03- The Apostles of Doom Page 55
Suddenly there was a huge crash of thunder and lightning struck the center of the pentacle. The material components they had placed there burst into flame, roaring higher and higher. Inside the flame, a very large winged creature unbent and stretched out, screaming in soul-rending agony.
Vaselle grabbed Tamarin’s hand and squeezed. They were watching the birth of a D’Orc, the first created one in over four thousand years! He glanced at her, she was smiling every bit as brightly as he was.
~
“Dear Lord Tiernon above!” Talarius rocked back and forth on his heels as the new D’Orc screamed from within the henge. Its agonizing scream was somehow audible above the insane cacophony of the drug-addled partiers.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Sir Stainsberry said.
“And more than a little bit frightening. By the way, I am also seeing colors I have never seen before. Not sure where they came from, or where they’ve been,” Talarius said, blinking rapidly as some smoke got in his eyes.
At last, the new D’Orc quieted down. Lord Tommus asked it a few more questions in that very odd language, to which it replied in the same tongue.
“What language is that, and why can’t we understand it? I thought the demons and D’Orcs all spoke some sort of universal language.” Talarius looked to Stainsberry.
“Interesting that they call it Universal and not Multiversal,” Stainsberry commented while visibly swaying to the rhythm of the drums, which were slowing down and losing some of their intensity, allowing them to speak. “There are clearly some obvious limits to what it can translate. Or something. I think the point is that Lord Tommus isn’t actually speaking Universal.”
Sir Stainsberry blinked a few times and waved his hand towards Talarius in a vague gesture. “Could you please stop swaying so much? You are making me dizzy.”
“I’m not the one swaying. You are the one who is swaying!” Talarius paused, suddenly realizing that he was swaying, just like Stainsberry. “Oh wait, my bad. I am also swaying.”
Talarius moved his head from side to side, trying to clear it. “So what… what was he speaking?”
“Not sure,” Stainsberry said, “but I sort of think it might have been Jǫtunnspråk, the ancient high language of the jötunn. Sort of like High Jötnmál. Doubt anyone’s heard it since Ragnarök.”
“Ragnarök?” Talarius asked. “Wasn’t that some sort of huge battle between giants, gods and mortals?”
“Indeed. In theory, the last battle was but a few hundred years before Orcus was slain in Etterdam. Some among the El Ohîm suspect that his slaying may, in some way, have been the true last battle, or at least in some way connected.”
“Huh.” Talarius tilted his head to think about that, or at least to think about thinking about it. He was having a bit of difficulty concentrating on much of anything. Suddenly he noticed another splash of light from the center of the henge. The flames around the new D’Orc flashed brightly and then died, leaving no sign of Karth.
“He has gone to Mount Doom,” Sir Stainsberry said. “I wonder if they have someone watching for him?”
“That would be awkward, showing up at your new home with no one there to greet you,” Talarius said. “I think I need to sit down.”
“Good idea!” Stainsberry said. They both tried to sit down rather awkwardly; neither one had much in the way of equilibrium.
“I hate vertigo!” Talarius muttered.
DoomSpa: Minutes Later
“Incoming!” Talgorf yelled down the tunnel towards the DoomSpa. Bellyachus and Lesteroth Gorflog were supposed to be standing by. Talgorf was carrying the front end of the stretcher with Karth on it. Svartbart, the apprentice quartermaster, who was of Nysegardian descent, carried the rear of the stretcher. Ayega DeathTusk brought up the rear, behind the stretcher. As Commander of the 7th Regiment, she had been in charge of the welcoming committee.
“Make sure we have a nice, soothing, hot mercury bath for him! It’s been thousands upon thousands of years, but I still remember how much pain I was in after my ascension!” Ayega shouted at the top of her lungs.
Bellyachus shouted back. “We are all set, everything in place as ordered! Ufthak Skinpeeler has her massage table set up and ready to go as soon as he’s out of the bath!”
Ayega chuckled. “Excellent. There is no ache or pain a good session with Ufthak can’t cure. She is the best torturer I’ve ever encountered! She’s been at it for over twenty-one thousand years.”
“From the screams I hear outside her sessions, she sounds fantastic!” Talgorf said over his shoulder.
“She is. Of course, since the fall of Doom, she’s been limited to mostly massages, teaching yoga and Pilates classes and, of course, recreational and therapeutic torture,” Ayega said.
“No, she got in a few captives from Doom’s Redoubt,” Talgorf said. “I know one guy who chose to flee to the hinterlands after Lord Tommus’s deep freeze maneuver. He was once captured in one of our raids and she tortured him for a solid two decades before she got bored and tossed him out on the slopes of Mount Doom to drag his seriously broken body back to the Redoubt. He spoke of her often for the next six or seven hundred years. You don’t forget someone with her expertise.”
Ayega chuckled. “She’d be pleased to know that. Have you two reminisced?”
Talgorf shook his head. “No. To be honest, she sort of intimidates me. I’ve been too nervous to approach her on it.”
Ayega shook her head. “No, no, she’s a sweetheart. She loves to hear about past clients, at least when they’re still alive. Although, from what I’ve heard, you might not want to bring it up during a session. You know—old memories, old muscle memories?”
“Mmm. Good point!” Talgorf nodded in agreement.
“Unholy sephiroth!” Bellyachus exclaimed, seeing Karth on the stretcher. “He’s huge! Even for a D’Orc! That is one huge and scary-looking shaman!”
Ayega nodded. “That ceremony was more than a little overkill—or over-rebirth—or something. There were more people at that ceremony than any other I can remember seeing.”
Talgorf shook his head. “Given that he was already a very good shaman, he’s going to be really powerful.”
“We’re going to need one, I am sure,” Ayega agreed. “We have more than enough enemies.”
Library of Doom: DOA + 13, Early First Period
Tom wandered the seemingly endless aisles of books, taking calm solace in their comfort. He seriously needed to wind down after this evening. He wasn’t even sure how to describe it. He had been so nervous, so worried, stressed and anxious leading up to the ceremony; he couldn’t get over how calm he was now.
Yes, he was still completely wired from the entire experience, which was why he had sought the library to relax in, but he was not anxious. Worried thoughts and recriminations were not coursing through his brain as they so often were after major actions on his part. His mind felt quite light, clear and full of insights. He just felt good, happy, excited, yet so totally Zen.
It was like he had finally grokked the whole demon business for the first time. He was, maybe, finally cool with it. He had been on the active end this time and it really changed one’s perspective. Of course, his subject had been more than willing. Unlike the vast majority of demons.
For orcs, getting D’Orced was basically like canonization, divine ascension. You lived a good and virtuous mortal life, and the best and bravest were rewarded with immortality upon death. When it was fighting the good fight with glory and honor, in the service of the greater good, immortal life was a noble thing.
When it was as a slave to a nutso wizard, that was a bad thing. It was so odd how the same procedure could be so good and yet so evil. It was all about how and why it was done. Of course, that was basically true of anything, of everything.
Tom smiled happily as he wandered into the room with the really cool animage robes. Orcus’s animage robes were a layered set of robes with a belt that Tom found fascinating. He loved the design, t
he runes on it, the interwoven and interlocking symbols. He really didn’t know why he found it so fascinating; he just did.
Of course, technically, this was just the template robe. According to Antefalken, he was supposed to memorize these clothes and somehow make them part of his body. Talk about weird. Talk about grokking! You’d have to really know, understand, grok the robes in order to make them a part of yourself. So were all these wardrobe heavy demon lords Zen masters or something?
Tom shifted into Edwyrd, his belt and loin cloth falling noisily to the floor. He stepped out of the belt and walked naked over to the glass case that held the robes. He carefully opened the case, and a waft of stale air came tumbling out to tickle his nose. Even the fabric of the robes smelled fantastic at this distance.
Edwyrd carefully removed the layers of the robe, gently folding the outer layers and setting them at the base of the case. When he got to the inner layer, he took it off the manikin and carefully slipped it on. Oh... it felt so good. It was some strange material somewhere between silk and satin. He ran his hands over the inner robe, pressing it against his skin, feeling every inch of it, reveling in it. He then carefully put on the outer layers, taking time to run his hands over each layer to get a feel for it, and finally fastened the belt.
It was interesting to note that the robes contained numerous hidden pockets, the perfect place to store arrowheads or dragon teeth. “So comfortable,” Edwyrd said out loud.
They were a bit big for him, though. That wouldn’t be a problem if he created them as part of himself; he’d make them his size. But for the moment, the real robes dragged on the floor. He chortled as he suddenly realized he could just make himself a bit bigger. He did so, slowly growing until the robes fit.
There was a pair of matching boots in the case as well. He would need to find or generate some socks. Although if the boots were part of himself, would he need to wear socks? As he slid his feet in, the answer became obvious; the boots were lined with some sort of soft fur.
Edwyrd stepped back out of the room. He decided he would wander once more, now dressed in these robes. It would allow him to get used to their feel, and he could comfortably explore them with his mind, much as he did runes and magical spells. He suddenly remembered there was a small mirrored room nearby. He had previously dismissed it as a dressing room, but now he realized its import. He could look at himself from every direction and absorb the robes’ features.
He moved over to the dressing room, opening the door and stepping through into the gentle, indirect lighting of the room. He shut the door. Hell, even the floor and ceiling were mirrored. He laughed, exploring the images of himself in every conceivable direction while running his hands and fingers over the robe.
See me, feel me, touch me, heal me. Edwyrd gave a small laugh internally, as the song lyrics wafted up from the depths of his memory. That song would do it, it was perfect grokking music. Was there not even a mirror scene in the musical? Different song, though.
Edwyrd spun gently as the lyrics continued in his head, his heart filled with the music. Time to leave the mirrored room! He left, nearly flinging himself into one of the vast aisles of books. He placed his hands gently on the opposing shelves of books in one aisle and closed his eyes as he let the shelves guide him down the long hallway. He would let his mind travel the symbols of the robes.
See me, feel me, touch me, heal me.
See me, feel me, touch me, heal me.
See me, feel me, touch me, heal me.
Edwyrds’s mental fingers roved over the robes, touching, exploring every layer, every pattern. His mind wove through the fabric; yet at the same time, visions of tonight’s activities also flashed through his mind—the hundreds, perhaps thousands of people at the ceremony. He began running down the aisle with his eyes closed, guided by the books. Right behind you, I see the millions. On you, I see the glory!
Edwyrd grinned. He felt good. For once, in what seemed like a very long time, he actually felt happy and extremely content. He opened his eyes to stare into the future, imagining a young Roger Daltrey running down the next aisle along with him.
Listening to you, I get the music
Gazing at you, I get the heat
Following you, I climb the mountain
I get excitement at your feet
Tom grinned even more broadly, realizing it was only fitting that his mind would be playing music from a rock opera about someone with his own name.
Chapter 138
Citadel of Light: Early Second Period
Hilda shook her head in disbelief after Stevos and Timbly finished recounting their experiences from today. She stared briefly into her wine glass, pondering what she had just been told. Inethya was looking down at her hands, which were wrapped around the stem of her wine glass. Dashgar simply sighed.
“So is their view of Orcus considered heresy?” Stevos asked the others. Hilda, Dashgar, Inethya and Baysir had joined Stevos and Timbly this evening at the request of the on-site saints.
“We have been somewhat aware of their feelings for some time,” Dashgar said, looking at Inethya.
“If heresy this is, it is not new,” Inethya agreed.
“We’ve tried to look the other way, and to be fair, since he took over the localverse, Sentir has made it much easier for us to look away,” Dashgar said.
“Why look away?” Timbly asked.
Inethya sighed. “Orcus was perhaps our most important ally on Nysegard. With his assistance, we were slowly beating back the Unlife. He committed much more supernatural support to fighting the Unlife than any of the Five Siblings.”
“More supernatural support?” Stevos asked, puzzled.
“Immortal feet upon the ground, if you will. He deployed thousands of D’Orcs on the ground, easily two orders of magnitude compared to the number of saints or archons we kept on the ground. Even when the Five deployed avatars in Nysegard for major confrontations, there were still more than one order of magnitude more D’Orcs than avatars,” Inethya told them.
“Perhaps,” Hilda cautioned, “yet I am not sure I would discount the amount of mana that the various off-plane avatars would have deployed through their illuminaries. An avatar working through priests can be in many places at once; priests, as proxies, can greatly magnify an avatar’s ability to exert influence.”
Dashgar nodded in agreement. “That is, of course, the argument that has been made by Sentir Fallon.”
“And is certainly true on an ongoing basis. However, during major battles, D’Orcs and avatars are far more potent than mortal priests. Also, Orcus had shamans, wizards, and druids working with him,” Inethya said.
“As you know, the Five Churches are not easily persuaded to bring alternative mana wielders to their bosom. Orcus would work with any ally that proved true and trustworthy,” Dashgar said.
“In any event, once our people here began figuring out that it was Sentir Fallon, an archon of Tiernon, who permanently slew their ally—things got complicated,” Inethya said.
“They were not happy,” Dashgar told them. “And they were quite vocal in their prayers.”
“I fear I must also point out that the losses that Sentir Fallon talks about, the permanently slain avatars? That really only started to be a problem in the aftermath of Orcus’s demise. As they told you, we committed quite a number of forces to defending the Isle of Doom after Orcus’s death, and we lost a lot of saints the first thousand or so years. We lost more than we had ever lost before.”
“Shortly before the last truly huge battles, around twenty to twenty-five hundred years ago, Athgar, Sentir Fallon’s predecessor as Elder Archon of the Localverse, began to scale back our operations. Discussing this again now, I am just remembering that this was at the urging of Sentir Fallon,” Dashgar told them.
“He did? But he was not an Elder Archon at the time. He was Attendant on Astlan,” Baysir said.
“Well, as you know, we have these regular conclaves of the Attendant Archons for each localverse,�
� Dashgar said. “There are only thirteen worlds in our localverse that Tiernon has a true presence on. Another half dozen or so worlds have smaller presences, not large enough to merit an Attendant Archon. In any event, it is at those meetings that we discuss the shared concerns and resources of the worlds within our localverse. Obviously, I was routinely bringing up our resource issues here, and reporting on our losses. When the topic came up as to what to do about it, it was Sentir Fallon who suggested we refocus on supporting the priests and training mortal forces, rather than going in and risking our increasingly limited number of saints.”
At this point Hilda interrupted Dashgar. “That is a question I have. It would seem that in a world of eternal conflict, there would be great opportunities for self-sacrifice, martyrdom and thus canonization?”
Inethya chuckled at this. “Indeed, one would.” She shook her head sadly. “And that was generally the case before the fall of Doom. In what we might call the great saint-making battles, Doom’s forces typically gave us the cover to get the newly departed to a safe location before they could be drained of animus. Even when we were not fighting side by side, the Unlife were so reduced that we had plenty of opportunities for sainthood against lesser Unlife.”
She shook her head again. “That first thousand or so years that I mentioned, we were still able to recruit saints at about the same rate as before; however, we were losing them faster. After that, well… things got ugly and the Unlife had become strong enough that they could often consume the animus of the martyr before we could do an ascension.”
Stevos grimaced and gave a small shudder at the horror of this. Hilda closed her eyes for a moment and then raised her glass in a toast. “To those brave illuminaries and warriors who have fallen and been consumed.”
“To the fallen.” The others joined in the toast.
“So why are Torean’s forces also holding back avatars?” Timbly asked.
Dashgar shrugged. “As with Torean and Tiernon, Sentir Fallon and Noahn Whitlove, the Elder Archon of Torean for the localverse, are close.”