03- The Apostles of Doom

by J. Langland

  Phaestus smiled. “Let me try to make it simpler. There are the material planes, which in many ways are simply one many-faceted plane with infinite reflections. The Æsir, Vanir and Jötunn refer to all the material planes as Midgard, the middle world. Between the Outer Planes and Midgard lies Limbo, and between Midgard and the Abyss lies Purgatory.”

  “So when Tizzy told me that the Abyss was two planes down from Astlan, the one plane down was—or is—Purgatory?” Tom asked.

  “Exactly!” Boggy nodded, as did Phaestus.

  “Okay…” Tom said slowly. “I think I’m going to leave questions about these two planes until later. We have a few other things to deal with first.”

  The group looked at him expectantly. “Karth Death Cheater, one of the greatest orc shamans of the last thousand years on the Isle of Doom, is nearing death. We, the council and Targh Bowelsplitter have decided that Karth would make a great D’Orc shaman,” Tom informed them.

  “I would agree,” Phaestus said, nodding. “And we need more D’Orcs as well.”

  “Do you know how to, uhm, D’Orc someone?” Antefalken asked.

  Tom nodded. “Tamarin, Vaselle and several first-generation D’Orc shamans are working on recreating the ritual.”

  “Excellent! This shall be really interesting,” Antefalken exclaimed. “I cannot wait to see this. I am getting a treasure trove of knowledge here!”

  “Yes, but there is a small hitch,” Tom said.

  “What?” Estrebrius asked.

  “We need Tizzy,” Tom said.

  Everyone except Phaestus shook their heads or made similar gestures of disbelief.

  “I’m sorry,” Boggy said. “I do not think I heard you correctly. He’s my partner, and while there have been many times I have needed him, pretty sure I am the only other person to feel that way.”

  “We need demon weed,” Tom said. “And apparently that is what he smokes in his pipe. He is the only person I know that has any.” Tom sighed and looked at Boggy. “Unfortunately, he has been mysteriously absent the last few days. I was hoping you might have some way to contact him? You are his partner, after all.

  Boggy grimaced and shook his head slowly. “Sorry. He somehow finds me all the time, but it is only when he chooses. I have no idea how to contact him. To be honest, it has been a problem more than once.”

  “Dang.” Tom sighed. “We haven’t got much time. Karth overextended himself using magic, and now he is paying the price, and it is killing him. Tamarin is hoping to buy him some more time, but she cannot buy much.”

  Phaestus shook his head. “That is unfortunate. I love Tizzy like a brother, but he is not the most reliable person.”

  The room was silent as everyone thought. After a few moments, Reggie coughed, causing everyone to look at him. “Uhm...” he said hesitantly.

  “Idea, lad?” Boggy asked.

  “Well, I have, and we”—he glanced to Phaestus—“suspect that Völund may have a stash of cookies we could use,” Reggie said rather hesitantly.

  “As I recall, he did not eat any cookies at the party,” Boggy said.

  Phaestus nodded. “As I told Reggie, Völund does not ‘officially’ eat cookies; millennia ago he used to complain that cookies were slowing people down, making them lazy. However, at the party I did notice him pocketing a good number.” The god grinned.

  Tom grimaced and shook his head slightly, not understanding. “What do you mean? How would cookies help?”

  It was Phaestus’s turn to cough, and Tom turned to look at him.

  “Tizzy’s cookies are made with demon butter,” the god said.

  “What?” Tom asked, still not understanding.

  “They are edibles,” Reggie said. “You know, Colorado Cookies?”

  Tom’s head went back in surprise. “You mean they’re pot cookies?”

  Phaestus shrugged. “Demon pot cookies.”

  “Yeah, they are to pot what x-glargh is to glargh,” Reggie said. “X-pot, I guess.”

  “We are already calling it demon weed. So I would stick with d-pot, or d-weed,” Boggy suggested.

  Reggie made a thoughtful expression. “I suppose, but then why don’t we call x-glargh, d-glargh, to be consistent?”

  “Because the D’Orcs started calling it x-glargh first, and it’s too hard to get them to change their habits,” Phaestus explained.

  “So x-glargh predates demon weed?” Reggie asked.

  Phaestus shook his head. “No, demon weed came first. Orcus needed it to make D’Orcs. However, in the day we didn’t call it demon weed. It has had other names. Remember, these things all sort of evolve naturally over time, linguistic habits and such.”

  Tom shook his head. He liked his friends, but their ability to go completely off topic was extremely frustrating. Perhaps he was spending too much time with the D’Orcs. He sighed out loud. “Fascinating discussion,” he interrupted. “Reggie, round up all the cookies you can find. I have no idea how much we’ll need.”

  “Do you want me to check with Rupert and Fer-Rog as well?” Reggie asked.

  Tom furrowed his brow, wondering what Reggie was talking about. Suddenly, Tom remembered the oath taking celebration and Rupert and Fer-Rog sitting in the corner, eating a giant pile of cookies! Tom closed his eyes and carefully pinched the bridge of his nose. He supposed it was a good thing he really wasn’t Rupert’s father, because he was clearly very bad at being a dad.

  Citadel of Light: DOA +12, Mid First Period

  Hilda followed the Ranger of Torean through the labyrinthine halls of the Citadel of Light. Hilda held her tongue from making the observation that for a “Citadel of Light” the place seemed rather dark, gloomy and oppressive. Admittedly, it was the middle of the night, even later in the Citadel than in Freehold. What with being completely different planets, locations on planets and whatnot, it was probably more surprising that it was only a few hours later. Of course, given also that years and dates were completely different, perhaps it wasn’t that odd.

  She shook her head; it was a bit confusing. Obviously, she was well schooled in the nature of the multiverse and was a resident of Tierhallon and such; however, she actually had very little experience with traveling to different worlds. All her life, her work, her mission, had always been focused in, on and around Astlan. Tierhallon, of course, had no night, no day, no real fixed schedules. Night and day were generally arbitrary and varied from location to location. Avatars had no actual need to sleep, either; however, most did when they could just to break up the day and give themselves some down time so that they could refresh themselves. However, when working in Astlan, or for that matter, anywhere on the material planes, one tended to resume thinking in terms of fixed night and day; and given how much time she was spending in Astlan, her mindset was tuned to its cycles.

  It was actually quite refreshing to be temporarily entrenched within the trappings of mortality and the concerns of night and day. Which brought her to one of the more interesting things about the Citadel of Light. The Citadel was actually as active, if not more active, at night than during the day.

  The hallways of this giant fortress were bustling with people, a truly amazing variety of races actually, going to and fro on their daily, or in this case, nightly business. The Ranger leading her, while Astlanian, had been here for about a day and a half and as a scout, had quickly figured out the lay of the land and informed her that the Citadel of Light worked in three shifts, around the clock. “Eternal Vigilance Against the Night” was their watch phrase.

  It made quite a bit of sense to Hilda; the undead were far more active at night than during the day. Thus, if an attack were to come, it would most likely happen during the night. Vampires, vampyrs, specters and numerous other Unlife did not get along well with fierdlight, or atunlight in this case. Zombies and ghouls were, of course, fine during the light of day. Liches, while light sensitive, had magical protection, but tended to rely on armies and servants that shunned the day.

  This should be an in
teresting adventure. Her specialty, of course, was Unlife. Fighting the Unlife was what had gotten her martyred and thus ascended. Her primary patronage was defense against the Unlife, her secondaries being women and children, so naturally, in many ways she should be right at home. She had studied extensively on the lore and how to defeat Unlife in saint school.

  By and large, Unlife outbreaks in Astlan were not that common. The Knights Rampant were more than enough to deal with most cases. Hilda typically only had to intervene when someone was trapped, alone and in need of help against Unlife, much as she herself had been when she died.

  The Ranger leading her stopped at a good-sized, iron-banded wooden door and knocked. A voice from within called, “Come in.” The Ranger opened the door and stuck his head in. “Saint Hilda of Rivenrock, Your Holiness.”

  “Excellent. Send her in!” a second, deeper and louder voice exclaimed. The Ranger stepped back and motioned for Hilda to enter.

  She entered the room, her guide closing the door behind her. Sitting at a table strewn with various maps were Stevos and Timbly. Both men stood as she entered, and Hilda noted them eyeing her picnic basket.

  “Hilda? Did you bring some of your delicious wine?” Timbly asked with great anticipation.

  “Of course. You do not think I would arrive empty-handed, do you?” Hilda asked.

  “Thank Tiernon and Torean! The wine here is only a step or two above Murgatory,” Stevos exclaimed.

  “Where do you get such delicious wines?” Timbly asked as Hilda set the basket on an empty chair. Stevos cleared the maps so that Hilda might set bottles and glasses on the table.

  “Historically, I have simply accumulated interesting wines as I found them, and kept them in my wine closet,” Hilda told them. “However, as this mission goes on, my closet has become increasingly bare, so I’ve taken to scouring the wine purveyors of Freehold. Fortunately, given that Beragamos also has an exquisite palate, he has taken to approving my expense reports.”

  “I suspect Moradel and Sentir would as well.” Stevos grinned.

  “Indeed, yet even they must follow at least some protocols. Beragamos, on the other hand, answers only to our lord god.” Hilda smiled back as she uncorked the first bottle.

  “I suspect he would also approve your expense reports,” Stevos said, waving the cork beneath his nose for the aroma and with his thumb. He checked the moistness of the cork. It was important that the cork be sufficiently moist to guarantee that bottle had been stored on its side and not upright. Further, by examining the dust lines on the bottle, one could hopefully make some determination of periodic rotation. One wanted to ensure that the bottle had properly settled, yet not in any way separated.

  Hilda began pouring the wine. “I should so pray,” she said, grinning at the two of them. She finished pouring and took a seat, as did the other two.

  Hilda raised her glass in a toast. “To our mission! May the grace of Tiernon and Torean be with us!”

  “To our mission; may Grace be with us!” the other two saints agreed in response, all three clinking their glasses.

  “So what progress?” Hilda asked after taking a sip. She smiled slightly, enjoying the flavors of the wine. It was exactly as she had hoped.

  “Interesting,” Timbly said.

  Hilda looked at him questioningly. “Not quite the response I was expecting.”

  “It is slow going, even with Inethya here,” Stevos replied, shaking his head.

  “How so? We do not require that much,” Hilda said.

  Timbly sighed. “Apparently things are a bit bleaker here than they have been in centuries.”

  “From what I’ve heard of this place, I find that disturbing,” Hilda said.

  “Indeed,” Stevos agreed. “The High Pontificate of Tiernon upon Nysegard, Sessblame, perished about six months ago.”

  “Of decidedly unnatural causes,” Timbly said, raising his eyebrows while preparing to take a sip of wine.

  “Quarter-months or full months?” Hilda asked.

  “Month months. Nysegard only has a single moon,” Timbly said.

  “A single moon?” Hilda asked in consternation. “I would think that would be highly unstable. How could you balance the masculine and feminine astrological influences?” She shook her head. “I’d be terrified of the moon plunging into the planet’s surface!”

  Stevos shook his head. “I know! But for some reason, it is apparently stable. I cannot explain it, but then astrology has never been my strong suit. It’s all science to me!” He waved his hands dismissively.

  Timbly nodded. “From what I can gather, I believe it was about nine to ten quarter-months ago, Astlan time.”

  “So they suspect a plot by the Storm Lords?” Hilda asked.

  “Indeed. Further, new activities of the Storm Lords is making it difficult for the arch-diocates to assemble to select a new High Pontificate,” Stevos said. “In particular, there is increasing evidence that they are moving to attack this particular stronghold, the largest fortress of the Five Siblings upon Nysegard.”

  “So these movements of the Storm Lords’ minions, that is what is limiting their resources for assisting us?” Hilda asked.

  “Yes, in large part,” Timbly said. “In particular, the Dark Fleet seems to be working to blockade Namora’s vessels trying to reach the Citadel. Ships are making it out, but none returning have been able to pass.”

  Hilda shook her head slightly. It was quite disturbing if Namora’s ships could be blockaded. That was not something that happened in Astlan. Ever. “Well, I had not really thought to go by sea,” she said. “I was rather expecting to locate a luminary closer to where Talarius was and use that link to open a portal.”

  “Not so easy,” Stevos said, shaking his head. “Apparently there are no priests or other illuminaries of Tiernon upon the Isle of Doom.”

  “There may be a few Rangers, but we are having trouble tracking them down,” Timbly said.

  “The priests of Torean here don’t know where their Rangers are?” Hilda asked.

  “The Rangers are heavily deployed and concentrated around our various strongholds,” Timbly said. “Those that are far afield tend to be very far afield. Travel to the Isle of Doom is very time-consuming, short of a portal. So there may be some Rangers there, or they may be en route to or from. The infrastructure is far more concentrated and limited in Nysegard, compared to Astlan.”

  “And I cannot say that our contacts here are as helpful as we might like,” Stevos said.

  That caused Hilda to do a double take. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, it appears that they, or at least the servants of Tiernon, are feeling a bit underserved by their avatars,” Stevos said drily, taking another sip.

  “Underserved?” Hilda asked.

  “They seem most put out that no saint or avatar of Tiernon has shown up on Nysegard in a thousand-plus years, despite the often urgent need, given their fight against evil, yet a small Heavenly Host appears out of the blue to rescue a single Knight Rampant from Astlan,” Stevos answered.

  “As Inethya was told, rather sternly, Nysegard has lost a large number of Knights Rampant in the last thousand-plus years, and yet no assistance from Tierhallon appeared,” Timbly said. “And to be fair, Toreanhold has generally followed Tierhallon’s lead in this regard. Although not quite as rigidly. There have been a couple minor interventions.”

  “This is due to Sentir Fallon’s desire to not lose any more avatars?” Hilda asked.

  Stevos nodded, raising his glass slightly.

  “I understand the desire to not lose avatars, in particular saints, who would be the front line. However,” she said, gesturing around at the Citadel, “clearly such a battle-rich environment would provide more than ample opportunities for ascension of new saints?”

  Stevos nodded slightly. “That was my thought. Having seen a good part of this fortress, and listened to reports of what is going on, I would think there would be more than enough heroic deaths in the face of ev
il to merit a steady stream of saints.” He shrugged. “And yes, many would be younger, newer saints, but that would still allow for greater holy resources than that which any mortal could provide.”

  “Certainly there is more than sufficient mana generation and worship to provide very good mana streams relative to the population size,” Timbly added.

  “Yet Tierhallon is not promoting more?” Hilda asked.

  “Correct. Inethya was rather silent on this; however, it was clear that she was aware of the issue and seemed genuinely frustrated by it.” Stevos said.

  “As in her hands were tied, so to speak?” Hilda asked.

  “Exactly.” Stevos nodded, as did Timbly. Hilda simply shook her head.

  Mount Doom: Late Second Period

  Tom returned to his suite from the Library of Doom, where he, Vaselle, Tamarin and three D’Orc shamans from Nysegard had spent the last several hours going over their preparations for the “D’Orcing.” That was Tom’s preferred term, although technically it was considered an ascension by the orcs. He’d reserved his comments upon his thoughts about the term, but given that they were sending the orc to the Abyss, he felt “descension” might be a better term. That, however, would be counterproductive to team morale.

  He opened his door and stopped in surprise at the sight of Boggy, Estrebrius, and Tizzy playing poker at this late hour. “You three are still up?” he asked.

  “No rest for the wicked!” Tizzy quipped. The others grinned.

  Tom shook his head. Antefalken had used the same expression just the other day. Very odd how certain cultural expressions seemed to cross the multiverse. Extremely odd, in fact; however, if he were going to start counting everything that did not add up around here, he would get nothing else done.

  “Where have you been?” he asked the octopod. “No one has seen hide nor hair of you for several days!”

  Tizzy blinked, lowered his cards, tilted and turned his head to stare at Tom in shock. “What? You noticed?”

  Tom shook his head at the crazy demon. “Of course, I noticed!” Of course, he almost hadn’t, but… “Do you think if you simply run off and disappear for days on end that I won’t miss you?”