. That was impossible—Atun had been setting even as her squad had entered the Citadel several hours ago. Karis raised her left hand to shield her eyes as they adjusted.
She blinked again as a half-orc about her own age came through the alcove’s archway, and then her eyes widened when she saw that the other side of the archway appeared to be the atunlit courtyard of a lightly fortified fort or keep. The half-orc coming through the door was wearing clerical attire—Tiernon’s robes and symbols—but they were of unusual design and color. Was that apostolic purple on the sash?
“Who goes there?” Karis demanded, holding up her ceremonial blade in defense.
The half-orc blinked a few times, his own eyes adjusting to the darkness of the chapel. “I am Teragdor al Tiernon, Apostle of Tiernon in Astlan.” He spoke haltingly, as if Nysegardean was not his first language. “I come seeking the assistance of those of the Five Siblings faiths in retrieving a Knight Rampant from Astlan, being held prisoner in Nysegard. Who am I addressing?”
She had been correct; the youth was wearing the colors of an Apostle of Tiernon, and claimed to be one. She shook her head. How long had it been since there had been an Apostle of Tiernon on the soil of Nysegard? Interestingly, the apostle’s surname was al Tiernon, meaning he had been a fosterling of the church. Not that uncommon, actually, when so many children had lost their parents to the Darkness.
“I am Karis Crooked Stick, Battle Priestess and Squad Leader of Tiernon upon Nysegard.”
“Battle Priestess?” The half-orc seemed puzzled at the title, and then seemed to do a double take. “Wait, did you say Crooked Stick? As in the orc tribe?” He peered at her more closely. “Are you half-orc?”
“Was it the name or my features that gave me away?” Karis a
sked.
“Both, I suppose. I have never met another priest of Tiernon who was also half-orc,” Teragdor replied. “So I suppose I was taken by surprise.”
“Well, in that case you are going swoon for Grob Darkness Slayer.” Karis snorted.
“Who is he?” Teragdor asked.
“He’s the Vicar General of the Citadel of Light, and a full-blooded orc,” Karis reported.
Teragdor’s eyes grew wide. “A full orc Vicar General of the Rod of Tiernon?”
Karis shook her head in puzzlement. “What’s a rod? He is the Vicar General of the Shield of Tiernon.”
“Is everything okay in there? a voice from the courtyard shouted in a rather hard-to-understand version of Nysegardean. “I told you, the Rangers should go first. If you are dead, Teragdor, I will not hear the end of it.”
Teragdor answered, speaking in his more understandable, accented Nysegardean. “I am good! I am simply speaking with Karis, Battle Priestess of Tiernon.”
“Battle Priestess?” A different voice said. There was some shuffling and an older human wearing the robes of an arch-diocate strode into the darkened chapel, peering at her.
“What is with you Tiernon folk? Do you all just go charging into the unknown with no thought for recon?” the first voice asked, the speaker now coming into focus in the archway. This gentleman appeared to be wearing the robes of an apostle of Torean. Two apostles and arch-diocate popping through a saintly gateway, as it surely must be—this was completely bizarre.
“Allow me the introductions,” Teragdor said. “Karis, may I present Arch-Diocate Iskerus of Norelon and Eastern Free Eton in Astlan.” He gestured to the arch-diocate, who nodded to Karis.
“Rasmeth, Apostle of Torean upon Astlan.” The apostle gestured at the latest individual to come through the archway.
Teragdor grinned at his colleagues and gestured to Karis. “Gentlemen, the Battle Priestess and Squad Leader, Karis Crooked Stick.”
“A Crooked Stick priest of Tiernon?” Apostle Rasmeth shook his head. “Strange bedfellows indeed.”
