03- The Apostles of Doom

by J. Langland

  “What about stuff in the pockets?” Tom asked suddenly, thinking about the things he kept in his belt and kilt.

  “Well, if I have something in my pocket and the clothes fade away, then the item is lying where I left it. So I have to be careful with that. Otherwise, it’s not much different than carrying it.”

  “Very interesting.” Tom said. He was going to need to try creating clothes. It would be a lot easier for Edwyrd in particular. In his true form, however, he’d stick with his real kilt. He couldn’t afford to accidentally lose his holy arrowheads. One never knew when he’d need to crack Tiernon’s runes and spells again.

  Rod Camp Outside of Freehold: Mid First Period

  Beragamos sighed, shaking his head. “In the last seventy-three thousand, four hundred and eighty-three years, give or take a few centuries depending on which planet we are talking about, I have done and been many things, but I swear tonight is the first time that ‘horse thief’ was one of them.” Although I can’t vouch for previous cycles, he thought to himself.

  “You do know that in many places, horse thieves are hung,” Hilda commented.

  “We are not stealing a horse; we are simply returning him to his rider,” Stevos said.

  “Tell that to the people with the noose,” Beragamos said.

  Hilda frowned. “Wasn’t Saint Espierre hung as a horse thief?”

  “I think you are right—a horse thief martyr,” Stevos said.

  “Yes, but it was a setup, with trumped-up charges. Which is where the martyrdom and canonization came in,” Beragamos said.

  “I guess it’s good he isn’t here for this discussion,” Hilda said. “I never drink Bloody Tatianas in Tatiana’s presence. It’s just a bit rude.”

  “In that case, are we going to have to avoid talking about the Unlife in front of you in Nysegard?” Stevos asked Hilda.

  Hilda snorted. “Not at all. I hate those things as much today as I did at the time of my death. I am more than happy to discuss roasting them with Heavenly Heat, Light of Day or any of the two dozen or so rituals and chants that I’ve studied up on during my sainthood.”

  “Sentir is very clear that he doesn’t want to lose any more saints or avatars in Nysegard,” Beragamos admonished them.

  “So that means no combat?” Stevos asked.

  “That’s what it sounds like to me,” Beragamos said. “It’s his localverse, and he is responsible for overall resource allotment. Besides, this is a rescue mission; a rescue from orcs and D’Orcs, not Unlife. It’s highly unlikely we’ll be there during a Storm Lord attack.”

  “You do understand, you just guaranteed the opposite,” Stevos said mock sourly.

  Beragamos chuckled. “I know. I know that’s the common wisdom, but trust me, after seventy-plus thousand years, I can assure you that such sayings are pure superstition.”

  “I hope so,” Hilda said, grinning. “The stench of a zombie flambé running past you is enough to make you lose your appetite.”

  “Ugh, that must be a truly terrible stench in that case!” Danyel piped up cheekily.

  Hilda grinned widely and gave him a light punch on the shoulder. “You know me too well.”

  “So are we all set?” Beragamos asked.

  “Timbly is in position at the Saintly gateway and has briefly tested it.” Stevos said. “I performed a number of rituals to ensure that the brief opening was not noted. Fortunately, most of the camp is now asleep.”

  “All of it is, other than the sentries,” Beragamos confirmed. “I’ve drenched the place with peaceful dreams and uneventful slumber. I did, however, avoid putting the horses to sleep. I don’t want to have to drag a slumbering flying horse out of the camp.”

  “And I’ve gone by each of the sentries and individually, ahem, influenced them to be watchful outside the camp rather than inwardly. And I’ll keep us wrapped in Holy Silence while we are in the camp,” Hilda said.

  “Excellent. Danyel, you know where War Arrow’s barding is located?” Beragamos asked.

  “I know where it was; with Sir Talarius’s equipment. However, I’ve heard that Ruiden burnt the tent down so they had to relocate things. I do, however, have an idea of the most likely places it could be,” Danyel replied.

  Beragamos nodded. “Very well. That will work. Stevos, why don’t you go with Danyel to look for the barding and keep the two of you in Holy Silence; Hilda and I will look for War Arrow.”

  “Sounds good.” Stevos nodded, gesturing for Danyel to lead the way.

  “Fortunately, I expect it should not be too hard to locate a winged horse,” Beragamos told Hilda with a chuckle."

  ~

  Arch-Diocate Iskerus sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. It was time for bed. It had been a long day and an even longer night. He glanced at one of the Holy Candles of Warding before him, noting it was greatly diminished, as were the six others at each point of the Sacred Wards he had erected for his mirrorings.

  Mirroring over the large distances between Freehold and Oorstemoth and Freehold and Justicia was extremely difficult, if not impossible, without assistance. It required a sanctified space, along with several wardings on multiple levels to filter out external influences. Then one had to inject extra mana into the mirrors to cover the distance, along with stability rituals. In short, it took considerable effort, so he tried to schedule them in quick succession once per week.

  He’d had his scheduled 16:50 mirroring with Diocate Brisbane, who was manning the fort, so to speak, in Oorstemoth. He felt quite sorry for the poor fellow; he was certain it would have to be nearly unendurable to be stationed in Keeper’s City with all those blowhards.

  Of course, he also had Verigas there with him. Verigas had been the topic that had caused that meeting to run long. The priest who had started this whole mess had finally come to Brisbane to report a suspected Dream Sending. He’d been reticent to do so, fearing it had been merely a normal dream, since it made absolutely no sense.

  Verigas had dreamt of this saint; he was familiar with battling vampyrs in a forest under conditions similar to the saint’s martyrdom. The saint he believed it to be was one Saint Hilda of Rivenrock, a patron of healing and guardian against the undead.

  Why on Astlan such a saint would appear to Verigas was completely unfathomable to both Brisbane and Iskerus. They would have been tempted to dismiss it, if not for the fact that the saint had essentially interrogated Verigas, seeking information on what he was doing in Oorstemoth.

  She had been very interested in the disappearance of a large number of Rod members and priests near Oorstemoth, and had questioned him at length as to what he knew. Naturally, Verigas had been true to form and basically broken down and told her the entire story.

  Now, obviously, if this was simply a dream it was no loss; however, if it was actually a visit from a saint, it was quite disturbing. It was incredibly worrisome to Iskerus. They had been expecting an Intercession ever since the demon had possessed large numbers of priests and Rod members, stolen mana from Tiernon and kidnapped Talarius.

  Much to everyone’s unease, none had occurred. They had all been living on pins and needles for days, awaiting a heavenly host to descend upon them and start looking for answers; however, that had not occurred. This was both a relief and, oddly, a source of additional angst. It was sort of like awaiting the executioner’s axe. Add to that the disappearance of one of the possessed Rod members, the magical transformation of Ruiden, Talarius’s sword, into a golem, and finally the impossible vanishing of Excrathadorus Mortis, and everyone’s nerves were nearly shot. That nutty beggarmeister and his talk of a rogue high priestess was simply icing on the cake of Iskerus’s frustration.

  In any event, they had run long on that call, trying to judge between them the credibility of Verigas’s story, which meant he’d had to immediately jump to his mirroring with the high chamberlain and high pontificate. That had been a case of hurry up and wait.

  The high pontificate had been called to Toreanhold, the seat of t
he Holy Etonian Empire, on Imperial business. Apparently the emperor’s youngest son, Kristof, the Prince of Etonia, had gone missing in the Wilds of Eton and the emperor had called an all-hands-on-deck meeting.

  Now, what a Prince of Etonia would be doing in the Wilds was an incredibly obvious question; one which Iskerus had nevertheless asked, naturally. Iskerus had met the boy, or young man, rather, on a few occasions. Barabus, of course, knew all the imperial heirs quite well, having personally appointed their knightly instructors and overseen their training, and to say he was a sturdy lad was something of an understatement. Other than the signature purple eyes of the House of Torson, he looked nothing like his siblings. Which was, it turned out, why he had been there in the first place, High Chamberlain Mericas had explained. Kristof’s mother was the daughter of Lord Narthan, the nominal ruler of the Wilds of Eton; thus, Kristof was also in line to that title, at a much closer proximity. He was seventh in line for the Imperial Throne, but thanks to yet another accident, now second in line to Lord Narthan’s.

  He had apparently gone into the Wilds to learn about his maternal grandfather’s lands; lands which were not, interestingly enough, part of the Holy Etonian Empire. The empire had tried to acquire them at many points in the past, but the place was, quite frankly, too much trouble—too dangerous.

  In any event, he and the high chamberlain had discussed this and other lesser matters not requiring the high pontificate for several hours, until High Pontificate Barolas had finally returned. It was at that point their planned two-hour meeting began. Once that had ended, he’d finally been able to use the chamber pot before doing some research on this Saint Hilda of Rivenrock. He’d have preferred to use the latrine, but had not wanted to break the wards. The wards provided him shielding from the camp and all the noises and distractions outside, and allowed him to concentrate in peace.

  Now he wished he had not done the research into a book of saints that he possessed, at least not before bedtime. His research had created even more anxiety for him. He shook his head and rubbed his eyes again. This Saint Hilda appeared to be a rather large woman with blond hair and a vivacious personality. She was very similar in appearance and mannerism to the healer he and Barabus had met in Freehold, who, coincidentally, had also been named Hilda and who knew quite a bit about church protocol. She also, he had realized, fit the profile that the beggarmeister had brought to him of the “rogue” high priestess who was going around healing beggars.

  Iskerus sighed loudly and stood to extinguish the wards and the candles. What was going on? None of this made sense! Was there a rogue saint running around the periphery of the church’s operations? If so, why? Why not come right out and have an Intercession? This was so against historical precedent that it made absolutely no sense whatsoever.

  Enough! Bed! Iskerus thought to himself. He need to walk off a bit of this anxiety, and then get some sleep. He needed to get out of his tent, which had begun to seem like a prison for his worries, uncertainties and anxieties. The wards removed, Iskerus stepped out into the cool night. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply of the night air. So calm, so peaceful and quiet out here. He smiled to himself, glad for the respite. He began walking towards where the horses were penned. He would see if any of them were awake, maybe provide a few carrots to a lucky horse.

  Iskerus was about halfway to the pens when he suddenly realized how truly quiet the camp actually was. He’d noted it before, but now, he stopped to look around, realizing that there was no activity or movement around the camp at all, as far as he could see. The only sounds were the crickets and a few snores as he had passed the tents. No one was wandering around; there were no late night fires where soldiers, unable to sleep, were tossing dice or telling tall tales. This was quite unusual. Iskerus frowned and then started as he noticed the flap to a storage tent suddenly open wide, yet silently, and someone hunched over began pulling something out of the tent. Silently. Too silently. No huffing, no scuffing, no sound of any sort. This was very odd.

  Iskerus grimaced and marched towards the tent as a young man in the garb of a body servant was revealed to be dragging barding out of the tent. Iskerus went up to the young man, and as he reached out, sound suddenly returned.

  “Watch for the strap there, it’s going to tangle on the pole!” Someone inside the tent said quite loudly.

  “I’ve got it!” the young man with his back to Iskerus replied as he worked to maneuver something inside the tent.

  “Excuse me, but what exactly are you two doing?” Iskerus demanded.

  The young man with his back to Iskerus nearly jumped a foot in the air in surprise; there was a loud clattering noise inside as the man inside apparently dropped something.

  “Oh, crap,” the voice inside said.

  Iskerus stepped back, his hand on his dagger as the young man turned to face him. He looked very familiar, but Iskerus was unable to place him. From inside the tent, another, slightly older young man in ranger’s garb emerged.

  “Who are you, and why are you up?” the man dressed like a ranger asked as if he was annoyed. The younger man just hung his head and stared at the ground.

  Iskerus blinked. How presumptuous! How brazen of this man, who was clearly not part of the Rod or the Church, to demand this of him in his own camp. The man acted as if it was Iskerus who was up to no good. “I am the Arch-Diocate Iskerus, and this is my camp!” he stated firmly. “Who are you two, and what are you doing?”

  The brazen young ranger sighed. “It figures.” He shook his head. “Why are you awake? you should be asleep like everyone else in the camp.”

  “You have not answered my question. And based on your question, I must now ask, what exactly have you done to my people?” Iskerus asked angrily.

  The ranger shook his head from side to side. He seemed not in the least bothered by being caught red-handed in the act of theft. If anything, he appeared rather put out that he had to bother with Iskerus.

  The ranger frowned. “You must have been heavily warded. You were probably mirroring with Justicia. At this distance, you’d need to be heavily shielded to get a good connection.”

  Iskerus frowned. How could this ranger—soldier—thief, know this? “Again, who are you and what are you doing? Speak now before I summon guards!”

  “You are inside our Holy Silence and I’ve just extended it so you can’t easily run out of it to wake anyone up,” the young man said.

  Iskerus did a double take. This man was a priest? Iskerus didn’t recognize him; he wasn’t one of his own. Who was he? He needed answers, and if he was inside a Holy Silence, it would be difficult to wake anyone short of running up and kicking them.

  Before he could demand more information there was a slight ripple, the sound that comes when two Holy Silences merge. A woman’s voice, an oddly familiar voice, suddenly spoke.

  “Have you two found the barding yet? We think it would be easiest to take it to War Arrow and have her wear the gear before we leave,” Saint Hilda of Rivenrock said as she came around the tent. She came to complete halt, staring in surprise at Iskerus. After a moment she shook her head and asked, “How are you still awake, Arch-Diocate?”

  “I suspect he was warded and doing a long-distance mirroring, but he has not said,” the ranger said.

  Saint Hilda shook her head, frowning, like the others acting as if she felt slightly put out by Iskerus’s presence in his own camp. “Oh, dear, this is definitely not a good thing.”

  Iskerus should have been in awe, standing as he was before a saint, but it had been a long and frustrating day. “This time I recognize you, Saint Hilda of Rivenrock. What are you and your agents doing here?”

  Saint Hilda nodded in response to his identification. “You are, of course, correct—I am Saint Hilda of Rivenrock—but unfortunately, your recognizing me is even more problematic.”

  “What do you mean, problematic?” Iskerus demanded, suddenly feeling extremely uneasy.

  “Well, meaning you were not supposed to be awake
and see us doing our work.” She shook her head, as if trying to figure out what to do. “We can’t have you telling the rest of the church what we are up to.”

  The ranger sighed. “Nysegard?” Hilda looked at him in surprise and then tilted her head as if considering.

  “Nysegard?” Iskerus asked, not at all sure what they were talking about. Were they planning to kidnap him to another world?

  There was another ripple in the Holy Silence as another bubble merged with theirs.

  “Hilda, have you found them?” came the voice of an older man from around the tent.

  Iskerus looked up as the person whose voice it was came around the corner of the tent, then blinked in surprise and stepped backwards as he saw the man. It was as if the statue at the entrance to the cathedral in Tiern Anon had come to life, in full color, and walked around the edge of the tent and into the Arch-Diocate’s reality. Beragamos Antidellas, Supreme Archon of Tiernon, was now standing not six feet from him!

  Iskerus felt the world begin to spin and then tilt, and then darkness.

  The Inferno

  Arch-Vicar General Barabus sighed, closing his eyes and rubbing the bridge of his nose. They were sitting in the Captain’s mess. XO Stevensword had just read, at great length, an overly detailed report on the ship’s status. It was not good.

  At least, that was the obvious takeaway. He had rather lost track of the details, something he found himself doing often when listening to Oorstemothians. He shook his head and looked around the table at the morose faces of the others.

  “So, sounds like you need to do a lot of repairs?” Sir Samwell noted from the doorway to the mess in which he was standing; the mess was jammed full as it was.

  Stevensword gave the knight a somewhat caustic glance for his overly simplified repetition of what the executive officer had just said.

  “That is the simple answer,” Captain Cranshall said drily.