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[Cheiromancer]

Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 11-28-2004

AFQITHAN - Part Two



"Show me more," Hlioth, the Green Witch demanded.

Teppu laughed, and stroked the ash-tree which they stood next to. It seemed to croon lovingly to him. "It will involve a certain loss of individuality," he smiled. "Are you jealous of your discrete existence? Your autonomy of perception and Will?"

"Certainly not," Hlioth answered. "If I hadn't determined all arguments regarding Will to be specious, then I would never have abandoned wizardry."

"You should blend all elements into a harmonious whole," Teppu said. "And your song will be different to mine. Give me your hand."

The Green Witch complied, and Teppu pressed it to the trunk of the tree. Within moments, a cascade of new impressions flooded into her mind. Multiple realities became apparent. Her breathing became rapid and shallow.

"How many layers are there visible?" She gasped.

"They cannot be measured in numbers," Teppu laughed.

"I can see Faerie."

"I am surprised that you can distinguish it so readily. Although it is less sleepy than many of the others."

"Perhaps I am predisposed to easily apprehend it. One other seems close – within reach. What is it?"

"It is the half-hidden world of the Tunthi. Were you to go to Tun Hartha, you would see it more clearly. It is closer there than here."

"It has recently stirred?" Hlioth asked.

"Twice. Great spirits were awakened. Echoes remain within the visible Green. It was roused from its torpor near Hrim Eorth, then again at Groba."

"I recall hearing of Hrim Eorth – the river became a dragon. But Groba?"

"Groba is more ancient than most know. Mesikämmi woke its genius loci."

"To what purpose?"

Teppu smiled. "To swallow a sword, and keep it safe."

Hlioth's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You have been following her activities?"

"Amongst others," his eyes twinkled.

"Which others?"

"Nehael. Nwm."

"What does the demoness have to do with this?"

Teppu threw back his head, and laughed. "Nehael is no demoness, nor was she ever one. The past is not immutable."

Hlioth scowled. "What are you plotting, Teppu?"

"I do not plot," Teppu replied sincerely. "I merely act according to need. There is a splinter of reality which must be realigned: purged of its umbral infestation. In order to accomplish this, I will need the concerted effort of several selfless individuals."

"I think perhaps you might explain a little more."

"I mean to eradicate the seeds of taint from the demiplane of Afqithan: it will be the first manifestation of the burgeoning Viridity. Faerie must reclaim its own."

Hlioth shrugged. "What is Afqithan, and why is it significant?"

Teppu sighed. "Your knowledge of current events is lamentably scant, Hlioth. This does not surprise me, but you cannot continue to view Green within the limited terms that you have previously described to yourself. Afqithan is a finite reality where demons, devils, tainted sidhe and various other monsters struggle to assert themselves: Oronthon's Ahma is embroiled in its troubles, as is the creature Soneillon – a demoness who has transcended her ontic state.

"I am dubious of your ability to manage such an act."

"It will be simple: trust me."

"And how do you propose to accomplish this?"

"Why," Teppu laughed, "with magic, of course."

"You are Jovol," Hlioth sighed. "And Fillein."

"Yes – and no," Teppu replied.

"I understand neither you nor your motives," Hlioth groaned.

"Nor do I," Teppu admitted.


**


Eadric and Shomei rode in the blazing trail carved by Irzho through the purple skies of Afqithan. Before them, Rimilin – whose grotesque, sexless form rippled black and oily – and Soneillon – into whom all light vanished – flew within the great fume of smoke and fire which emanated from the balor. Contundor was buffeted by the gale which issued from the pit fiends – invisible but the source of a palpable malice – who flanked them both. Demons, half-fiends and evil monsters of every conceivable hue surrounded them, jostling for space.

Ahead of the Ahma, Ainhorr's forces filled immensity, blackening the skies, their numbers still swelling as demons from across Afqithan heard the summons, and teleported to the unlocked areas beyond the quiescence of the spheres. From the towers of Irknaan's palace they gushed forth in a never-ending torrent, and below the flights of chasme, succubi and palrethees, the ground and treetops seethed with bar-lgura. Eadric scowled as the standards of the Mariliths in thrall to Ainhorr were being raised beyond the spell's limit. More demons flocked around them, and those Loquai who had thrown in their lot with Graz'zt.

[Eadric]: How so quickly?

[Shomei] (ruefully): I suspect that Ainhorr has my stone of sendings. He issues a command to a subordinate, they instantly relay the message to their subordinates, and within a few minutes nearly every demon in Afqithan will be here. Redeployment is seldom a problem for fiends.

[Eadric]: And Graz'zt?

[Shomei]: I don't doubt that he was the first to know.

[Eadric]: We should climb. How long will the invisibility last?

[Shomei]: We have time yet, but avoid any conflict for the moment. We need to retain the element of surprise for as long as possible. We must find Ainhorr.

[Eadric]: Within the palace.

[Shomei]: Doubtless. He will not commit himself personally yet. You will also notice that no Nalfeshnees have appeared – they remain close by their master. There were thirty, at last count.

[Eadric]: Thirty is too many, Shomei.

[Shomei]: It is not. Just watch out for the sword.

[Eadric] (pointing with his mind): What is that? You didn't mention a dragon. I thought Mostin got the dragons.

A grotesque shape, the wings of which beat slowly and rhythmically, was moving through the demons of Ainhorr's force towards them.

[Shomei]: That is Ilistet's Steed. Graz'zt's herald.

[Eadric]: His herald? Is he here himself?

[Shomei]: Not according to Mostin.

As if to punctuate the realization, a long, sonorous blast issued from Ilistet's horn, causing the ancient, twisted trees to shake, and the Ahma's chest cavity to resonate.

Eadric, Chaya, Shomei and her quartet of devils peeled away from the main spearhead of demons, and began to climb rapidly. They were not alone: other fiends from both factions were attempting to assume positions which offered a higher vantage point.

Climb, he urged his mount.

Within one minute, they had reached nearly two thousand feet. Still, they needed to climb – flights of succubi and chasme, issuing from the tallest of the towers, had already reached that altitude. Eadric glanced downward and ahead of himself, and watched in fascination as Irzho ploughed into a mob of invisible nycadaemons which slowly revealed themselves to his sight.


**


[Mostin]: We must finish him as quickly as possible. His focus lies upon Nhura, at present, although no doubt the probability of invisible, mind-blanked assailants has occurred to him. I'm hoping that the wind-walking hasn't. We have a chance, here: it is the nature of demonic enthusiasm for a cause to crumple if the Lord or Prince who binds them – in this case Kostchtchie – is eliminated. It's all personality.

[Ortwin] (Drily): No doubt this is about us preventing him reaching you.

[Mostin]: In a nutshell, yes. The Djinn will remain nearby, wind-walking, in case you need to make a quick exit.

[Ortwin]: "You" need to make a quick exit? What's with the "You"? How will you escape?

[Mostin]: I will teleport. We will be outside of the quiescence.

[Ortwin]: So we're relying on some bitter, reluctant pseudoelemental?

[Mostin]: I have offered it suitable inducements. Do not be concerned.

[Orwtin]: Gods, Mostin. It's not just Kostchtchie. It's the dragon. And the other demons. And the other dragons. And that thing.

Mostin peered ahead. Close by the Demon Lord, shunned by demons but around whom fiendish giants grouped clumsily, a gaunt figure stood. It was clearly visible between the warriors' legs: the trio were closing rapidly, now.

[Mostin]: Sh*t. The winterwight. It's not supposed to be here.

[Ortwin]: Feeling nervous yet?

[Mostin]: You may have a point. Keep flying.

Varrangoin were all about them – although oblivious to their presence - when they materialized outside the quiescence. Hovering five hundred feet from the limit of the locked area, Mostin invoked a reality maelstrom. It was centered around Kostchtchie, the wight, and the teleportation circles. The dimensional tempest raged incoherently, stretching away from the quiescence in a sphere from which a section had been cut: along the interface between the two spells, a null-space suffused with paradoxical magical energy crackled. For a fraction of a second, Mostin became visible before hiding himself again with another spell.

[Ortwin] (Grinning): That's more like it.

[Mostin]: Brace yourself.

The magical response to the Alienist's assault was immediate and would have overwhelmed them all, had it not been for Soneillon's ward. Horrid wiltings, fireballs, a meteor swarm and numerous sonics blasted into them. The djinn was instantly vaporized, and Mostin's brief appearance had been sufficient to make him the target of three attempted disintegrations and numerous enervations. Rager varrangoin were all about him, attempting to rend his invisible form.

Centered on himself this time, as yet more spells struck them ineffectually, Mostin invoked a second reality maelstrom, content that their own wards would prevent their succumbing to it. This time, the Alienist remained invisible.

Ortwin swallowed as he stood poised on the verge of another reality. Mostin cackled, looking through the rent in space: a rift into Limbo.

[Mostin] (Madly): We're safe here.

[Ortwin]: Are you quite nuts?

Flying through the dimensional storm – and through hundreds of varrangoin being pulled helplessly to their fate – a huge white dragon powered its way purposefully towards them. It bore an ugly, squat, bandy-legged demon brandishing a great hammer.

Clinging to the flank of the dragon, of whose presence the wyrm seemed entirely oblivious, an arcanist varrangoin clung, drooling like a dog. It stretched out its hand, and delivered an empowered sonic meteor swarm to them.

Bad, Mostin thought, as several creatures nearby were disintegrated by the sound. The tassles on his hat swayed slightly. Two more dragons appeared behind the first: mounted upon each were giants wielding enormous axes.

Abruptly, the reality maelstrom vanished, struck by a greater dispelling. From the dragon's jaws a terrible cold washed over them, numbing them despite their wards.

Koilimilou, buoyant with Soneillon's power, retaliated with a soundless gaze. Black fire coursed over the wyrm, and it bellowed in agony for a second, before silently vanishing in a cloud of dark ash. The varrangoin sorcerer took to the air with its own wings, but Kostchtchie himself began to tumble towards the ground.

[Ortwin] (Gaping): What the…?

[Mostin]: Kostchtchie can't fly.

[Ortwin]: (Hysterical laughter).

But in response to its master's telepathic command, one of the other dragons wheeled about and its rider climbed from his harness, and carelessly launched himself into the air.

Mostin anticipated that Kostchtchie would attempt to teleport into the vacant saddle. He opened a gate.

Koilimilou – a sidhe-cambion seldom prone to uncontrollable outbursts – screamed. The pseudonatural Horror – simultaneously both a daemon, and a writhing thing possessed of appendages with an unknown purpose – slid through the portal.

[Symbol] = Faces.

[Mostin] (Pointing mentally at Kostchtchie): His face (and then at the dragons), their faces.

With a gusto which surprised Mostin, the Horror launched itself from the gate towards their enemies.

There had to be a catch, Mostin knew. There was always a catch. It was never that easy.


**


The demon Surab, together with his host – a half-mortal named Iua – rode upon an obsidian steed across a blasted Abyssal landscape. A great, flat, plain – riven by yawning chasms which led to the domains of a thousand different demonic magnates – stretched as far as the eye could see. Surab relaxed into his new form – young, athletic, deadlier with the blade than any of the succubi mercenaries who served Graz'zt. He might keep her for a while – she seemed quiescent enough.

Through her eyes, he scanned the terrain ahead of him, eagerly seeking a familiar portal to Azzagrat where, he knew, its Lord would shower him with favour for his success in eliminating the Savant. Although the plan had been swiftly devised, it had been flawless in its execution. Pure simplicity.

Surab congratulated himself upon his ingenuity.

After riding hard for around an hour, the Demon nudged his steed towards a pit filled with lurid green flames, entered it, and, within seconds, emerged from a gate oven in the midst of Zelatar.

The scene which greeted him was violent, chaotic, brutal and filled with seething hatred. In that regard, Azzagrat was entirely normal.

What marked the Triple Realm as changed, however, was the nature of many of the creatures present. A frenzied pack of Abyssal ghouls were feeding nearby, and a cadre of death knights – mounted upon cauchemars – thundered past with some dire purpose.

Because, acutely conscious of Graz'zt's denuded power and overextended forces, and perceiving the chink in his usually impenetrable armour, Prince Orcus – acting on the gentle promptings of Rhyxali – had determined to invest Azzagrat and test his rival's defenses with a lightning-quick assault.

Surab panicked. The Argent palace, under normal circumstances visible from all parts of Zelatar, had vanished: the demon guessed that Graz'zt had obscured it with a spell.

Commanding his steed to plane shift, Surab, his host and his mount vanished. Any forsaken realm between Hell and the Abyss was preferable to Azzagrat at that moment.


Upon his throne, Graz'zt himself reflected. The purpose of the embassy delivered by Titivilus now seemed clear to him: the Nameless Adversary had, no doubt, known of the impending situation, and chosen to maintain the existing balance of Abyssal politics by reinforcing the Prince's armies in Afqithan. It had to be Afqithan: a diabolic presence in the Abyss would have caused outrage among the other Princes. Afqithan, because of the concentration of Graz'zt's force there; because that was where the Ahma had determined to start the war; because to hold Afqithan was yet another opportunity to defy the will of Oronthon. Afqithan had become an unlikely trophy in the Great Game. New impulses were revealing themselves.

Graz'zt spat venom, and cursed. He knew he would have been overwhelmed in Afqithan. He needed the devils: in order to secure Azzagrat he was being forced to withdraw from dozens of worlds – including Yutuf, Tirche, Sisperi and Saraf – and redeploy tens of thousands of demons. And now he doubted that he hold Throile: the sweet prize dearly bought with the life of one of his favourite generals. And bitterest of all, he realized that, despite all appearances to the contrary, he himself was still the pawn of the one who had sparked the Great Revolt.