Demonstrating the Prophetic Advantage
An hour before dawn, Nwm roused Eadric from prayer.
"Gather your Saints," he told him.
The air was chill. Esquires of the temple clad the Ahma in his armour and girt him with his sword. Adepts invoked protective magicks upon him.
The Saints assembled. The Preceptor instructed them all in a brief rite, and gathered their energy into him, staggering from its frequency. So bright. So unearthly. So much of it. It spilled out of him, incinerating trees in the vicinity and transporting their essence to the Blessed Plain.
Nwm discarnated and soared upwards on a torrent of light, all the while gazing down upon Wyre. Behind him, the Sun hung amid the Void. Warm. Beckoning. He turned to face it. It illuminated billions of devas.
Nwm swallowed.
He turned back, and his sight ranged across Trempa, quickly locating the disturbance which he knew to be Pazuzu and his troupe; violent perturbations in the otherwise harmonious whole. He brushed aside the Prince's screen and pinpointed him exactly.
Nwm rematerialized. "I have him. I can open a tree nearby."
Eadric nodded. "Then please do. But not too near. I'd rather not be thrown straight into combat."
Quickly, they made their preparations.
Tahl issued a sending, and Eadric summoned Ortwine. A brief remote conversation with Mostin ensued.
[Eadric]: We're preparing to strike Pazuzu.
[Mostin]: I have instructed the Episemes to purge demons outside of Wyre, but I was otherwise less than specific.
[Eadric]: They can be recalled if a particular task awaits them.
[Mostin]: Unfortunately not. I am investigating other avenues.
[Eadric]: Ah. Yes. Your glorious return to Goetia.
[Mostin]: The potential of that avenue is also exhausted.
[Eadric]: Your allegiances are more fleeting than those of Ortwine!
[Mostin]: But far more effective. I am returning to Afqithan in order to secure my new tower.
[Eadric]: You have penetrated its mysteries, then?
[Mostin]: The tower is indestructible, impervious to scrying and astral attack, may plane shift at the whim of the one who controls it, and may spin a gate to each and every Hell. It is opened by a password known to but a handful of devils. Its exterior demonstrates an extreme mutability of appearance, at the owner's discretion. Its interior is extradimensional and opulent. One has to admire the antique Infernal aesthetic.
[Eadric]: And your manse?
[Mostin]: I must have a summer retreat!
[Eadric]: You have acquired the passwords?
[Mostin]: From the devil Sekabin. And knowledge of the sigils to open the gates. I didn't even need to resort to torment; he seemed quite willing to impart the information. I imagine his superiors simply wish to see the tower active again; it is inert in Afqithan. I dismissed him forthwith; I have no desire for further enmity with Hell.
[Eadric]: Fear not. I'm sure Dis has forgiven you.
[Mostin]: You are unusually droll today.
[Eadric]: The Adversary is moving, Mostin. He is a player you cannot outclass. Be wary. How did he appear to you?
[Mostin]: !
[Eadric]: Well?
[Mostin]: Hmph. So that was he. Enigmatic. A tanned youth, with unruly black curls. Lean of frame. Suave, but somewhat understated. For Ego Incarnate, he seemed very restrained. My initial impressions were largely favorable.
[Eadric]: !?
[Mostin]: He was less overbearing than certain celestials of my recent acquaintance.
[Eadric]: And as Evil Incarnate?
[Mostin]: That question has no meaning. Our definitions of Evil are not altogether congruent in this regard. He is no mere devil, Eadric. He is the Adversary. His plan is hidden to all but himself and your glowing despot, of whom he is a function in any case: [display = complex, meaningless formula].
[Eadric]: Ahh.
[Mostin]: I do not expect you to understand the proof.
[Eadric]: That is fortunate.
[Mostin]: These minor infinities are of no particular concern to me, in any case.
[Eadric]: What else?
[Mostin]: I will use Soneillon's reservoir to allow me to bind Graz'zt in three days. Other mages have expressed an interest in aiding me.
[Eadric]: This egomaniacal nonsense again?
[Mostin]: Apparently my taste for vendetta runs deeper than yours, Ahma. He has wounded me deep, more than once. I am a wizard with a reputation to maintain: I do not forget a slight.
[Eadric]: Touché, Mostin. That I cannot deny you.
Abruptly, Ortwine issued from a shadowy portal. She seemed unusually pensive.
"Is the happy band ready?" Mesikammi asked with apparent innocence. Behind her there was a huge confusion of Temple troops; they were parting to allow the progress of five enormous golden boars. The ground shook as they approached.
Yet more gods, Ortwine observed silently.
**
Two Saints, four Talions, eleven Penitents, Mesikammi, five boars, Ortwine, and Nwm accompanied Eadric in his attack upon Pazuzu and his troupe. Many of the templar grandees – past and present – were riding celestial griffons of prodigious size. Ortwine veiled them all. Transformed into an unkindness of ravens, their approach was unnoticed; appearing to hug the ground, they passed below the mobs of fiendish crows which wheeled in the sky over Pazuzu's train. The Ahma felt distinctly uneasy at the sidhe's burgeoning power.
They descended on the demons, who were busy levelling a quaint Trempan village and visiting grotesque horrors upon its inhabitants. Nearby, a large group of ushabam conjurers gathered. Some were making sacrifices; some were conjuring more demons; some raved, or experienced religious ecstasies.
Nwm evoked a powerful wind which suddenly propelled them toward the demon prince's position; as they plunged, one of the balors noted them with its true seeing and gave telepathic warning. Saint Tahl, Tuan Muat and Moda the Exorcist simultaneously dropped dimensional locks centered on Pazuzu.
Ortwine's glamour evaporated, and the sidhe pounced, vorpal sword in hand. Heedless was screeching in telepathic jubilation as it bit home; the Ahma raised Lukarn and smote Pazuzu with all his power. Ichor sprayed, and the demon reeled. Talions and penitents descended on balors and nalfeshnees. Five-ton boars trampled through vrocks like they were grass.
Ortwine moved faster than thought and was already about the demon prince again, effortlessly slicing in a perfectly executed pattern.
[Mostin]: I guess you are engaging Pazuzu's force?
[Eadric]: This may not be the best time, Mostin.
The dimensional locks hadn't contained the arch-fiend. The Prince of the Lower Aerial Kingdoms dilated time, vanished, instantly reappeared a quarter of a mile above, and unleashed a tempest of eldritch power centered on the Ahma; a purple lightning penetrated everything. Griffons, vrocks, and Penitents perished. Eadric was scarred and blasted. Otwine somehow avoided the storm.
The few remaining vrocks launched themselves into the air. Mesikammi whistled. The boars – smoking but otherwise unfazed by the violet discharge – turned towards the gathered thaumaturges, and charged.
[Mostin]: Nonsense. A little mutitasking is no great ordeal. Your strike is premature. You…
[Eadric]: Later, Mostin.
Nwm struck Pazuzu with a peal of thunder accompanied by an explosion of green fire.
Two more gates opened; two more balors manifested. Several of the ushabam were already taking to flight, speaking words of recall.
Eadric groaned. This had to stop. He leapt forward thirty yards and struck, instantly felling one the demons; the explosion flung him backwards and burned him through his armour.
[Mostin] (Frustrated): I can't see what's going on! What's happening?
[Eadric] (Resigned): I hate it when they blow up. These priests must be eliminated before the numbers of demons can be swollen further. Where are you, anyway?
[Mostin]: At home. Preparing to depart. I have been monitoring the activities of celestials; they have destroyed three balors. Unfortunately, those remaining have fled to join Pazuzu.
[Eadric]: I had noticed.
Two armored balors now assailed Saint Tahl the Incorruptible. He weathered their blows and pronounced a dictum, instantly banishing one of them to the Abyss. The other, uncowed, uttered blasphemy in retort. Tahl was unscathed, but two of the Penitents combusted and vanished.
Outside of the dimensional lock, two more gates opened; two more balors appeared. The boars thundered into the remaining ushabam, quickly trampling them to death.
Five balors and Pazuzu now remained.
Ortwine reappraised the situation in an instant. She turned her mind and quickly dominated the demon closest to Eadric; two of the others, she knew already, were protected by mind blanking rings. Straightaway, she instructed it to teleport and attack Pazuzu.
Pazuzu, climbing rapidly beyond range, issued a thin wail which made the Ahma's blood curdle. Space began to bubble and warp in the demon prince's vicinity. In response, Mesikammi began to cast another spell.
Eadric bounded forwards again, this time pronouncing a holy word, simultaneously expelling and obliterating the two most recently arrived demons. Two more holy words, spoken by Tahl and Moda, rang across the wreck of the village. The demons were being driven away.
Nwm, considering whether to unleash a terrible necromancy upon Pazuzu, suddenly received a communication from Daunton the Diviner.
He paused, made a swift judgment, stepped into a tree, and vanished.
Eadric's jaw dropped.
[Mostin]: What now?
[Eadric]: If you happen across Nwm, send him in this direction.
But the Preceptor's appraisal of the situation had been accurate; the two remaining demons vanished. Pazuzu also elected to slip away, but not before an immense, grizzled balor had appeared below him.
Will they never stop, the Ahma was exasperated. He healed himself, steeled himself, and prepared for the onrush.
A tide of blasphemy washed over him, leaving him momentarily senseless; his wards protected him. Ortwine flung the dominated demon against the newcomer, and with a battered Rede, prosecuted a well-coordinated aerial attack at speed.
An air monolith, conjured by Mesikammi, encompassed the balor and forced it to the ground. Its whip and blade flailed ineffectively, as the boars thundered into it. Their tusks ripped it open; there was another explosion; their hooves trampled its remains into the steaming mire of ichor.
Eadric glanced around: smoke; entrails; blood. Six penitents and two Talions – including Rede, caught in the final explosion – had fallen. He, Tahl, Moda, Tarpion and Tuan Muat were blasted in varying degrees. Ortwine was largely unscathed; Mesikammi, descending from the sky had escaped all injury.
The Ahma walked to the mangled wreck of Rede's corpse, removed a gauntlet, and touched the erstwhile Grand Master upon the forehead, instantly resurrecting him. Rede arose grimly.
You don't get off that easily, Eadric thought. The others might be returned at a later time, if he needed them. Nervously, he looked toward the shamaness. The elemental hung in the sky above her; ancient boar-spirits attended her.
Abyssal slime evaporated as the area was hallowed by Saint Moda. Ortwine moved purposefully through the remains of the fallen, looking for items to plunder.
Eadric approached the nearest beast: nine feet at the shoulder and covered with a fur which glistened like gold. Whatever wounds it had received, they had already healed.
He abased himself. "Thank-you."
Mesikammi clapped. "Yes. Good. Very respectful. Three miracles I had to work to wake them. The Wyrish Royal House are an ancient lineage; they should look more to their roots."
The beast snorted.
**
The camp was in chaos.
The chthonics uttered blasphemies which caused even the most devout to reel in shock, and obliterated less robust souls. Mariliths tore into squadrons of Temple troops who were hastily attempting to interpose themselves between the fiends and the most direct line to the Sela's tent.
Saint Kustus – who had been slain by demons some two hundred years previously – took stock and rapidly gauged the level of the threat.
Those. The Ahma had warned him about them.
The attack was well-timed, as only minutes before the Ahma had departed with many of the more potent warriors within the Temple ranks. Kustus knew that it was a direct probe, to make a practical test of the defenses around the Sela and to demonstrate a prophetic advantage. Whoever had launched the attack had avoided the Aethers altogether and had out-dreamed the planetars which had been set to intercept any oneiric assault.
Still, thirty-six concentric rings of forbiddance surrounded the Sela's tabernacle and a full celestial company was waiting in proximity; the Saints and the adepts had not been idle, and had covenanted with many devas within the host. A huge net of blasting glyphs and symbols encompassed the camp.
Kustus immediately summoned his celestial destrier and charged into the fray.
Closer to the impact point, Wurz was inciting New Temple zealots into a frenzy. Holy fire surrounded them. Saint Anaqiss the Apostate engaged the demons with his mace, grown to twice his height and wearing a crown of glory.
As Brey wind-walked beyond the zone of forbiddance, half of the celestials moved in ethereal tandem with him.
"Manifest," he commanded. Sixty devas appeared.
"Bring down the chthonics," he instructed them.
**
Daunton stood on the balcony of his suite at Prince Tagur's fortified palace at Gibilrazen, and gazed skywards. He had remained silent for days. His divinations preoccupied him, and he avoided any situation which might compromise his position with regard to the Injunction: that meant shunning anyone with a political interest, and that entailed everyone at present.
Clouds were beginning to gather. Greys and ochres; beyond lay hints of vermillion. A wind was rising.
Unnatural, he knew immediately. Daunton's worst fear gripped him, and he invoked prescience. His magical perceptions soared.
It was the storm of blood.
What to do? His mind reached out.
Nwm: Daunton. The storm of blood is coming.
How long?
Not long.
Sh*t. Your timing couldn't be worse.
Or Sibud's better.
Daunton's stomach turned as he watched the quickening clouds. He felt old and weary; the twists and turns of the world – and the powers which were now manifesting – were beyond his capacity to anticipate, much less deal with. He leaned heavily on his staff for a moment, and turned to reenter his apartments.
She was standing directly behind him, silent, and their eyes met with barely eighteen inches between them. Her crimson hair stirred in the breeze and brushed his face, the scent of imminent death filled his nostrils.
He froze and tried to speak, but no sound issued from his mouth. No magic lay on him, but terror overcame him.
The Enforcer smiled. She seemed almost benign; a fact which troubled the arch-mage more than her usual overt malice.
"I have committed no violation," Daunton finally said, shaking. "But I need to know where my limits lie. Nwm will come here soon; may I aid him?"
"You are being assailed," Gihaahia said in a matter-of-fact way. "You may take reasonable precautions to counteract the threat. But you lack the power to foil this spell."
She reached out towards him, and Dauton barely resisted the urge to vomit and cower.
The Infernal touched his forehead with a burning palm, and the diviner's mind twisted as though suddenly caught in a vice. Reality altered. One of his highest valences vanished and was immediately replaced by a hithertofore unknown configuration.
"I am the Claviger also," the Enforcer breathed. "I am entrusted with the articles, and the protection of the Wyrish Collegium. You are its president; demonstrate your authority."
She vanished.
Dauton, still shaking, examined the dweomer. Curiously, the language was utterly familiar to him, as though he himself might have contrived it. He found himself wondering if it had somehow been appropriated from a future iteration of himself.
With care and effort, he spoke the words and gestured, for the first time invoking Daunton's Instant Convocation.
Within moments, eleven other mages – including Jalael, Waide and Tozinak – stood in close proximity to him. As many had declined the invitation, and neither Mostin nor Rimilin had answered.
The Hag scowled. "Explain yourself, Daunton."
"It would seem I have been empowered," Daunton observed. "Note the clouds above."
Tozinak, manifesting as an ugly mannikin, looked upwards at the sky and wailed.
Creq looked aghast. "Do you have some means to counteract this Daunton, or did you simply bring us all here to die?"
Nwm the Preceptor emerged from an ornamental lime tree in the courtyard below, and leaped up onto the balcony.
"We have a minute yet," he sighed in relief. "Open your reservoirs to me."
A chorus of objections began.
"All of you!" Nwm screeched.
For a second time that same day, Nwm channeled the power of magic alien to his understanding, and it caused him discomfort. His sensitivity to such things, he noted wrily as he wrought the spell, had increased substantially.
Voices mumbled in his head. Formulae floated past his vision, distracting him.
He focussed, and his perception became titanic; coterminous with the extent of the storm, which writhed in his conscious mind like an ungraspable idea.
He caught it, stilled it, snuffed it out. There was no struggle.
Suddenly, the sky was clear. The balcony was bathed in warm sunlight.
"I am spent," Nwm muttered.
The wizards were busy congratulating themselves on their ingenuity.
**
Mostin ignored Dauton's appeal; his prescience had already alerted him to the outcome.
Now he stood on his porch, dressed for travel. His higher valences were crammed with powerful spells which jostled with one another for space. His intellect was amplified to an improbable size. He had entrusted a number of scrolls to Orolde and Mei, in the event that the manse was attacked in his absence. Sho – in the company of several other wizards of dubious repute – had entrenched herself in the astral hold, which she had magically fortified.
"Remove the comfortable retreat to another location," Mostin intoned. "Take it deep into Nizkur forest, but beyond the bounds of the Injunction. Employ your best obfuscatory magicks; always have a teleport on hand: these are the golden rules of survival. Do not interfere with the symbols of insanity. Refrain from thaumaturgies beyond your certain ability to control.
"Be wary of the local feys, they are ancient and cunning; especially the trolls. Pay no heed to Hlioth's bluster if confronted with it; she is not the only witch living in Nizkur, merely the loudest. Hew no living wood. I will contact you in due course."
Mostin made a final adjustment to his hat and examined his plans for flaws. In dealing with Soneillon, the Alienist had protected himself as best he could from the Arcane Injunction. He made no formal compact; she would perform specific services only when conjured. As a dreamer, or a chthonic, or both, he already knew that she could slip under the Celestial Interdict and manifest freely within the World of Men. A measure of trust was required in their arrangement: Soneillon's desire to exact pain upon Graz'zt was the glue which bound it. The alternative – making a Goetic pact with a clause which required that Soneilllon did not trespass within Wyre – seemed even more dubious to the Alienist, as culpability might be his were she to violate it.
He had conjured the devil Sekabin and the succubus Adyell – Soneillon's rebellious lieutenant – with superior planar bindings. Sekabin, he interrogated. Adyell, he released immediately from his service, and delivered to the demon queen. Soneillon quickly subdued her former protégé to her will, and returned her to Throile as her agent. Intelligence began to flow to Mostin regarding the current state of demonic politics.
Now she corporeated on the porch of the manse, appearing as a slender girl dressed in austere black; her child-like face conveyed gravity and seriousness.
Mostin considered the strategy of her façade.
"Carasch has already ascended to the Plain of Infinite Portals," Soneillon smiled. "He is close now. Two steps away. Blackness sweeps through the upper Abyss, but the Ice Waste remains unmolested. Curious, given the fact that most of Azzagrat's nobility have chosen exile there."
"The speed of this phenomenon is disturbing."
"Graz'zt has uncapped his Gate Hall."
"Is that all?"
"Temenun struck the Oronthonist command and retreated to Dream," Soneillon replied. "He has exhausted himself and must rest; he is vulnerable to the other immortals until he regains his strength. He will hide for a while. He is wise. "
Mostin sighed and shrugged. There was nothing he could do about it.
Augmented by her ecstasy of negation, the Alienist plane shifted with Soneillon to Afqithan.
**
Yeshe – warned of Mostin's intentions through a dark haruspicy performed on a living subject – had acted immediately, and with the recklessness she often occasioned to display at such critical junctures.
She gated the ugra called Angula.
The Fierce Protector condescended to appear, armor-clad and bearing a shield of unblazoned darkness. His eyes were slits of green fire; his visage was beautiful, but upon it aeons of cruelty were etched. He regarded her coolly. Yeshe looked up at him, undaunted.
"Supplication is customary, Binder," Angula smiled, "If I am to remain unbound." He drew his brand, and placed it at Yeshe's neck. Her skin smoked as the acid from the blade burned her.
"I require nothing." Yeshe maintained a steady gaze. "You may do as you will. I will conjure others, if you require it."
Angula scowled. She was ancient and potent, this one; coercion would not be possible. Still, a little humilty might become her.
Yeshe recognized his mood, and gave a nod which might be interpreted as either cursory or deferential.
Angula recited a long list of names, each with many syllables. "First bring me the steed Tandava. We will consider all debts payed."
Yeshe opened another gate, through which a monstrous cauchemar careened.
"One of the Wyrish Wizards is preparing a cabal to bind you," Yeshe said drily. "Baramh and Dhenu are already abroad. The gates of the Temple open at midnight, and Dhatri's procession begins: Anumid the Mouthpiece has ordained it. Will you ride with Visuit?"
Angula mounted Tandava and smiled wickedly. "Perhaps, for a while."
**
That should have been tigresses, Prince Tagur mused as he attempted to rally the Household Knights of Morne.
He had no idea how many there were altogether. The terror visited on those within the palace in the last hour had been unrelenting; appearing from the shadows, they slew and vanished, and their butchery seemed utterly indiscriminate. Their strike was not pre-emptive; they acted in retaliation to one of their own being discovered. An error on their part, or a betrayal.
Now, in a small banquet chamber of the great castle, one Naztharune confronted sixty heavily armed Wyrish aristocrats, including knights of renown from the king's hearthguard. She moved with incredible speed; appearing, slitting a throat, and vanishing again. The tigress toyed with them masterfully, delighting in the slaughter; twice, she moved past Tagur and brushed his cheek before gutting one who stood close to him. His rapier had flashed out, but she was too fast.
Tagur hurled a glass vial upon the marble floor, and brilliant daylight illuminated the hall.
For a split second, she was revealed: a sleek black hunting cat, to which tendrils of shadowy mist clung.
She hissed and became invisible. For a while, matters worsened considerably.
Finally, somehow, they grappled her and pinned her down. Six burly knights could barely contain her slippery contortions.
She purred. "I am resigned to my death; are you to yours?"
Tagur squinted. A stiffening breeze outside had suddenly grown strong. Shutters strained, broke, and wind rushed in. A great agony ensued.
Prince Tagur screamed, as a fine mist of blood – his own – erupted from his skin and was carried away. Other screams rose all around him. Some cowered, but there was nowhere to hide, nowhere which granted surcease; the wind penetrated everything. Some fled from the chamber, the most robust running as far as the courtyard or the cellars before they succumbed.
The scene was repeated across all of Morne, and the countryside around. Every living creature within twenty miles died.
Sibud had invoked a second storm of blood.
**
Irel, who Smites, beat his wings with slow grace, resting in the skies above Jashat. At an altitude of five miles, the Aethers were quiet. He cast his celestial gaze in a great arc; his eyes penetrated everything.
Far to the north, horror was unfolding; he could do nothing to prevent it. Westward, locked in its shining bubble, Fumaril endured.
Below, closer to the north and east and south, a rotten plague of blackness centered on the great Temple of Cheshne stretched. Pyres smouldered and blood congealed. The southern cities sat beneath brooding clouds, their leaders dominated or possessed, their legions succumbing to vampirism, lycanthropy, or all manner of similar afflictions. Unquiet spirits prowled the land.
He communed.
[Irel]: I would still beseech intercession.
[Enitharmon]: And it would still be denied.
[Irel]: I beg of you, Marshal.
[Enitharmon]: And it is still denied. But your compassion magnifies. You are much loved. Know this always.
Irel signalled to the other celestials. They would start at the periphery. They wreathed themselves in holy fire and descended upon one of the more remote pavillions.
Before they could begin their assault, time slowed to a halt. Within arm's reach of Irel, a youth appeared in the sky. He munched casually on an apple. Seeming to notice the archon Prince Hemah, he gave a look of mock surprise.
"Why, you remind me so much of my own herald," he smiled. "So, before you proceed, I thought I'd offer you a different perspective. Relax. Don't feel rushed or compromised; we have as much time as we need for you to understand my central argument."
*
