03- The Apostles of Doom

by J. Langland

  “I hope I am not late,” another individual coming through the doorway said.

  “Not at all. Karis, may I present my patron saint, Saint Stevos Delastros, Patron Saint of Travelers of the Border Forests—and, apparently, Travelers of the Localverse!” Teragdor said.

  Karis stared at the last entrant in shock. A saint? True Sight was adamant; he was clearly a saint. An actual Saint of Tiernon, in Nysegard? What momentous event had triggered such an odd company?

  “We need to clear room for our Rangers to come through. I believe Inethya will also be joining us,” Rasmeth said making gestures for people to move out of the area in front of the archway.

  Karis’s breath made an involuntary sucking noise; a gasp, she suspected, as she had never done such a thing before. “Did you say Inethya? As in the Divine Prophetess of Tiernon upon Nysegard?”

  “Yes, yes, she prevailed upon Dashgar to allow her to join us,” Rasmeth said.

  “I fear we are going to be testing the limits of Sentir Fallon’s restrictions on avatars in Nysegard.” Stevos grinned.

  “Well, lad, fortunately as an avatar of Torean, I’m not bound by Sentir Fallon’s constraints, so I’ll be joining you as well.” A rough baritone voice chortled as a large, barrel chested human stepped through the archway.

  “Well met, Timbly!” Stevos greeted the saint.

  “Another saint?” Karis muttered to herself. “I don’t think my little chapel can contain this much holiness.” Fortunately, no one was listening to her—or so she thought.

  The Arch-Diocate Iskerus chuckled beside her; she hadn’t realized he had moved so close. “Yes, I myself only discovered their activity yesterday. It has come as a bit of a shock. They really are nothing like in the old stories and books.” He grinned at her. “I do hope, however, that your chapel can contain a large winged horse that we need to bring through?”

  Karis just stared at the Arch-Diocate, still too much in shock to truly process what he was saying.

  Citadel of Light: Late Sixth Period

  Grob shook his head again and glanced in confirmation at Arch-Diocate Verablis Tierny, the most senior priest of Tiernon on Nysegard after the death of High Pontificate Sessblame sixth months ago. The church had not yet been able to hold a conclave to elect a new high pontificate. Arch-Diocate Tierny shrugged and glanced towards Holy Lord Ranger Rassnon, the head of the Rangers of Torean in the Citadel. All were clearly as dumbstruck as Grob.

  “You are telling me, Karis, that a squad of Rangers of Torean, led by an Apostle of Torean, have shown up in my basement with not only an Apostle of Tiernon and an Arch-Diocate of Tiernon, but also a veritable Heavenly Host of both Torean and Tiernon?” He stared at her as if she was nuts.

  “Yeah. They are down at the main stables at the moment. As I said, the Divine Prophetess of Tiernon, Inethya is also with them,” Karis noted.

  “Yet you say that they have come not to aid us in battle, but to locate a lost Knight Rampant?” Diocate Aeris asked, displaying a rather surprising amount of open incredulity for an alfar.

  “It’s not as simple as that,” came a woman’s voice from behind Karis. The blanching on the faces of everyone before her, along with their sudden genuflections, caused Karis to turn around and discover that the Prophetess Inethya had somehow silently entered their sealed conference room.

  “Your Holiness!” Arch-Diocate Tierny exclaimed while prostrating himself on the floor.

  Inethya gestured for him to rise.

  “Forgive us your holiness, but we have heard nothing concrete from Tierhallon for centuries, so an unprecedented contingent of foreigners and avatars suddenly showing up in our basement one night in search of a missing Knight Rampant of Astlan leaves us rather confused,” Diocate Aeris told the prophetess; she was clearly the least intimidated of Karis’s people.

  Inethya sighed and gave her a gentle smile. “I understand the confusion; however, we have been constrained in how we may aid Nysegard for several centuries. Tierhallon has determined that it cannot afford to lose anymore avatars in direct conflict on Nysegard, so we have been prohibited from direct intervention. We are only allowed to work through our illuminaries.”

  “Yet you can show up now?” Grob asked.

  “The retrieval of Sir Talarius has been approved at a higher level than the proscription against direct intervention. Thus I, and others, are allowed to visit Nysegard as long as we are working on retrieving Sir Talarius.”

  “So you are not here to aid us against the machinations of the Storm Lords?” Arch-Diocate Tierny asked in a very concerned tone.

  “Should the Storm Lords attack while we are here, of course we would defend ourselves and those around us…” Inethya said.

  Tierny seemed to relax slightly at this.

  Grob, however, wanted more assurance. “And how long are you to be here?” he asked.

  The prophetess smiled again. “As long as it takes us to retrieve Sir Talarius. Given that he is some distance away, the recon and planning should take several weeks, and then there’s the execution... I suspect a month or two.”

  Grob shrugged at this and then grimaced. “That may be enough. We suspect an attack within a few weeks.”

  Inethya’s smile froze. “So imminent?”

  “Their forces are rapidly building in nearly every direction. We are looking at a larger initiative from the Storm Lords than we have seen in several centuries,” Diocate Aeris said matter-of-factly.

  “Well, then I am sure we will be of assistance,” Inethya said.

  Freehold, Havestan Gardens: Late Fifth Period

  “Ah, my dear, once more you have prevailed upon the chef of this fine establishment to exceed themselves!” Trisfelt proclaimed, laying his fork down upon his plate.

  “Thank you, but all I do is order; they do all the work,” Hilda replied with a smile.

  “But you do give them ideas, I suspect?” Trisfelt said softly in a conspiratorial manner.

  “Perhaps a hint or two.” Hilda smiled.

  “I was sure of it,” Trisfelt stated, looking quite satisfied. “The Council kitchens are overwhelmed preparing food for all the reconstruction workers, and so have little time for fine cuisine.” The thaumaturge shook his head sadly.

  “I can only imagine.” Hilda said sympathetically. “The devastation of the two events has been unbelievably extensive.”

  “True, and apparently the battle in the great hall, what with the meteors, giant cracks in the floor… well, let us say there was tremendous structural damage to much of the palace’s foundation,” Trisfelt said. “That, in fact, is what keeps me so busy. I am getting no teaching done; I am needed to inspect and work repairs upon so much of the infrastructure.”

  Hilda shook her head in shared dismay. “It seems patently unfair. Thaumaturgists build and strengthen while pyromancers and similar simply destroy, and destruction is so much easier than construction. What takes them but minutes to destroy takes you days and months to repair.”

  “Indeed. However, I assure you that the conjurors are also working overtime. Maintaining these demon wards is quite exhausting and resource-intensive. Lenamare, Randolf and Damien are working as much overtime as I am in trying to improve our demonic defenses and make them more affordable, resource-wise, to maintain,” Trisfelt explained.

  Hilda nodded, then tilted her head. “Did I not hear that the wards could only be maintained so long with the resources within the city?”

  Trisfelt nodded. “Indeed. However, in part that has been alleviated because we are nearly exclusively focusing on demonic and extra-planar defense. This simplifies the consumable material component supplies a fair amount. The Church of Tiernon has actually been quite helpful on this front, assisting us in acquiring more of the material components we need. Being in the demon-vanquishing business means they do have the sort of components we need. Jehenna, who is in charge of acquiring material components for the wards, has sent our traders out looking for the additional resources.”


  “Interesting. So the Council is actively working with the Rod and Iskerus?” Hilda inquired.

  “Indeed, although Iskerus seems to have vanished on some mission for the church; rather odd as we were in the middle of planning how to bring them inside the city, both to shelter them and to add to our defenses for when the archdemons return with their armies.”

  “Hmm, these are clearly odd times. The Church and Rod have gone from laying siege to preparing to be besieged.” Hilda shook her head in amazement.

  “A great common enemy often has that effect.” Trisfelt chuckled.

  Etterdam, Nart Camp: DOA + 11, Early Third Period

  Arg-nargoloth surveyed the mock combat being conducted over the plains below him. Given that the Doomalogue on Etterdam was occupied by alvar, they had brought in another two hundred D’Wargs and brought the total D’Orc contingent to forty. More than enough to deal with any mortal alvaran army.

  He was hovering in the air next to Ragala-nargoloth, who was on D’Wargback beside him. Watching the clumsy swipes that the orcs were taking at each other, he chuckled and shook his head.

  “Something amusing?” Ragala-nargoloth asked him.

  “More like a pleasant memory, or perhaps some forgetfulness. It has been so long since we’ve had to train orcs on D’Wargback that one forgets that it is not simply an innate skill,” Arg-nargoloth said.

  Ragala-nargoloth twisted her mouth in a grimace. “You must admit the extra dimension, and the rotational abilities of D’Wargs compared to wargs, requires some practice to get accustomed to.”

  Arg-nargoloth grinned over at the shaman. “No insult to your warriors. Remember, they are my very distant kin as well. No, it has never been trivial to adjust to aerial combat; not for orcs on D’Wargback, nor for newly arrived D’Orcs. One simply forgets over time.”

  Ragala-nargoloth asked, “How long has it been since you were a new D’Orc? You have been a legend for longer than anyone can remember. There are many that do not even believe you were once mortal. They only remember you as the most famous D’Orc of Etterdam.”

  Arg-nargoloth closed his eyes, remembering. “It is odd how memories fade with time. Even now, that dark limbo between Orcus’s death and the arrival of Lord Tommus seems but a fugue state of dull memories that are evaporating, and I am recalling Doom’s various battles and training of armies. I have trained, or seen to the training of, hundreds of thousands of orcs and D’Orcs over the millennia, to the point where I do not remember most individual names; however, I still remember my mortal days upon this world with a sharp clarity. The threat of imminent death makes each breath, each thrust of the sword, each gulp of ale all the more glorious and memorable.” The D’Orc shook his head. “I recall that time, those experiences, over seventy-thousand years ago, better than I remember the names of my thousands upon thousands of vanquished foes during the intervening years.”

  Ragala-nargoloth whistled.

  Arg-nargoloth glanced at her curiously.

  “You may actually be older than some of these hills!” She gestured to the hills on the plains.

  He chuckled. “I am almost certain that I am. In fact, I believe that several of those hills are where I buried my enemies. There are very few plains in this world where I have not been victorious.”

  Arg-nargoloth’s eyes suddenly narrowed, his brow furrowing as he stared straight ahead.

  “What is it?” Ragala-nargoloth asked, concerned at the D’Orc’s sudden shift from humor to concern.

  After a moment, Arg-nargoloth shook his head, as if clearing it. “Nothing. My thoughtless bragging reminded me that my greatest failure was also upon this world.”

  “Your greatest failure?” Ragala-nargoloth asked, puzzled.

  “Orcus was betrayed upon this world—my home world. I should have been at his side. My victories here are made hollow by his loss, the loss of thousands of D’Orcs.”

  “Thousands of D’Orcs?” Ragala-nargoloth blinked. “What could kill thousands of D’Orcs?”

  Arg-nargoloth snorted. “That is something those of us left at Mount Doom have pondered for all these years. It seems inconceivable.”

  “It is inconceivable,” Ragala-nargoloth stated.

  “Well, in that case, we are going to need to conceive of such a thing, and do it quickly. If it remains unconceivable, then we will be blind when it strikes again,” Arg-nargoloth replied somberly.

  Mount Doom: DOA + 11, Early First Period

  “I cannot believe we are finally done swearing every man, woman, child and assorted variations,” Tom said, sinking into the Tom-sized couch in his sitting room. Estrebrius and Boggy were playing cards; Reggie was with his mistress. Vaselle and Tamarin were in the library and Tizzy was apparently running around somewhere else, hopefully not bothering Tamarin and Vaselle.

  “Is that going to be standard procedure?” Antefalken asked, looking up from where he was scribbling away on one of his ballads.

  “What?” Tom looked at him, puzzled.

  “Taking oaths from mortals as well as demons and D’Orcs?” Antefalken replied.

  “Going to get very time consuming, even for an immortal,” Boggy said, not looking up from his cards.

  Tom shook his head. “I don’t believe so. My understanding is that traditionally only the D’Orcs and allied demons swore oaths. Nysegard, because of its beleaguered state, is an exception.”

  “So, what are you going to do with all your free time starting tomorrow?” Antefalken asked with a grin.

  “You could play cards with us,” Estrebrius suggested.

  Tom shook his head and grinned at Estrebrius before turning his head back to Antefalken. “What free time? Phaestus and the rest of the remaining Tartarvardenennead want us to get back in the Oubliette classroom.”

  Antefalken shook his head. “The headaches and responsibilities associated with running the most famous dungeon in the multiverse...”

  Tom chuckled. “Well, to be fair, I did prefer to be the dungeon master, rather than the player.”

  Antefalken frowned, not getting the reference.

  “Never mind.” Tom waved it off. He had preferred being DM, but now, with these invasive memories, he was at risk of being one of the monsters from the Monster Manual. The dreaded “wandering Orcus.” He had to chuckle, remembering his frustration with amateur DMs who thought you could just drop a demon prince, a unique individual, into a dungeon with no motivation or even logic. At least he wasn’t Demogorgon. He’d never liked the two-headed demon.

  No, he, Tom, was not some imaginary demon prince wandering around in a sub-volcanic labyrinth. He was a real person in an unreal situation. The thought of actually being the reincarnation of some mythological creature... Inconceivable.

  Vosh Anon’s face suddenly flashed before his mind’s eye, the D’Orc’s sardonic grin mocking his trepidation over some endeavor. Tom shook his head at the vividness of the memory. I keep using that word, inconceivable; perhaps it does not mean what I think it does, he suddenly thought to himself, hearing the voice of Inigo Montoya.

  “You okay?” Boggy asked.

  “You sort of blanked out,” Antefalken said.

  Tom shook his head. “No, just thinking, lost in my thoughts. But there’s no time for navel gazing! I need to get Vaselle and set up his portable portal links with Ragala-nargoloth and Farsooth.”

  “And then I need to make a gateway for Beya to send another two dozen D’Wargs for their allies.”

  “No rest for the wicked!” Antefalken said with a grin.

  “What? Only two dozen? Ragala-nargoloth wanted a hundred!” Boggy said.

  “She’s going into hostile territory,” Tom noted.

  “Yes, but forty D’Orcs?” Antefalken shook his head in disbelief, shifting back to seriousness. “That’s like forty greater demons!”

  “Orcus had a lot more than that last time he was in Etterdam. That did not turn out so well,” Tom said morosely.

  “Yeah. Okay, then,” Antefalken agreed
.

  Chapter 134

  The Inferno: Mid Third Period

  “There are definitely advantages to not needing sleep,” Arch-Vicar General Barabus observed as XO Stevensword finished his status report. The crew had been working around the clock to repair the ship and they had just received welcome news of these efforts.

  “Sleep?” Sir Samwell asked Barabus with a wry grin. “Do you have any idea how long it has been since I had a good night’s rest?”

  “I would assume one thousand, four hundred and eighty-six years, give or take a few months,” Heron replied.

  “Yes, that would be correct.” Sir Samwell nodded to the wing arms master. “More or less.”

  “In any event, while we are now mobile and our defenses much improved, we are still unable to plane shift,” Captain Cranshall said. “Wing Arms Master? Is it your desire that we resume our searching while we continue repairs?”

  Heron nodded. “We might as well continue. Arch-Vicar General?” Heron looked to Barabus.

  Barabus nodded. “Temerlain and his priests have scanned this area, so I would suggest we proceed as we had been for now.”

  “Yes, back to searching for a small, eighth-of-a-carat diamond on a very large beach.” Sir Samwell smiled as he unhelpfully reminded them of the task at hand.

  Ithgar, West of Orcopolis

  Rupert grinned, as did Fer Rog, as they watched Aggfred and Snoggard reel on their D’Wargs as they flew through the morning air. Their two new friends were still glarghvosted from last night’s leave-taking party. The two had foolishly re-challenged Rupert and Fer Rog to another drinking contest, trying to recapture their honor.

  It had worked out about as well as two nights before. He supposed at some point they would have to tell their new friends the truth, maybe. He shook his head; it was good to be moving again. The last two days had been spent in boring planning sessions.

  Apparently the location of Ithgar’s Doomalogue was in the middle of a desert with some generally disagreeable tribes. It was for this reason that the Deathfingers were sending twenty of their own, including the Deathfinger heir, Orcag’s son, Aggfred, and his shield-mate, Snoggard, to negotiate passage.