03- The Apostles of Doom

by J. Langland

“So perhaps it would be best that we now return too Oorstemoth for repairs?” Sir Samwell suggested.

  Chancellor Alighieri sighed before replying, “If you had been paying attention, you would have realized that our trans-dimensional vortex manipulation engine was damaged and several runes were cracked, along with forty-three other issues in regards to the engine. We are not able to shift planes until we resolve all of those issues.”

  “And there are numerous other related issues that also have to be repaired before we can travel the multiverse again,” Captain Cranshall added.

  “Not the least of which are our geomantic drives,” Stevensword stated. “You must admit, Sir Samwell, the Abyss is a very precarious place and without our full mobility, we are but perched pigeons.”

  Sir Samwell twisted his lips and grimaced. “So, we are stuck here for a bit.” He sighed. “Well, I’ve been stuck here for fourteen hundred years; I suppose another hundred or two won’t be that bad.”

  Barabus’s stomach clenched at the knight’s disturbing assessment.

  Mount Orc: Dawn

  Tal Gor grinned as he felt the warmth of Fierd upon his back. The impressive Mount Orc was now to his right. He had visited Mount Orc several years back and it still left him awestruck; a single giant mountain rising out of the plains. The top of it was a very large keep, the so called “last stand” for embattled orcs against the alfar. While there were plenty of fables and songs about it, there was very little hard historical record of it actually being used; however, there were ancient scars upon the stones of the fortress, indicating it had been used in battle at some point.

  The fortress on top and the leagues of catacombs within the mountain were believed to have been of jötunnkind construction. For the clans and bands living nearby, venturing into the catacombs in search of some new treasure was considered a rite of passage, even if the so-called “treasure” was generally quite lame. As far as anyone knew, there were no complete maps of the catacombs and very few stories of people going more than a few leagues down into them.

  Tal Gor shook his head to rid his thoughts of Mount Orc and focus on today’s events. They were flying towards the long-term encampment of the Rock Smasher clan. Lob Smasher (no relation) knew several members of the clan there and felt it was the best option near Mount Orc.

  Everyone was dressed in full battle regalia; however, they were also flying their peace banner along with their clan banner. They did not want to accidentally put an ally on a war footing, but they also wanted to ensure respect for their mission and for Lord Tommus.

  As they came within sight of the Rock Smasher camp, or rather, the camp’s sight of them, Tal Gor could see multiple clan members scrambling to gear up. He gestured to his sister, Soon Tal, to wave the peace banner clearly. His brother, Bor Tal, was flying the Crooked Stick banner and Kirak was flying the banner of Doom.

  A large number of orcs were now scrambling from their tents, nearly all armed, naturally; however, it appeared they had seen the banners and were not going to battle formation. He noted several people passing seeing tubes around, possibly to read the banners, but most likely to stare at the D’Orcs.

  He imagined they were a very impressive sight. He knew what his family had thought when first seeing the D’Orcs and he remembered well the reactions of people in Murgatory, so he had a fairly good idea of the spectacle they presented. This time, they should be even more impressive, as they were not wearing hunting gear, but rather the full glory of their armor and weaponry.

  Zargvarst was in the lead, followed by Lob Smasher and Tal Gor side by side behind the D’Orc squad leader, the rest of the orcs and D’Orcs fanned out behind them. Zargvarst came in for a landing about one hundred feet from the array of Rock Smashers on the field. Lob Smasher and Tal Gor landed further behind him due to the fact that, while D’Orcs could land vertically, when carrying a load, it was much easier for D’Wargs to do a running landing, even as they did running take-offs.

  Zargvarst waited for Lob Smasher and Tal Gor and the others to dismount and join him. Ahead of them, Tal Gor saw a woman who, by her dress, was the band chief, standing with several of her elders and commanders nearby. The rest of the large camp waited behind their leaders.

  Soon Tal, Bor Tal and Kirak came up beside them carrying their banners, ensuring they were plainly visible. As they had agreed the night before, Lob Smasher spoke first.

  “Greetings, Rock Smasher Clan, illustrious Soo Van”—Lob Smasher roared, nodding towards the woman Tal Gor assumed was the chieftain—“indomitable Gor Varg, mighty Luga Shagrishn...” Here, he nodded to the man and woman nearest to the chieftain, then turned to the others and continued, “...Grodog Scarface, Lagdush Flatfoot and the rest of the clan. I, Lob Smasher, Elder of the Crooked Stick clan, greet you on behalf of Tal Gor, Shaman of Lord Tommus of Mount Doom.” Lastly, he gestured towards Tal Gor.

  The Rock Smasher chieftain and her commanders remained silent for a few moments, eyeing them and the D’Orcs. Eventually, Soo Van replied, speaking formally, “Greetings, Lob Smasher, I recognize you as an Elder of the Crooked Stick clan, and acknowledge your shaman and fellow tribe members. I am, however, not familiar with your unusual compatriots, nor of this Mount Doom you speak of.”

  Lob Smasher nodded. “That is one of the reasons for our visit; to introduce you to our allies from Mount Doom. This”—he pointed to Zargvarst, standing next to him—“is Zargvarst El Crooked Stick, formerly of our tribe here in Astlan, currently a member of the 19th Regiment of Doom under Lord Tommus, heir to the throne of Orcus.”

  Zargvost nodded and thundered, “Greetings, Soo Van. It has been over four thousand years since I strode these plains; I am honored to do so once more. And I am honored to meet you and your clan.” He grinned rather suddenly and alarmingly, and gestured to the top of Mount Orc. “I remember well manning the walls of Mount Orc during the Desolation. The treacherous alfar were ruthless; yet we did prevail and shall always do so.” His grin widened into a very toothy smile as he chuckled, apparently with fond memories.

  The Rock Smashers were looking at Zargvost even more oddly than before, if that were possible. Tal Gor could hear the amazed whispers of the rest of the tribe behind their leaders.

  The man named Gor Varg suddenly spoke up. “You’ve mentioned Mount Doom and the dead god Orcus; are you saying you are with them?”

  Zargvost nodded. “I am—we are. Lord Orcus and a large number of our forces, both from the Abyss and the Planes of Orc, were slain by treachery in Etterdam on the battlefield and at Mount Doom by the Five Siblings, allied with Lilith, Queen of the Damned, and we believe, somehow, the Los Alfar. With Orcus’s death, the Wand of Orcus was lost and the fires of Doom quenched for over four thousand years.”

  Zargvost frowned and bowed his head for a moment, then looked up with a fierce grin of determination. “However, that has all changed. The long-prophesied Heir of Orcus has finally arrived! Having wrested mana from the gods, he recovered the Wand of Orcus and relit the Fires of Doom—all as prophesied by the shaman Tiss-Arog-Dal one hundred years after the death of Lord Orcus. Lord Tommus is the heir of Orcus and shall restore the orcs to their rightful place in the multiverse.” Zargvost grinned. “And, of course, along the way, we shall have vengeance!”

  Tal Gor’s orcs and D’Orcs roared loudly in approval behind him. He noted a significant number of excited orcs in the assembled crowd of Rock Smashers; their whispering and internal conversations had stepped up and a few had cheered as well. The leaders seemed far more reserved, as one would expect. They would not want lose face by appearing too eager at the claims of people, even someone they knew, who showed up unexpectedly on their doorstep in the morning.

  “Well then,” Soo Van said, “it appears we have much to discuss.” She looked to Lob Smasher. “By the honor of the Crooked Sticks, do you swear that this visit shall be peaceful?”

  Lob Smasher nodded and gave her a sincere smile of confidence. “On my family’s honor, I, and we, so swear it.”
He bowed his head in acknowledgement as did Soo Van.

  Ithgar, Orcopolis: Midmorning

  Rupert and Fer-Rog sat on a marble bench in the courtyard of the house they were visiting. Beya, Hespith and Ugdur Helg, chief of the Helg tribe—their tribe within the Olafa horde—were inside in a private meeting with Orcag Deathfinger, chief of the Deathfinger tribe within the Houofa horde. The rest of their contingent were relaxing in the courtyard.

  Apparently Beya had contacted Orcag’s shaman a few days back, so the Deathfingers had been expecting them this morning. After their private meeting, the rest of Beya’s contingent and the rest of the house would share breakfast together. They had been meeting for almost half a period at this point.

  “I guess it’s a good thing we don’t need to sleep in Astlan,” Fer-Rog noted. “We wouldn’t have gotten much last night.”

  Rupert chuckled. “I hope Aggfred and Snoggard’s friends were able to get them home safely. They were looking seriously worse for the wear.”

  “Their walking was about one degree above crawling.” Fer-Rog laughed.

  “I had more fun last night than at any time other than the inauguration party,” Rupert said with a bright smile.

  “And if there had been cookies, it would have been even better!” Fer-Rog agreed.

  “Hmm, not sure how our new friends would have done with cookies.” Rupert frowned. “Given how they hit us, the cookies might be a bit like x-glargh for normal orcs.”

  “Pretty sure someone said that x-glargh is poisonous for orcs.”

  “Exactly. Cookies probably wouldn’t have been worth having. It would have been hard to explain why we couldn’t share,” Rupert noted.

  Suddenly, the doors to the house opened and Beya was there, gesturing for everyone to come in and break their fast. She smiled brightly. “Come in everyone; we’ve come to a great agreement!”

  Everyone filed into the entry hall and proceeded to a large dining room. There was a large buffet along one wall; in the center of the room there were tables arranged in a circle so that everyone would be able to see each other.

  “Please, take a seat at the table!” Orcag exclaimed, gesturing. “We shall have a toast before we dine!”

  As people came in to take seats, servants—or at least, Rupert assumed they were servants—were pouring some sort of liquid into chalices at each diner’s seat. He wasn’t sure, but it looked sort of like orange juice, albeit perhaps a bit runnier.

  “Orange juice and vadter,” Beya told him as she noticed him staring at the liquid.

  “Vadter?” Fer-Rog asked.

  “It means ‘little water.’ By itself, it looks exactly like water. However, it’s a distilled spirit with a very high level of alcohol content. So high, that in many places they drink it in little glasses; hence the name ‘little water.’ ” Beya grinned.

  “Where is that sleepy-headed son of mine and his shield-mate?” Orcag demanded. “We can’t very well toast this decision without them!”

  “They will be here,” an older orc told Orcag. “They over-indulged last night and did not return until early this morning. They both appeared to have been sat upon by a giant!” The older orc laughed, as did Orcag.

  A groaning noise came from a door on the other side of the room as two orcs in fine if horribly disheveled clothes came stumbling into the room, shielding their eyes from the fierdlight.

  “Aggfred! Snoggard!” Fer-Rog and Rupert both shouted at the two orcs, who cringed at their loud bellows.

  “You’ve met?” Orcag asked the two apprentices, surprised by their recognition.

  “Yeah, we played drinking games at Headsmasher’s all night. We had a blast!” Fer-Rog exclaimed.

  Orcag looked at them closely, then turned to look at Aggfred and Snoggard, slightly sourly. He then turned back to Rupert and Fer-Rog. “Did you two bow out early?”

  Fer-Rog and Rupert blinked in surprise. “No, we won!” Rupert said.

  Orcag turned back to his son and sighed, shaking his head, but said nothing, gesturing the two very glarghvosted orcs to take their seats. He took his own and waited for the two youths to get into position for the toast. Orcag gestured and everyone stood and reached for their glasses.

  “This is a glorious day in Ithgar. Beya Fei Geist and her unusual friends bring great tidings, along with a great mission. Lord Tommus, the heir to Orcus, has relit the Flames of Doom! We are now on the path to the Restoration of Glory, and the first step will be relighting the Doom of Ithgar so that we shall have direct and permanent access between Ithgar and Mount Doom!”

  Everyone in the room cheered, raising their glasses in preparation.

  “On this great adventure to begin the Restoration of Glory, I have committed the resources of the Deathfinger clan, to be spearheaded by my son and heir, Aggfred, and his shield-mate, Snoggard. They, along with a band of Deathfingers, shall accompany Lord Tommus’s designated representative in Ithgar, Beya Fei Geist, to the Doom of Ithgar!” Orcag proclaimed to loud cheers.

  “And so to my friend, Beya, her tribe, our D’Orc allies and our own band of warriors, we drink to success!” Orcag shouted before downing the orange juice and vadter in a single gulp.

  Fort Murgatroid: Midmorning

  Arch-Diocate Iskerus woke to the tweeting of birds he could not immediately identify. The scent of freshly plastered walls was easily identifiable, along with other scents he associated with large grassy plains. He could also feel the warmth of morning fierdlight upon his face and neck, as if coming through a window.

  That was not right. He was, or should be, in a tent in the cleared region around Freehold. He opened his eyes to take in his surroundings and blinked. He was, indeed, in what appeared to be a sparsely furnished small bedroom with freshly limed walls and new, hewn-plank flooring.

  He was lying on a small wood frame bed with what felt like a grass and feather mattress. There was a small table and chair in the room, currently above his head from his prone position. A washing bowl and large clay water pitcher were sitting on the table.

  A second chair containing his outer clothing, neatly folded and appearing far cleaner than it had been in a quarter-month, was a few feet away. His short sword, dagger and other accouterments lay on top of the clothes. He realized he was wearing only his standard undergarments, in the state he would have expected.

  To his right a few feet away was a wall with an un-paned window, with shutters wide open to allow the morning light in. On the opposite wall from the window was an open door leading to a hallway, which also appeared to be freshly plastered.

  Iskerus frowned. Where was he? What had happened and why wasn’t he in his tent? He tried to remember what had happened last night. He had been doing his regular mirrorings, delayed in the case of the high pontificate due to Prince Kristof’s disappearance. He had researched claims from Verigas about a potential Dream Sending. He’d taken a walk to clear his head; there was something he’d been troubled by.

  Iskerus sat up suddenly on his bed, remembering what had happened. He had run into strangers in his camp who’d been stealing barding, and around the corner had come Saint Hilda of Rivenrock! The saint that Verigas claimed to have received a sending from—the same woman who had been pretending to be a healer in Freehold!

  Iskerus gasped and dropped back on the bed, causing it to move slightly on the wood flooring. Beragamos Antidellas, the foremost Supreme Archon of Tiernon, had also walked around the corner of the tent! He had stumbled upon a saint and one of the greatest avatars of his religion, stealing barding from his camp!

  Iskerus stared at the ceiling above him, the fresh plaster and large wooden log beams supporting the ceiling barely registering. Could that have been real? That sort of thing did not happen; Tiernon most certainly did not work in mysterious ways!

  His mind reeled, trying to grasp at some answer as to what he was sure he had witnessed, as well as trying to figure out where he was. This place was nothing at all like Tierhallon or any of the less fortunate places
one might end up spending eternity in his religion. This place seemed like some sort of outpost or something.

  “Ah. You are awake,” a calm, pleasant-sounding voice said from the open doorway.

  Iskerus turned to look at the voice and did a double take. He blinked again to try and clear his vision. Had he become completely divorced from reality? There was a young man, or rather, what appeared to be a half-orc, standing in the doorway, wearing what were clearly robes and vestments of Tiernon, albeit rather unusual ones.

  The half-orc’s garb was something out of the history books. Or perhaps a hybrid version. In part, they appeared to be those of a chaplain, but the stole and cincture were those of an Apostle of Tiernon—something that had not existed in Astlan for at least a thousand years, if not more.

  “Who are you? Where am I? Iskerus demanded awkwardly as he tried to rotate and sit up quickly.

  The half-orc smiled in a very friendly, paternal manner; something that Iskerus naturally recognized immediately, having used it more times than he could remember. “I am Teragdor, servant of Tiernon, and you are in the chapel house of Fort Murgatroid, on the border of Murgandy.”

  Iskerus shook his head. “Murgandy?” He tried to remember where Murgandy was; it took a moment. “You mean Murgandy as in to the east of the Cythanian Federation?”

  “Yes, just south of The United Federation,” Teragdor agreed with a smile.

  “That has to be a thousand leagues from Freehold! How long have I been unconscious?” Iskerus asked in shock.

  “As I understand it, you passed out in your camp. Saint Stevos simply eased you into a deeper sleep and they brought you here shortly after the third hour. It’s now just after the seventh hour.” Teragdor gave him a reassuring smile; at least, Iskerus assumed that it was supposed to be reassuring. The young man was half-orc, so it was a bit hard to be sure.

  “Saint Stevos?” Iskerus asked, trying to buy time to process this.

  “Saint Stevos Delastros, Patron Saint of Travelers of the Border Forests and my personal patron.” Teragdor nodded. “He was the one aiding Danyel, the Rod member on our team, lug the barding from the tent where it was stored.”