03- The Apostles of Doom

by J. Langland

  Talarius put a small bag on the table. “I assume they’ll take Astlanian silver?”

  “Silver?” Stainsberry exclaimed.

  “You are in the right place, lad,” Thrinarv said, smiling. “You have us to guide you. Silver in Nysegard is more valuable than gold! It’s much more useful here.”

  Stainsberry nodded in agreement. “Indeed.”

  “Makes for excellent trading opportunities for those who travel off-world,” Thrinarv added. “Currency hedging has been very lucrative for my ministry.”

  Stainsberry shook his head, grinning. “You will also note that priests of Hephaestus swear no vows of poverty.”

  “It’s for the church, my good knight. We’re smiths—making things costs money!” Thrinarv said, laughing.

  Nimbus: Supper

  Jenn stared into her soup. They had returned to the Nimbus about an hour earlier. Having missed dinner, they had all agreed to meet for a meal after Trevin had spoken with Prince Ariel via a mirroring. Jenn had been in a very troubled mood for the entire evening.

  After her argument, or discussion, or whatever one wanted to call it, with Gastropé, the two had returned to the tent with the orcs and D’Orcs, and Gastropé had introduced her as a friend and ally of Lord Tommus. That was a stretch. However, she had not objected to the description, as she had not felt like upsetting the extremely large demon orcs, nor the entire negotiation. For another thing, her relationship towards Lenamare’s demon was something she could not explain to herself, let alone a group of strange orcs and D’Orcs.

  She was not sure who she was more upset with: Gastropé, Edwyrd, Damien or herself for being blind to these shenanigans. Probably Edwyrd. While surprisingly skilled, he was, like Gastropé, still young and inexperienced. Maelen’s suspicions about his age to one side, she was a good judge of people and he seemed to have neither the confidence nor maturity of someone much older than he appeared. Taking a little kid like Rupert plane hopping with what now turned out to have been a demon prince was stupidity on a scale that she could barely even comprehend. And as for Damien, a councilor of wizardry should have had more common sense than to continue any sort of cooperation with the demon Tom.

  In any event, they had sat down and she’d had some water when offered glargh. She had no idea what glargh was, but she was fairly certain it was something like really crappy beer. After being around Trisfelt for so long, she could not tolerate the swill most taverns served. In truth, she generally preferred wine to beer; something they would surely be having after they finished their supper.

  The orcs had filled her in on what they had told Gastropé before she arrived, and then proceeded into an extremely graphic description of the battle. While she was not experienced with soldiers, she had been through a siege or two by this point—she still could not believe she could say that; it was not how her life was supposed to go—and she had never met any soldiers so excited about the seriously gory details of combat.

  Jenn’s thoughts were interrupted as the door to their dining room opened and Trevin entered. Somewhat to Jenn’s surprise, the Enchantress had changed into something close to age-appropriate clothing. Maelen, Elrose, Gastropé and herself were already seated and enjoying their soup, warm bread and cheese.

  Maelen smiled and rose, moving to the sidebar where the food was laid out. “Can I get you some soup, bread and cheese?” he asked Trevin.

  Trevin shook her head and sighed as she seemed to collapse into a stuffed side chair, not at the table. “I am going to skip supper and go directly to brandy—if you don’t mind?” she inquired. Maelen nodded and moved to the small cart in the room that contained wine and spirits.

  “I take it the discussions with the Alvar did not go well?” Elrose asked.

  “You take it correctly.” Trevin snorted.

  “It seems to me that the core request of the orcs—that the alvar remove all of their forces from orc territory—is more than reasonable. Did they have a problem with that?” Elrose asked.

  “Of course.” Trevin closed her eyes for a moment. “I have managed to get them to agree to withdraw the basecamps that these particular patrols are operating from; or more precisely that we will see to their relocation back to alvaran territory.”

  Maelen handed her a glass of brandy. “So what is the problem.”

  “The alvar have other base camps in various parts of orc territory they are not willing to retreat from,” Trevin said.

  “Do the orcs know of these other base camps?” Gastropé asked.

  “They did not mention them; however, they were very explicit that all alvaran forces must withdraw. So within the spirit, if not the letter of the agreement, the other base camps must be removed,” Trevin said.

  “If the Grove is an interlocutor, is it required to inform the orcs of this? And even then, why did the alvar let you know of these other camps?” Elrose asked.

  “Prince Ariel and the nobility did not tell us about the other groups. That is something we learned from the aetós, and a few local alvar,” Trevin said.

  “So it was you who brought up the other camps which they refused to remove,” Jenn said.

  “I did. They were not particularly amused by my knowledge.” Trevin smiled as she took another sip of brandy. “However, none of them are amused in the slightest by current events—which is actually rather odd for alvar.” Trevin shook her head slightly in puzzlement.

  Maelen shook his head. “Prince Ariel is one of the Grove Elders.” Trevin nodded in agreement and for him to continue. “So there are representatives of most races within the Grove, and several have representation among the Elders?” Maelen asked.

  “Yes. Not all races are able to agree on an Elder representative and so do not have an Elder.” Trevin nodded.

  “Ah. I assume that is the case for the orcs then?” Maelen asked. “That was my interest: why the orcs do not have representation within the Grove.”

  Trevin twisted her head back and forth slightly on her neck, implying it was more complicated than that. “No, the orcs are actually fairly capable of doing such things across the worlds; at least, at certain points in time they have been able to do so. It’s more to the point that the Grove is essentially a diplomatic organization, and diplomacy—sitting around airing grievances, negotiating treaties and similar things—is not something the orcs have a lot of patience for.”

  “Will the orcs be okay with this?” Elrose asked.

  “It depends on whether or not we tell them,” Trevin said.

  “And is there a requirement to tell them?” Maelen asked.

  “Only if we want to keep their trust in the future,” Trevin said.

  “And do you?” Gastropé asked a bit more intently than one might have expected, but Jenn now understood his reasoning; he was a spy. She was aiding a spy. Argh.

  Trevin sighed and took another sip of brandy before replying. “Yes, but I also want to get the alvar back safely.”

  “How about simply ensuring their safety?” Gastropé asked.

  “What do you mean?” Jenn asked in surprise, not seeing the difference.

  “Well, negotiating is about meeting in the middle, yes?” Gastropé asked.

  Trevin shrugged. “Of course.”

  “So, if the alvar will not completely withdraw, but only from these particular bases, then perhaps the orcs would agree to hold their prisoners hostage in return for the good behavior of the alvar,” Gastropé suggested.

  “You mean as per the Rules of Hostage?” Maelen asked. “Do the orcs honor that?”

  “Yes,” Gastropé said. A worried look suddenly crossed his face and he added hastily, “At least, according to what I’ve read.”

  Elrose looked at the wizard a bit askance, but said nothing. Maelen shrugged.

  Trevin, after a few moments of pensive thought, finally replied. “If agreed to, they will honor it. Honor and one’s word are extremely important to them. That being said, there is not a lot of leeway in terms of their honoring it. A simpl
e misunderstanding may imperil the hostages.”

  “I am not sure I follow that,” Jenn said.

  “One of the central issues separating orcs and alvar is, I suppose one might say, literalness,” Trevin explained. “Orcs tend to be very straightforward and literal in their interpretations. They are not fond of semantic games. If you say you will do something, or not do something, you obey that oath on all levels and circumstances. The alvar, on the other hand, tend to use subtlety and complicated language that give them considerable leeway in interpretation of an oath or agreement.”

  “The case in point, I suspect, is such an example,” Maelen said nodding in understanding. “They agree to remove these patrols—the ones the orcs know about—but not all patrols or units that the orcs may not know about.”

  Trevin nodded tightly. “Exactly.”

  “One has to admit, that does sound rather sneaky,” Gastropé said.

  Trevin chuckled. “The dwarves, orcs, and several other races would most likely agree with that. In fact, I have heard many of them say exactly that.”

  Chapter 141

  Nysegard, Thirty-Three Leagues from the Citadel: DOA + 16, Mid First Period

  Ramses pulled his head out of one of the lower interior chambers of the runic obelisk he was working on. He, Exador and several other wizards, several of whom were liches, were working in a large laboratory that from appearances, had been a large grain storage room in a keep that the Storm Lords had acquired several weeks ago. The former commanders of the fortress had been more than willing to give the fortress over in exchange for some live flesh. Ghoulism was such an unforgiving hunger.

  “I think I have the correct settings for tuning these to the new high-capacity mana pools that were delivered yesterday,” Ramses told Exador.

  “Excellent. These things are going to need a lot of power,” Exador replied.

  “The relay mechanism is quite impressive,” Ramses said. “I had never thought to circumvent the multiple mana pool restrictions by using a series of sequential fail-over pools, bridged by anima jar buffers containing sufficient mana to power the failover transition when the prior pool was depleted,” Ramses said.

  “That is the advantage in being in the soul-sucking business, as the Storm Lords are; they find all sorts of interesting use for animus that the rest of us would never think of,” Exador said.

  “Yes, and having no compunctions or hang-ups about the sanctity of life—or more importantly, souls—gives one plenty of animus to fill the jars.” Ramses grimaced as he said this. He personally found the operation to be ethically distasteful, even by his and Exador’s own standards.

  “So,” Ramses began, walking over to look at what Exador was working on, “any luck on your end?”

  “Some. The fact that we are only trying to use one warding facet makes things doable on this scale. Not even Lenamare could manage this sort of scale of warding with every tuning, or the variability. The calculations to balance the instabilities would be insurmountable,” Exador said.

  Ramses chuckled. “I must say, I do find it amusing that Lenamare’s most famous piece of wizardry shall serve as the down payment on his and Freehold’s demise.”

  “Indeed!” Exador grinned. “With the Storm Lords behind us, Freehold will fall not that long after the Citadel, and the book shall be ours for the taking!”

  Library of Doom: First Period

  Tom shook his head, watching as his tusks moved with head. “Thish ish hard to hold, ahnd haddar do shpeak,” he tried to say in his new orc voice. Antefalken had suggested they take breaks from Tom trying to shift clothes by trying different races. Currently he was working on his orc form; a form that admittedly, he had modeled on Orcus’s orc form because he was too embarrassed to ask an actual orc to stand still so he could stare at them and practice turning into them. It seemed too gauche and too personal. It would also have exposed weakness on his part, which was an odd thought because that had never been one of his concerns in school. It was just that now that he was leading a bunch of people, perhaps into battle someday, he felt he needed to project a strong image.

  “Yeah, that’s horrible pronunciation, even in Universal,” Antefalken agreed, walking around Tom and studying his form.

  Tom was only changing his physical form; he was in no way ready to try to shift both clothes and a new form at the same time. Therefore, he was standing in front a mirror wearing a loin cloth, with the Orcus-orc portraits surrounding them. It was rather odd how he had no compunction about going naked in his true form, yet as either Edwyrd or this new orc form, he felt an urge to shield his privates. It was weird and he had no explanation for it. However, that was the least of his problems; for the moment, he simply needed to keep his form stable.

  “I fahnd id amahzhing dat Ruberd and Fuhrogg could mashter an unknown form zo easily,” Tom said.

  “You know, if you kept a consistent speech impediment, I could probably understand you better,” Antefalken observed.

  “Drying diffhurnt thingz to imbrove mah zpeach,” Tom said.

  “Unfortunately, this is not something I can help with, since I can’t change my entire form.” Antefalken shrugged. “Maybe you could get Rupert and Fer-Rog to come back and teach you?”

  “Rubherd did deach me furst dime,” Tom said.

  “Kid is impressive; I have to admit that,” Antefalken said, shaking his head. “As, of course, is your situation. Has to be the fastest promotion from new arrival to demon prince in the history of the Abyss.”

  Tom shrugged.

  “It would lend credence to the Phoenix Cycle theory,” Antefalken added.

  Tom suddenly expanded back to his true form, his concentration broken. Fortunately, the small loincloth had been only loosely tied around his waist. “Not you, too?” he asked sourly.

  “Given what you’ve told us and all the discussions, along with your meteoric rise, I would not rule it out,” the bard answered.

  “Yes, but if that was the case, why the four-thousand-year hiatus?” Tom asked. “From what the others have said, it normally wouldn’t take that long; and then I end up on the other side of the multiverse?”

  Antefalken shrugged. “Well, I would guess that most of the times that it happens, the person going through it did not just have their soul sucked by an Unlife dagger. Perhaps there was so little left, you had to go through some sort of karmic progression to regrow your animus over four thousand years?”

  Tom shook his head. “That requires reincarnation. I was not a member of a religion that believed in reincarnation. I wasn’t even religious, and as we have learned, after Ragnarök and then after the Demi-Urge gained power, all the other gods fled Earth. So who would have been providing the reincarnations?”

  Antefalken grimaced and shrugged. “I have no idea. I know nothing of what pantheons might have stuck around. I’m not a theologian.”

  “Well, I know Hinduism and Buddhism have reincarnation, and were around on Earth; however, I was not a member.” Tom scrunched his face in thought. “Actually, in fact, I think those religions do not require a deity or pantheon per se to reincarnate; it is just part of the system.”

  Antefalken shrugged. “I suspect it is something built into the pantheon, something set up as part of their mechanisms.”

  “I don’t think so.” Tom shook his head. “Pretty sure the Buddhists do not believe in any gods, they believe more in a gestalt, a unified universality, or maybe multiversality.” Tom squinted with one eye, trying to put the ideas together. “Not sure how that works with the whole multiverse thing? Is each universe a gestalt, and the multiverse is a collection of gestalts?”

  “I get where you are going; some of Anselm’s people thought along those lines,” Antefalken said. “However, since one can cross between universes, and one does not suddenly become part of a new gestalt, the multiverse itself must be a single gestalt.”

  “So then, who is handling their reincarnation?” Tom asked.

  “Seriously above my pay grade
.” Antefalken shook his head. “Maybe there are avatars that aren’t gods, but supernatural spirits overseeing the belief systems and reincarnation.”

  A chuckling sound came from the opening to the room on their left. Tom looked over to see Erestofanes, the librarian.

  “Beg your pardon, but I was wandering by and could not help but overhear your conversation,” Erestofanes said.

  “No problem. Do you have answers?” Tom asked, thinking it was very likely the librarian would.

  “I fear I have too many answers.” The librarian smiled as he said this.

  “Anything of use?” Antefalken asked, grinning back.

  “Well, since you are talking about Buddhism, the person to ask would be Singkûn, should he decide to show up again,” Erestofanes replied.

  “Who?” Antefalken asked.

  “The unaccounted-for ninth member of the Tartarvardenennead,” Tom said.

  Antefalken shook his head.

  “Indeed,” Erestofanes agreed.

  “Not helping.” Antefalken shrugged. Tom gestured for Erestofanes to continue.

  “Singkûn is a very intelligent and powerful monkey, or perhaps a D’Monkey, I suppose, if that makes any sense.” Erestofanes shook his head briefly. “In any case, he is quite legendary, particularly in Buddhist circles.”

  “Ah, so he is a Buddhist supernatural figure?” Antefalken said.

  “Yes. In fact, it is said that he was once imprisoned under a mountain by the Buddha himself.” Erestofanes shrugged. “However, I have been unable to locate any first hand documentation on this, so it is hearsay.”

  “You have met Singkûn, yes?” Tom asked, and Erestofanes nodded. “Could you not have just asked him?”

  Erestofanes gave a rueful chuckle. “While Singkûn is a very admirable, virtuous, and sometimes reliable person, getting a straight answer out of him is decidedly impossible. Worse than Tizzy, in fact.”

  “Good gods below, how could that be possible!” Antefalken exclaimed.