03- The Apostles of Doom

by J. Langland

  “Not so many.” Trevin grimaced, brow furrowing in thought.

  “And this was just a feeling, something I just sort of knew, but I am pretty sure that the moat was filled with Holy Water. The place was inundated by the presence of the Five Siblings,” Elrose added.

  “Okay, then,” Trevin said. “Holy Water moats are something you will likely only find on Nysegard.”

  “The Storm Lords, then?” Maelen asked.

  “So it would certainly seem,” Trevin agreed. “On two fronts.”

  “It’s not like the playing field wasn’t crowded enough as it was,” Jenn groused.

  Trevin sighed and rubbed her eyes with her right hand. “My compatriots in the Grove will have to be alerted. The Grove’s issues just got much more complicated with the Storm Lords involved.”

  ~

  Gastropé stood nervously next to Jenn behind Trevin in the orcs’ tent. The tribe holding the alvar was called the Stone Fingers, and their chief was one Elgrida Far Eyes. Interestingly enough, this tribe of orcs seemed to respect the Grove and its flag of truce. When they had first started traveling together, Trevin had told them that a lot of what the Grove did was play intermediary.

  They were not, she had assured them, diplomats so much as interlocutors. Orcs did not like diplomats, or more precisely, felt they were about as useless and spineless as lawyers. Gastropé idly wondered if they’d had any wars with Oorstemoth and how they would ever be able to settle them. Neither side seemed likely to ever simply surrender.

  Respectful of the Grove or not, it was clear to Gastropé that the orcs were not likely to release the prisoners without some concessions.

  “I, personally, agree that the alvar acted hastily and are technically in violation of the armistice. Prince Ariel, however, considers their activity to be self-defense,” Trevin tried to explain one more time to the chieftain.

  “How defense against not attack?” Elgrida asked in typical broken Trade.

  “It is complicated,” Trevin said.

  “We no attack. We do our lives. Alvar attack our people. No provoke. Our land, our peaceful land. Alvar violent, attack innocent travelers,” Elgrida said. “Deserve death.”

  “And most of them did die. Your people saw to that. However, those that are still alive, the alvar would like to have back with no more harm done to them,” Trevin said.

  “Why? They proof of alvar lies and treachery!” Elgrida demanded.

  Trevin shook her head. “This will take some time. I believe it will speed things up if I speak Orcish. May my associates have some water and be allowed to stretch their legs while we talk?”

  Elgrida’s mouth twisted in what Gastropé thought might be a pleased grin. Apparently things were moving in the direction the chieftain wanted. She gestured to one of her warriors, who motioned to the rest of the party: Maelen, Elrose, Jenn, Gastropé and Peter, who had driven the carpet for them.

  They had purposefully gone in without obvious weapons, since they were on a peaceful mission. Trevin had assured them that the orcs knew who she was and that their lack of weapons would not be seen as a weakness, but rather as a sign of strength.

  They exited the tent with the warrior who had gestured to them and one other warrior. “Devdesh bring water in short time. Walk this area. No spy! No go in tents,” The warrior said.

  “Uhm, is there a latrine, someplace I can—make water?” Gastropé asked the warrior. He had been holding his bladder for some time. He probably should not have drunk so much tea earlier.

  The orc warrior snorted derisively and pointed to what appeared to be a roofless tent about three hundred feet away. “Go make water. Hah.”

  Gastropé clenched his jaw and marched off to the latrine. It was a bit embarrassing, but if the talks were going to take quite some time, he would have no choice. Better to get comfortable now rather than be squirming later.

  Gastropé made his way back from the open pit surrounded by curtains that the orcs called a latrine. He was very glad he had only needed to make water. There had been no amenities for the other sort of business.

  “The question is, will Elgrida be able to get the alvar to agree to leave our lands in exchange for their prisoners,” a rather familiar-sounding voice said in perfect Trade from a nearby tent.

  “Doubtful. We will probably have to fight them all the way to the Doomalogue,” another, deeper, voice said.

  A third, very large-sounding person chuckled. “I really have no problem with that. Personally, I hope the alvar need some more lessons.”

  Gastropé stopped. Who in an orc camp would be speaking perfect Trade with no accent? And why did that first voice sound so familiar?

  “I would not mind a few more of those training lessons from Lord Tommus,” the first voice said. Gastropé suddenly recognized the voice.

  “Tal Gor?” Gastropé called softly towards the tent. He did not want any of his compatriots hearing him.

  There was sudden silence inside the tent; within moments a tent flap on the left side of the tent opened and Tom’s shaman, Tal Gor, popped his head out. “Gastropé!” he called out happily. “What are you doing here?”

  Gastropé quickly made quieting gestures with his hand and hurried over to Tal Gor. “The alvar have asked the Nimbus to bargain for the release of the prisoners,” Gastropé told him. “I wondered if it was you and your friends that took out the alvar; I just didn’t expect you to still be here.”

  Tal Gor nodded and gestured for him to come inside the rather large tent.

  Gastropé entered to find three other orcs and two very large—D’Orcs? He had never seen a D’Orc, of course—none had come through with Edwyrd—but they could be nothing else.

  “Who is this?” one of the D’Orcs asked suspiciously.

  “This is Gastropé; he is one of Lord Tommus’s warlocks!” Tal Gor told them.

  Not technically true… Gastropé thought to himself, but he was not going to disabuse them of that fine point.

  “Gastropé, this is Zargvarst El Crooked Stick, our D’Orc mission commander.” Tal Gor gestured to the D’Orc who had asked who he was.

  “This is Dider An Sep.” Tal Gor gestured to what Gastropé suddenly realized was a female D’Orc. He was not sure she wasn’t scarier than the male D’Orc.

  “Lob Smasher is an elder of my tribe,” he said, gesturing to an older orc. “And this is my brother Bor Tal and sister Soo An.” Tal Gor motioned to the remaining orcs in the tent.

  Gastropé nodded. “An honor to meet you.” He had no idea what the appropriate greeting was for an orc ally.

  “You are a warlock of Lord Tommus?” Zargvarst asked. “Why were you not at the ceremony? And why are you with those bartering for the alvar?”

  “Uhm...” Gastropé had to think fast. “I am on a mission for Lord Tommus. I am keeping an eye on the Grove and several members of the Council of Wizardry, and could not get away for the ceremony. Which was fortunate, since I was able to open a gateway for the shamans to get back to the material planes.”

  That was basically the case. Okay, technically he was not on a mission for Tom, but as long as Tal Gor played along, that should work.

  “So you are a spy?” Didar An Sep asked.

  “Well, I am keeping an eye on the Grove and their—allies—and if necessary, report what I learn to Lord Tommus,” Gastropé hedged, deeply.

  “A spy,” Didar An Sep repeated.

  “Spies are sneaky,” Zargvarst stated as fact. “However, so are alvar.” He inhaled deeply through his giant nostrils. “It makes sense to fight fire with fire.” The D’Orc nodded. “It is not something I would want to do, but I see the need.”

  “So did you know what the alvar were up to?” Lob Smasher asked him.

  “We were in Noajar when we got word that the alvar were planning to patrol the skies here. We immediately set course to intercept them and try and force them to give up this very obvious incursion. The Grove is very serious about ensuring that the armistice is kept, and wantin
g to stop the alvar. We were simply too late,” Gastropé said, trying not to sweat too much. It was hot in here.

  “So this Grove place? It knows the alvar are in breach?” Soo An asked.

  “Indeed. Trevin, their leader, spent no little time cursing out the alvar for their stupidity and paranoia,” Gastropé said, exaggerating.

  “As she should.” Bor Tal nodded in approval.

  “So, do you want to tell me about this battle? I hear it was epic!” Gastropé grinned at Tal Gor. He wanted to get as much information as he could.

  “If we are going to do this, we should have some glargh!” Bor Tal exclaimed.

  “I could do with a drop of x-glargh.” Zargvarst nodded.

  Didar An Sep also nodded. “I feel much better about this discussion with the Grove, knowing now that Lord Tommus has his claws resting on their shoulders!”

  Gastropé swallowed hard, he was once more in over his head.

  “I shall get the bottles; I will also let the Stone Fingers know we have a guest!” Lob Smasher said.

  The Inferno: Early Fifth Period

  “I have only had a chance to briefly review the contract they sent over,” Chancellor Alighieri told those assembled in the captain’s mess.

  “And?” Heron asked.

  “Well, as I said, it’s only a cursory scan. The document is a reasonably taut six hundred and thirty-two pages long,” the chancellor said. “However, it does appear to be of impeccable logic and thoroughness.”

  “Does it prevent them from blowing the ship up once they are inside?” Sir Gadius asked.

  Dante blinked in surprise at the question. “Well… on first glance, yes. Now obviously, there may be some loophole conditions under which they may be able to do so; as I’ve said, this has been but a cursory review. I’ll be going over it in detail with the ship’s legal team.”

  Sir Gaius shook his head. “A contract is only as good as the paper it’s written on.” He turned to look at Sir Samwell. “Do you think they will honor it?”

  Sir Samwell shrugged and seemed to think for a moment. “Well, I do not know this Melissance; you will need to reach your own conclusions as to how far she can be trusted. As far as this bodyguard of hers, Salvatore? Assuming he is sworn to Hesseforthalus and that Hesseforthalus signs the contract, then you can trust what is in the contract.”

  “You are saying this archdemon is trustworthy?” Barabus asked the knight.

  Sir Samwell shook his head. “No, I am not saying that. I am saying that he will honor his contract. He is known for taking contracts very seriously. He is a Denubian DemonTM after all; contracts are very important to them.”

  “Excellent!” Chancellor Alighieri exclaimed, pleased.

  “What you need to worry about,” Sir Samwell said, continuing after a pause to look Barabus in the eye, “is what is not in the contract.”

  Astlan, Stone Finger Camp: Mid Fifth Period

  “Where is he?” Jenn asked for what felt like the umpteenth time.

  “Maybe he fell in?” Maelen asked.

  “I hear that orcan latrines are anything but pleasant.” Elrose grinned.

  “No, seriously, where did he go? And why are the guards not more worried about him being missing?” Jenn asked. “They haven’t even batted an eye at the fact that one of the interlocutors for the alvar seems to have disappeared into their camp.”

  “We have been together long enough, and through enough insanity, that I would sense if he was in danger,” Maelen assured her. “I sense nothing ominous.”

  Peter nodded. “Gastropé is more than capable of taking care of himself. Remember how easily he summoned three fiends on a wildly gyrating carpet? If the orcs gave him any problems, he could just summon his demons.”

  Jenn closed her eyes. That would be all they needed: Tizzy in the middle of an orc camp! She didn’t even want to think how that might go. It would certainly destroy whatever chance they might have to get the alvaran prisoners back. “I am going to check the latrines,” she declared.

  The others shrugged, so she marched off in the direction Gastropé had gone. She was about three-quarters of the distance and was passing an extra-large tent when she heard people speaking in fluent, accent-free Trade.

  “And then the wizard sent a lightning bolt right towards me, and Hefngratz spun at the craziest angle and took the entire bolt to his stomach!” a voice proclaimed.

  “Did he completely absorb the bolt? Did you feel anything?” Gastropé’s voice asked in amazement.

  “Not a thing!” the voice said joyfully. “Everyone needs a D’Warg!”

  “I don’t want to go into battle without one!” a female voice agreed.

  What in the Abyss? Jenn said to herself. Why was Gastropé speaking to people in an orc camp about D’Wargs? She moved around the side of the tent and located the opening flap.

  “Well, you certainly do not want to go into battle against a D’Warg!” a very deep voice said, laughing.

  Jenn shook her head in annoyance and pulled the flap to the side.

  “Gastropé! What are you—” Jenn stopped in mid-sentence, frozen in shock.

  Inside the tent was Gastropé, drinking what appeared to be beer out of a very large mug, sitting on a pillow. Also in the tent were three orc warriors, what she guessed was a shaman and—and—and what were those monstrosities?

  “Who is this?” one of the monstrosities asked Gastropé as it took a drink from its own mug.

  Jenn shook her head and gaped at the creature. It was some sort of horrific cross between a demon and an orc. A D’Orc? A demon orc? That was all it could be! And Gastropé was in a tent drinking with two of them and four orcs? Swapping tales of battle? The battle with the prisoners they were trying to free?

  Jenn blinked three or four times and then pulled her head back and let the tent flap drop. She stepped back, trying to figure out how to process this.

  “Ah… Abyssal dung beetles,” she heard Gastropé curse.

  “Would those be D’Dung Beetles?” one of the orcs asked, causing the others in the tent to burst out laughing.

  Nysegard, Darg-Krallnomton: Mid Fifth Period

  This is critical information! Ruiden thought, sounding almost angry to Talarius.

  The two were working through one of their standard routines. Talarius liked to run through different martial exercises before dinner each evening. It was important in times of noncombat to stay fit and in touch with one’s weapons; thus, he and Ruiden were working through a set of moves and while doing so, Talarius had filled the sword in on the D’Orcing ceremony, during which Talarius had left Ruiden in the barracks where he had been staying. Surrounded by allies, he had not felt the need to have the great sword strapped to his back. The less cumbersome Rod of Smiting, which fit in its own compartment, was more than sufficient in the situation. Ruiden had not known what he had been missing, and now that the sword knew, it was not thrilled at having missed it.

  You do know I am a demon-slaying sword? Yet you did not think I would find such a ceremony interesting? Observing how demons are created? Ruiden asked.

  Sorry, Talarius responded. I did not know that was what was going to happen. Did you know that D’Orcs and demons were created the same way? You are a demon-slaying sword, not a D’Orc-slaying sword, right?

  Ruiden was silent for a while. Talarius continued working through the pattern of moves, but he could tell Ruiden was distracted, or maybe pouting? The sword did not flow quite as smoothly as usual. It was still smoother and lighter than any non-magical sword, and most magical swords for that matter, but it was not demonstrating the same level of coordination—or perhaps the term was cooperation—that he was accustomed to.

  “What can I do to make it up to you?” Talarius asked out loud.

  Have them make another D’Orc? Ruiden suggested.

  I doubt they are going to be willing to do that with no suitable candidate. There was a lot of work and preparation that went into this ceremony, Talarius told the sword. />
  Ruiden made what Talarius interpreted as a mental harrumph noise.

  Talarius shook his head. Can’t you read my memories or something?

  I am not a mind reader! I can mentally talk to you, but I can’t access your memories, at least not as far as I know, the sword told him.

  That was actually something of a relief; Talarius had no desire to press that issue. Perhaps your father could tell you how it’s done. Surely he knows? he suggested.

  In case you haven’t noticed, my father talks even less than I do! Ruiden replied.

  Talarius sighed. He needed to do something to get back on his sword’s good side. He shook his head; he really could not believe he needed to keep a sword happy. Tom had seriously mucked up his life! Things were suddenly much more complicated. Perhaps you could speak with Tamarin, then? Talarius suggested. He was not thrilled at the idea of having his sword talk to one of the demon lord’s minions, but she was a djinn. Djinn were not a priori evil; they could be good or evil. At least, he believed that was the case. They were typically seen as neutral forces within the realms.

  Very well. Set that up and we shall see how it goes, Ruiden finally agreed after several more moments of silence.

  Astlan, Stone Finger Camp: Mid Fifth Period

  Gastropé set his beer down and scrambled to his feet. “I need to deal with this,” he told the others. “I will be back as soon as I can.” He pushed his way through the tent flap to find Jenn standing with her back to the tent. Her stance told him she was angry. She glanced back to ensure it was he who had left the tent and then started marching away; fortunately not back towards the Nimbus party, nor into the orc camp.

  Gastropé grimaced and followed.

  “What were you doing in there?” Jenn nearly shouted after they had left the immediate vicinity of the camp.

  “I was getting a firsthand account of the battle!” Gastropé said.

  Jenn shook her head in frustration. “What? You just found a random orc and said ‘take me to the D’Orcs and tell me about the battle over a beer’?” She stopped suddenly and spun to face him. “You could have been killed, you idiot! These monsters killed about six dozen alvar and their hippogriffs!”