Sorry for the delay. Been busy.
***
Teppu strode up to the ramshackle building, and ascended the three steps onto its porch.
It was somewhat more than a cottage, but rather less than a mansion; its three levels boasted no more than twenty rooms, all told. Although the sprite perceived that two dozen extradimensional spaces – ranging in size from hidden cubby holes to a suite of dedicated summoning chambers – abutted it; its total internal volume might be four times larger. It occurred to Teppu that Mostin might possess a particular attachment to the notion of
space.
Teppu adjusted his hat, coughed, and rapped upon the door. He placed his hands behind his back, whistled softly, and glanced around approvingly. The nymph who dwelt nearby had been persuaded to bring forth numerous wildflowers around the manse: sorrel and stitchwort; purslanes, bluebells and wood-anemones. The veranda had been situated for the perfect dappled shade beneath an ancient elm.
A slender fey – perhaps five-feet tall, with nut-brown skin and an impudent smile – opened the door.
Teppu raised an eyebrow. This was neither Orolde nor Mei. Who else lived here? A servant?
"Greetings," Teppu doffed his cap. "I was not expecting you."
The other seemed unfazed. "Teppu," he said warmly. "Please come in. Orolde is presently indisposed."
"You have me at a disadvantage," the sprite replied suspiciously.
"Do not concern yourself. I know of only One to whom that does not apply."
"Then inquiring as to your name would be pointless," Teppu nodded. "Is your manifestation as a fey for my benefit? Have you taken up residence here?"
"Temporarily," The Adversary nodded affably. "Although I've been spending a good deal of time in Morne. As to my chosen form, I attempt to remain unobtrusive in my actions. I have rather a reputation in that regard."
"And the
simulacrum?" Teppu cocked his head.
"Is accepting of my presence. But I find this place quite charming; I also confess that my lodging here has a certain symmetry to it, given the owner's current choice of abode."
"That is an eloquent premise for circumventing Nehael's fence," Teppu bowed politely.
"I am gratified that you appreciate it," the other replied. His tone was self-mocking. "I boldly straddle paradigms. Now. Will you remain on the porch?"
Teppu shrugged, and followed him in, closing the door behind him. He glanced around; the place was cluttered but comfortable. Teppu suspected that Orolde had already begun to arrange things more to his liking.
"Would you care for tea?" The Adversary inquired.
"Certainly," Teppu nodded, sitting at Mostin's kitchen table.
"Where should we begin?"
"I think one should always warm the pot," Teppu replied drily.
"An argument? I would contend that the extra labor does not contribute to the quality of the brew."
Teppu nodded. "That may be so. But I find the ritual reinforces the experience."
The Adversary smiled, and sat opposite. "In my cosmic capacity – as the Embodiment of Pure Will – you will probably appreciate the limited use of ritual to me. However, I will follow your instruction; let it not be said that I am insensitive to others' observances."
Teppu sighed. "Allow me to gird my intellect, if you would; I suspect nuances to this exchange which will otherwise elude me."
"As you wish," the Adversary waved a hand casually. "Everyone is always so suspicious."
**
Screaming, inchoate rage. A desire to rend, profane and destroy all that was not he. But also a furious plotting which followed a thousand permutations simultaneously.
He was Graz'zt. He had been caught before; he had escaped before.
Mostin's face loomed above him, filling immensity.
"Your Highness," the idiot drawled like deranged sky-god. "We can be civil about this: you divulge information which I require, and I spare you from unimaginable tortures."
Graz'zt's intuition told him that the Alienist had no coercive spells available to him.
He remained silent.
*
Mostin rattled the three
cubic gates together in his closed palm and stared into the blank sphere. The treasure of Azzagrat lay heaped around him.
Inside the globe – although apparently shy at revealing his countenance on its surface – was trapped the demon prince Graz'zt. Mostin – who experienced a state of disappointed anticlimax with regard to the contained fiend – was presently unprepared to
torment the Prince into a more receptive mood.
There was no damn urn. Just a key.
"Well?" Mulissu asked.
Mostin grimaced, and shook his pseudopod in a gesture which Mulissu interpreted as irritation.
"You think you can face them down?"
"I
know I can. I have foreseen it; but other futures might hold better prospects."
"Choose swiftly," Mulissu groaned. "News travels fast. Divinations will be cast regarding Graz'zt's whereabouts and disposition. Inferences will be drawn. The truth will be quickly determined."
"Silence," Mostin snapped. "I know this."
"And if your temper gets the better of you, and you
disintegrate Waide, you will make enemies."
"Are you deranged?" Mostin asked. "No. We're going back to Wyre, for this. I want the Enforcer watching
my back on this one."
"You cannot take Graz'zt into Wyre," Jalael observed.
"We're in an extradimensional space," Mostin said. "It'll be fine."
"Gihaahia will permit this?"
"She did nothing about the solar; or the spined devils who do the cleaning. I assume so. Also, Graz'zt himself is removed from the continuum proper. I perceive no breach of the Injunction."
"Then neither will she intervene if things go awry," Jalael said drily.
"I will stand on the threshold," Mostin said.
"She must appreciate your pedantry if nothing else," the Hag growled.
"We are settled then?"
Mostin grumbled and nodded.
They translated back to Scir Cellod, but within the Enforcer's remit. Mulissu issued a
sending to Daunton, and the wizard arrived presently. Mostin apprised him of the situation, and in his official capacity Daunton called a convocation.
Sixteen mages attended, including Rimilin, Waide, Tozinak and – to the surprise of all present – the witch Hlioth.
Mostin, standing in the open doorway to Murmuur's Tower and brandishing the globe containing Graz'zt, sighed. He was tired.
Tozinak – whose present form included a number of disturbing insectoid features – clicked his mandibles together in excitement.
"I have captured Graz'zt," the Alienist announced boldly, although his fatigue was evident." I am informing you of this myself, before the rumors begin to fly."
"Bravo, Mostin," Rimilin said drily, with more than a hint of resentment in his voice.
Mostin smiled eerily. "I purpose to seek for Pharamne's urn. Who will join me?"
Voices began to chatter excitedly.
Rimilin raised his eyebrows at the vulgar display.
*
"You are lucky I came," Hlioth later snapped, after the others had dispersed. "Rimilin would have launched an assault, were it not for me."
"In Wyre? I hardly think so."
"In your tower."
"He cannot penetrate it." Mostin sighed
"He
can, you fool. The
quiescence of the spheres must necessarily provoke a counter-argument. Rimilin can bypass
dimensional locks. Do not think to exclude him that way."
"I don't need nannying, you mad old hag," Mostin hissed. "Let him try."
"And how now do you purpose to penetrate Azzagrat? The planar flux is impossible. Your devilish artifact is not adequate to the task."
"I will conjure one of Ghom's servitors and equip it with a magical howdah."
"I? Mad?"
"Quite so," Mostin replied.
"I wish to speak with Graz'zt," Hlioth growled.
"Feel free to try," Mostin tossed her the globe. "I must reattune. If you release him again, brains may begin to disappear inexplicably in Nizkur. I take it you understand my meaning?"
Hlioth scowled, and gestured the Alienist away.
**
Ortwine – in the guise of a Thalassine gentleman-turned-vampire – walked with easy confidence through the dark promenades of Thond, impervious to scrutiny; whimsy informed her choice of apparent gender. The damned cowered behind barricaded doors as Abyssal ghouls prowled the streets.
Things went ill for Thond. The greatest of the town's remaining noble families – the Truzha – had undergone a collective transformation which had resulted in a haemophagic aristocracy being foisted upon Thond's hapless citizens. Under the auspices of the aging family matriarch, a dozen first cousins – and scores further removed – had enthusiastically embraced unlife as a useful tool to advance their power and interests. Initiation had become
de rigueur amongst the fashionable set.
They counted Naatha, Sibud and Rishih as their sponsors; the immortals had invested heavily in the organization and defense of Thond subsequent to the annihilation of its armies. Naatha had lent Jariliths to sorcerers who pledged themselves to her; Rishih had erected a number of potent magical wards around the city; Sibud had bestowed a rare vampiric pedigree.
Ortwine entered a den where unspeakable tortures were inflicted on mortals by many-limbed demons. She drew
Heedless and slew the closest fiend immediately. The others began to hastily disperse, but Ortwine arrested one before it could flee, pinned it to the wall, and
dominated it.
"You are compacted by House Truzha. Inform your masters that Ortwine wants to talk to them."
The demon moved to oblige her.
Ortwine liked this game.
**
"Were you aware that the Adversary is squatting in Mostin's Manse not fifty miles from here?" Teppu asked.
"No," Nehael smiled. "I sense you had an exchange. Was it illuminating?"
"Disturbingly so," Teppu admitted. "He's even more disarming than you. He confused me utterly."
Nehael nodded. "That is his nature: to refute that which is."
"That is a generous assessment," Teppu was wry. "Others have been less forgiving. What can you anticipate of his actions?"
"Little or nothing," Nehael shook her head. "And try not to analyze his words. You will never guess his motives. Accept this; you will be happier."
"This is sound advice. He also requests an introduction," Teppu raised his eyebrows.
"That much, at least, I predicted."
"And you will indulge him?"
Nehael shrugged. "Why not? Do you fear he might successfully woo me to his cause?"
"Precisely thus," Teppu confessed. "What is your strategy?"
"That which I apply to you, so do I equally to myself. There is no strategy. I will play it by ear."
**
The
Ahma stood with Tahl and Rede beneath a canopy south of Wyre's marches, receiving news of events which gave him pause for wonder. Orolde intoned as though reading from an altogether mundane inventory.
"One amulet; one suit of baroque plate armor; one large shield of fearsome aspect; one glaive; a greatsword which drips acid…"
"Bastard sword," Eadric interrupted.
"One sacrificial dagger," Orolde continued, "three
cubic gates; three
portable holes; one
amulet of the planes; one
crystal ball with several special applications; twenty-eight
ioun stones of various function; one
iron flask, determined to be the prison of the devil Sirchade; around one hundred books of spells – including those of Kothchori – which have yet to be translated and fully catalogued…"
Orolde paused sadly.
"A scroll collection which I will not begin to bore you with: Mostin has suggested to tender to you those scribed by Oronthonist sympathizers, and there are more than a few; material wealth in jewels, gold and adamant which might best be described as
incomprehensibly large. The inventory was witnessed by all of the mages present.
Pharamne's urn was noticeably absent. Mostin believes that the small key found on Graz'zt's person unlocks whichever space holds the urn – presumably somewhere in one of Azzagrat's nested demiplanes – but he needs to employ divinations of some magnitude in order to determine the exact truth."
Eadric raised an eyebrow. Mostin having the
web of motes in his possession was bad enough. Mostin with
Murmuur's tower was something which filled the
Ahma with trepidation. Now the Alienist sought a generative power which was so far beyond his ability to safely manipulate, that Eadric experienced pure dread.
"I suspect that Mostin has become instrumental in the designs of the Adversary," the
Ahma sighed, smiling grimly at Orolde.
"As to that, I could not say," the sprite bowed. "I do not concern myself with the machinations of entities within the Oronthonian pleroma."
"Has Shomei shown herself yet?" Eadric asked.
A look of discomfort crossed Orolde's face. "No. Is this something you anticipate?"
The
Ahma shrugged. "Anticipate? No. But many patterns have been laid; this much is clear to me. I was there when Sacir dragged Shomei to Hell. I was impotent to prevent it. The
Akesoli are the agents of Amaimon, perhaps, but there a greater mandate drove them. Mostin informed me of her current situation; do not be concerned as to a breach of confidence."
Orolde smiled. "I am not. I cannot match Mostin's prescience; hence, there is no reason to anticipate that his reaction to anything I might divulge will be unpremeditated. My own status is somewhere between apprentice and journeyman, if you understand my meaning: no proscriptions have been placed upon me; nor do I shy from the truth, as I perceive it."
"And what is your perception, Orolde?"
The sprite looked nonplussed. "That question is quite impossible. I cannot communicate the totality of my apprehension effectively; we have no common frame of reference."
The
Ahma thought for a moment. "Do you ever seek solace, Orolde? And if so, where?"
"In whatever fashion seems appropriate at the time."
"And your stump – magic might have replaced your hand. Why?"
"I will grow a pseudopod in due course," Orolde said drily.
Eadric gave a thin smile. "Tell Mostin that the
Ahma thinks he's way out of his depth. He can't now go to Azzagrat to retrieve the urn, in any case."
Orolde shifted slightly.
"You cannot be serious?" Eadric asked.
"His energies are now concentrated on accomplishing this task," Orolde admitted. "And as to Shomei, if you wish to speak with her she must be invoked; her nature is now Infernal."
"Foci are aligning sharply," Eadric said.
"Yes," Orolde replied.
**
The van – which contained the banners of the
Ahma, the Talions and the Penitents – crawled south along the Hynt Coched in the direction of Jompa. Griffons wheeled and gyred in the skies above them. In the main battle, the
Sela rode surrounded by Saints and many of the recently Illuminated of Morne, whose numbers continued to swell as companies
wind walked from the capital. Hundreds of wagons churned up the road behind into deep mud, through which resentful Wyrish aristocrats and their retainers doggedly toiled. Eadric had stiffened the rearguard and reserve brigades with a battalion of Templars under Brey's command, in the event they were actually attacked: the King, his household knights, and the boars had yet to arrive. In all, the columns trailed for six miles through the low, rolling hills.
Ahead, bisecting reality at an indeterminable distance, a wall of night loomed. On a low knoll by the side of the road – beneath a tall finger of carved granite – a crimson-haired figure stood and observed the passing of Wyre's armies.
As the
Ahma approached, she stared at him; his sight informed him that this one was not all she appeared to be: her ontology was complex. She said nothing, but her presence was significant: this was the edge of her remit. Beyond here, she exerted no influence.
As soon as Eadric passed a point due west of the menhir, the sky above seemed to crack open briefly and a squadron of celestials flashed into view. They shone darkly.
The
Ahma remained expressionless. He had anticipated this – or something similar – but had hoped for a period of quietude before they showed themselves. They were already sworn to him; a powerful tool to execute his will in the world. Using them entailed a price he was reluctant to meet.
The wards which Nwm had erected around the column discouraged their close approach, and Eadric called a general halt to the vanguard's progress. He rode with Tahl through a detachment of Ardanese mercenaries and across a hundred yards of open ground, to where they stood or floated gently.
Eadric reined in and dismounted. Saint Tahl remained in his saddle.
"Hail,
Ahma," the archfiend Irel bowed. "We finally meet, although under circumstances which few guessed likely. The covenant undertaken still holds. You may instruct us as you see fit; alternately, we must interpret your will to the best of our ability."
"Neither option thrills me," Eadric said, gazing at up Irel, who stood head and shoulders above him. Taint emanated from the Fallen in palpable waves but their nobility was all-too-apparent. Thus it might remain. These were a new breed.
Eadric gazed at them and sighed, and resigned himself to the inevitable. He turned to Tahl.
"Let it be known that the
Ahma has perforce acquired a Left Hand," he said, "his right alone being inadequate to the task which our current predicament presents."
"They are loyal?"
"Absolutely," Eadric admitted. They were. He could still speak into their minds; know their thoughts. He suspected that Irren was smiling smugly in some Nessian Beatitude.
But against Visuit, how would they fare?
So the wheel turned.
.
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