Story HourPost your ongoing tales from your campaigns, and read those from others for inspiration. Lots of other RPG boards post "Story Hours", but this is where it started!
Eadric sat cross-legged in his tent and looked at his God. Tramst – who, of course, was Oronthon – looked remarkably unchanged and unprepossessing. There was no celestial choir, no radiant light, and no feeling of awe. There was, in fact, no indication that this was anything other than a normal human being.
The Devas who had escorted him had vanished – Eadric had not dared to use Palamabron’s Eye to see if they still remained in some insubstantial form nearby, any more than he had dared to look at Tramst himself through the stone. It would have somehow been blasphemous. He wondered if even thinking about using it was a sign of his unworthiness and lack of faith.
Tramst raised his eyebrows and smiled sympathetically.
Lord, I fear. I doubt.
Well, yes, I know that. So what’s your point? And don’t call me ‘Lord.’ A simple ‘Holiness’ will suffice (irony).
I do not know how to proceed.
Ahh. And how, exactly, is that different from how things were say, yesterday, or a year ago? Or five years ago?
In order to come to understand you more, the fiend Titivilus informs me that I must deal with him on an ongoing basis. That he will act as a foil to my…
Virtue? Piety?
(Profound discomfort.) Holiness, I feel unworthy…
(Raised eyebrows.)
(Shame at false modesty…)
(SLAP.) (Smile.)
(Humility)
Your brother, Orm, frequently struck me when he taught me. (Laughter). He looked terribly offended on the morning that I slapped him back.
Where is Orm now, Holiness? Will he be coming?
No. Why should he, when he can meditate in solitude?
But I may visit him, when things are quieter?
Well, of course. Why could you not? When could you not?
(SILENCE.)
What do you wish of me, Holiness?
To be active in the world. To be the Ahma. To lead. To act as a guardian and protector. To be my strong right arm.
But Nehael. (Guilt. Longing. Conflict of interests. Confusion. Despair.)
I appreciate your honesty and directness.
I don’t know what to do. Part of me desires to be selfish. I fear that I will resent you if I abandon her. I fear that I will fall if I pursue her, and you will withdraw your grace from me.
It is a difficult conundrum (humour). You have the right to choose. That can never be denied.
She suffers.
As do countless others.
I fear Titivilus.
That is wise. He is subtle and cunning. But he is not beyond your ability to deal with.
I feel confounded by him – why is he tied to my own salvation? His temptation is to be free of his presence. If I accept it, I fail. If I reject it, am I burdened with his whisperings for eternity?
There are always Devils. To deny it would be fruitless.
Part of me wishes to ask you to release me – if only for a short while.
Are you asking me?
(Shakes head). No.
Then what will you do, Eadric-Ahma?
Put my trust in you. Command me, and I will obey. I will abandon Nehael to whatever fate awaits her. But I ask that you grant me the strength to endure my guilt and shame.
And you still hope that, in so making that offer, I will take mercy upon you and release you from my service?
Yes – or part of me does, at least. But the offer is made in spite of that hope, not because of it.
(Leans forward and touches Eadric lightly on the forehead).
SEEING FOR THE FIRST TIME I-THOU BEING-NONBEING-BECOMING KNOWING-UNKNOWING SEEKING-FINDING-LOSING-FINDING TIME-BEING ETERNITY-NONBEING NOW-BECOMING EVERYTHING-NOTHING IDENTITY-DIFFERENCE RELATIVE-ABSOLUTE. NOTHING IS. NOTHING IS NOT. NOTHING BECOMES.
“Saizha*,” Oronthon said.
Eadric wasn’t sure if it was a question, or not, and knew that it didn’t matter. Duality had evaporated in a soaring ecstasy.
**
I will enter Morne, now, and take up my seat in the Fane.
I will follow.
That is not necessary. I will go alone. Instruct the army to wait, although not to stand down – they will not be needed quite yet. And not in the capacity that many anticipated.
Then command me.
(Smiles). You are free. Do as you must do. I will recall you to my side when I need you.
(Disbelief). But that is not what you require of me.
No. But I grant it nonetheless.
But why?
(Laughter). Because you didn’t ask. Consider Grace to have descended upon you for the third time. Remember, you are empowered to decide right from wrong.
Titivilus insisted that you will demand much of me. That you will not compromise. That you will push me to my limit. He did not lie.
And so I will. But not yet. Eadric, it is not always this or that. There is room for flexibility.
But Morne. And Graz’zt?
Will do what it is in his nature to do. What is Necessity, if Oronthon is not unlimited?
What will happen?
Rivers of blood will flow. You will know what to do.
Holiness, forgive me – but what will you do?
I will weep.
And he vanished.
*
“Well?” Nwm asked.
The Paladin tried to speak, but merely looked frustrated, unable to convey the full magnitude of the experience.
“Is he a man, or a god?” Ortwin asked.
“Yes,” Eadric replied.
But his face shone with a light that never after left him.
**
“So, what is he going to do, exactly?” Ortwin asked. “Will there be a big showdown with Graz’zt, with lots of fireworks?”
Eadric sighed. “That is not his function. He will provide succour to those who need it, and guidance, and instruction. He is a teacher, not a soldier.”
“You’d think he’d be a bit more pro-active.”
“Hah!” Mostin said snidely. “Fat chance. He’s probably just your typical aloof deity-type, following his own, mysterious plans. Don’t expect him to put himself on the line.”
The Paladin moaned. “Let’s just leave out the motivational analysis. The fact is, I will have a temporary grace period in which I can act. I don’t know how long it will last, but we should seize the opportunity.”
“Er, how long are we talking, Ed?” Ortwin asked. “Hours? Days? Months?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hmm. That’s not much help.” Ortwin said sarcastically. “And what’s going to happen with Prince You-Know-Who? Is he still coming here?”
“Yes.”
“In an hour or so?”
“Yes.”
“Is there anything else you should tell us?”
Eadric briefly related the news about Jovol. And Kothchori. And Rimilin. And the exchange with Titivilus.
Mostin groaned. “It might have been useful if you’d told us this earlier.”
“There wasn’t time.”
“I don’t understand,” Ortwin said. “You said that this is an either/or situation. Titivilus’ temptation was based on that premise.”
Mostin merely laughed. “I think you’ll find that if you were to analyze exactly what the Devil said, you’d find plenty of loopholes and incomplete accounts. Without him actually lying, of course. I don’t blame you, Eadric. Even my colossal intellect was hard-pressed to contend with his nuances and intimations.”
“That’s reassuring,” Nwm said drily. “So is this Devil going to harass you from now on?”
“He will jibe me, and attempt to lead me astray, and at the same time I will use him to purify myself.”
“You definitely need to speak to Shomei,” Mostin grinned. “I didn’t know that Oronthon endorsed such radical methods.”
“Generally, he doesn’t. I am the Ahma, however.”
“I thought Devils were only allowed one shot at the temptation thing,” Ortwin said. “Isn’t that some kind of violation of the rules?”
“The rules are changing,” Eadric replied.
“Perhaps,” Mostin said. “I think that the usual rules simply don’t apply to you any more. I see it in you Eadric. We are brethren now.”
Eadric looked confused, and more than a little worried.
“You are like me. You are no longer a man. You have transcended.” Mostin bowed in recognition.
“Being a quasi-semi-hemi-demigod is all very well,” Nwm said impatiently, “but the basic problem of what the hell should we do? remains. Currently I can sense no extraplanars or arcane casters of Rimilin’s power within Morne, so where exactly are they all?”
“Elsewhere, or Mind Blanked,” Mostin replied. “Tramst will not even show as a ripple in your continuum, Nwm. Any more than Graz’zt, or Rimilin, or Kothchori, I’d guess.”
“Jovol can sense them indirectly,” Eadric said.
“Can he indeed?” Mostin seemed half-dubious and half excited at the prospect.
“Titivilus informed me that Jovol is more powerful than the rest of the Wyrish wizards appreciate.”
“Go on…”
“He says that Hlioth knew him from before. That he is capable of…self incarnation? It may have been a metaphor. I don’t know. He was vague about the details.”
Nwm clicked his fingers. “Hello? Can we please deal with the matter in hand? We can discuss arcane mysteries at a later time. As I see it, we have two options: one, we hit Graz’zt when he arrives, and all die; or, two, we translate to the Abyss while he’s here, try to bust out Nehael…and all die. Other suggestions which do not include the ‘death’ component would be appreciated.”
“The first option is not an option in any case,” Mostin replied. “We will not find him unless he wishes to be found. In which case, he would kill us all in short order.”
“You’re going about this the wrong way,” Ortwin said casually. “We call his bluff. We can’t attack him directly, no matter what the circumstances are. We’ve already broken Ainhorr’s sword, imprisoned Rurunoth and snuffed out another one - which Balor did you disintegrate, Mostin?”
“I’ve no idea,” the Alienist replied.
“I can answer that,” Eadric said. “His name was Uruum – at least, according to Titivilus.”
“Aside from Ainhorr, that leaves Choeth, Irzho and Djorm,” Mostin said. “One of whom is already on the Prime.”
“Then let’s call in another one,” Ortwin said. “And kill him. And then another one. And when we’ve killed them all, we can start on the Mariliths, and the Nalfeshnees. We can break this bastard without going toe-to-toe with him, Ed.”
“I think Eadric has issues about conjuring demons,” Mostin said drily, “no matter what the motives.”
“Maybe he did once,” the Paladin replied, “but he’s damn well earned the right to decide whether the ends justify the means or not. And I have no reservations on this count.”
“Are you above the Law now, Ed?” Ortwin asked slyly.
“When I’ve decided exactly what the Law is, I’ll let you know,” Eadric answered. “In any case, we should probably wait until after Graz’zt has made his translation, and done whatever it is that he plans to do.”
“I’m not sure of the merit of that idea…” Mostin began.
“Titivilus expressly warned me against irritating Graz’zt too much before he acts. He seems to think that it might precipitate an overreaction. Jovol has been reluctant to interfere for the same reason.”
“And you trust him?” Ortwin asked.
“No,” Eadric replied.
“All the same, he might be right,” Mostin conceded. “That is entirely plausible. Demon Princes are not renowned for their tolerant natures.”
“Plausibility is what worries me,” Ortwin countered.
“I hear you,” Eadric agreed.
“In any case,” Mostin continued, “I need to prepare – and that will take some while. But I don’t have adequate free valences to do it all in one evening.”
“Do what?”
“To bind and destroy two Balors,” Mostin grinned. “It will have to wait until tomorrow. And I’ll need to find out which one is already present on the Prime.”
“I seem to recall your needing expensive gems,” Eadric said.
“To trap them, yes,” the Alienist said. “To kill them, no. We just kill them.”
“Are you sure it’s that easy?” Nwm asked.
“Piece of cake,” Mostin smiled.
“Why do I get the feeling that we’ve had this conversation before?” Eadric groaned.
“Perhaps we should ransom one,” the Bard suggested. “Propose an exchange. Can you bring a succubus in as well?”
“I suppose so,” Mostin said.
“Then let’s kill a Balor, stick another one in a pentacle, bind a succubus and instruct her that we’ll kill the second one unless Graz’zt releases Nehael, and then dismiss her to relay the news to her master,” Ortwin seemed delighted with his plan.
“I’m not convinced that Graz’zt will go for a ransom deal,” Mostin said dubiously. “It’s difficult to know exactly what passes in the mind of any Demon, much less one of his stature. Who can tell how he thinks, or what his counsels are, or what things motivate him? Moreover, what of Kothchori? If he is capable of opening a Gate once, he can do it again. If we rouse Graz’zt’s ire to that degree, then it is likely he will deal with us swiftly and decisively. I say we hit Kothchori first. And after the Prince has made his return to the Abyss. We must break the link.”
“He is undetectable,” Eadric groaned.
“Not entirely,” Mostin replied. “If Titivilus was accurate in his appraisal of Jovol’s abilities.”
“Can you contact the Ogre?” Nwm asked. “He would be a useful ally.”
“Jovol follows his own rules,” Mostin answered. “When I have tried in the past, he has been unforthcoming. But it is possible.”
“Hlioth knows more about him than anyone else,” Eadric said. “It may be worth approaching her.” He looked at the Bard.
Ortwin sighed.
“There is another possibility,” Mostin said tentatively. “It is very dangerous.”
Eadric raised an eyebrow. “If it involves more Devils, then the answer is ‘no.’ I’ve got enough to deal with on that score already.”
“Pseudonaturals,” Mostin said. “Big ones.”
“I think I like that even less,” Eadric said. He sighed. “By rights, we should deal with our dead, before we do anything else. They should be taken in state into Morne – all deserve a place in the Temple crypts. But it will have to wait. And I suppose that, as we do not know exactly how or where Graz’zt will strike, we must simply wait until he does and then react accordingly in the aftermath. But it is frustrating. I feel impotent. Now would be a time to possess some insight into his nature, to be able to predict what he might do.”
“Presumably, Tramst could have told you, if he is privy to that information,” Ortwin sighed. “Why didn’t he?”
“I don’t claim to fully understand his methods,” the Paladin answered. “But I have no doubt as to his motives. And I am not above being addressed expediently.”**
“Has it occurred to you that that is one of the functions of Titivilus,” Ortwin pointed out. “From Oronthon’s perspective, at least. By entering into a dialogue with Evil, you come to understand it. To anticipate its movements and action. There may come a point when you can pre-empt it.”
“Maybe,” Eadric replied. “There might be a thousand other reasons, each equally plausible. I also think that thinking about it too hard is likely to lead to irreducible paradox, so I’m not going to get started on it.”
“A wise choice,” Nwm nodded.
**
Uedii, the Goddess, the Green Reality, groaned as yet another extraplanar entity desecrated her realm by manifesting within its confines. She was still far from her limit – as far as tolerating the interlopers was concerned. Her near-infinite capacity for absorption had, in the past, accommodated entire pantheons of warring gods, before she squashed them like flies.
Nonetheless, Nature was irritated. Clouds began to gather over Morne. Feys became short-tempered and vicious. Far to the south, in the archipelago of Pandicule, a volcano – long dormant – rumbled threateningly.
Prince Graz’zt appeared before the mage Kothchori in the sanctum of his island retreat, and the wizard quailed. Nearby, bound within a thaumaturgic diagram, the Archon Zhuel stood in silent meditation.
Graz’zt smiled. To be able to use this Archon had been an unexpected pleasure. His face screwed up as he considered Uzmi and Uruum and Rurunoth, and contorted wildly as he thought of Eadric.
“You are fuel, Archon,” the Prince said snidely. “Consider this: when your sublime form expires after aeons of servitude to your effulgent master, your spirit will be consumed and transformed into something filthy and loathesome.”
Zhuel said nothing. His face remained serene and impassive. As the Demon absorbed his essence, and swelled with the potency so imbibed, Zhuel gave no indication of pain or discomfort, and shot no look of hatred or contempt towards the Fiend. His annihilation was accompanied by an expression of profound pity for Graz’zt, which threw the Prince into a brief but prodigious rage. After a minute of paroxysm, he abruptly mastered himself.
The Demon appeared in Morne for a few seconds, spoke a phrase so terrible that space itself buckled under the strain, and promptly vanished exhausted back to his Abyssal realm.
A surge of elemental hatred broke outwards from the place where he had stood: the same spot in the Orangery of the Temple where Feezuu had slain the Archbishop Cynric. The Aether reverberated sympathetically. Fruit rapidly ripened, spoiled and fell to the ground in festering heaps. The grass wilted, and the orchard blackened and died.
Madness seized the already distressed inhabitants of Morne.
*Lit., “You See.”
**Ascended Masters and Saints within Oronthonianism frequently give cryptic or incomplete accounts to lesser beings, in the knowledge that often such creatures are incapable of understanding the full ramifications of information that would otherwise be imparted.
Dark Subsumption is a method used to fuel Epic Spells cast by certain fiends, which involves the annihilation of powerful outsiders. The mechanics were only worked out after I had access to the BoVD.
Wave of Hate was the spell that Graz’zt invoked. It will be detailed in the next post.
The Characters
Although I’d normally post them in the Rogues’ Gallery, here are the characters as of this post. My rewards aren’t always conventional, so it’s probably worth explaining a few things:
Eadric
Levelling was rapid for Eadric from 18-20: the final level was, in fact “free” to all intents and purposes – the transcendence granted by Tramst in this post (i.e. a 5th level Divine Disciple). Marc is targeting the Divine Emissary PrC from the Epic Level Handbook, although he has yet to decide the intervening levels. Maybe Divine Agent from MotP.
I am using the idea of ‘levelled weapons’ for Lukarn – i.e., as Eadric grows in stature, so does the sword. This had been the plan since around level 13-14, although I had neglected to implement it (oops). Eadric’s transcendence seemed like a good point for a large growth in the sword’s abilities, perhaps reflecting an ‘awakening’ similar to that of its master.
Rewards for Eadric were big, but Marc deserved them. He’d been a truly awesome player.
Ortwin
Rob had already foregone advancing one level of experience, and did so again in order to fully rationalize his character (in his mind). I allowed him to apply the remaining benefits of the Satyr race, which the reincarnation spell had denied him – these included the Fey hit dice and skill points (minus those extra x4 which he would have gained at 1st level), and three feats (two of which he already possessed). As Ortwin originally had an extra feat on conversion to 3e, Rob and I came to an arrangement which suited both of us: Ortwin’s Satyr-ness was fully integrated both mechanically and in the role-playing sense, and the inconsistencies of the reincarnation spell were resolved. Ortwin is no longer a reincarnated half-elf. He really is a Satyr, in every sense. Rob is happy with Satyrdom, although he feels he will be shafted by the ELH multiclassing rules.
It also meant that the ‘is he ECL +5 or not?’ question was resolved. He now is. Of course, when he levels to 18, he will receive another feat. Epic Skill Focus (Bluff) looks likely. One has to work hard to remain the best liar in the world.
Nwm
Nwm levelled, and I allowed Dave to trade out TWF and Improved TWF for some feats from MotW – reflecting a gradual ‘forgetting’ of abilities, to be replaced by new ones. I’m pretty flexible in that regard, and Nwm is less optimized than the other characters anyhow. Nwm will stick with Druid all the way.
Mostin
Dan decided to pump all of his XP into a +5 inherent bonus to Mostin’s intelligence instead of levelling to 19. Mostin now has a ‘brain the size of a planet,’ as Marvin, the Paranoid Android, once said.
More generally, I allowed a retrospective reallotment of skill points in the case of previous cross-class skills for Eadric: Knowledge (Religion) and Knowledge (Nobility) shouldn’t be quite such a sink for a Paladin. I also did the same based on Mostin’s Intelligence increases over several levels – note, however that I do not allow the Headband of Intellect to increase skill points gained per level. That’s just silly.
Mostin, having maxed out the skills that were any use to him, opted to throw them into Craft skills. Apparently, Illumination and Engraving have been a secret passion of his for some while…
Eadric, Earl of Deorham
Male human Paladin 15 / Divine Disciple 5; CR 20; Medium size outsider (human); HD 15d10+60 plus 5d8 + 20; hp 201; Init +1; Speed 20 ft; AC 28 (touch 11, flatfooted 27); Attack: +30/+25/+20/+15 melee (Lukarn) or +27/+22/+17/+12 (Kirm); Dmg: 1d10+11 (15-20/x2)(Luakrn) or 1d8+9 (x3) (Kirm). SV Fort +23, Ref +13, Will +18; AL LG; Str 18 (24), Dex 13, Con 18, Int 12, Wis 16, Cha 23.
Special Abilities: Detect Evil at will, Divine Grace, Lay on Hands (75hp/day), Divine Health, Aura of Courage, Smite Evil (1/day, +15 dmg), Remove Disease (5/week), Turn Undead (as CLE 13, 8/day). Strength Domain Power (1/day: +20 to Str for 1 round). Divine Emissary (Telepathy w/ LG celestials in 60 ft.), Sacred Defense +2, Imbue with Spell Ability, Transcendence.
Spells: -/4/4/4/3. Prepared spells vary, but usually include "Holy Sword." Plus Strength domain spells: Endure Elements, Bull’s Strength, Magic Vestment, Spell Immunity. Caster level 12.
Magic Items:
"Lukarn." +4 LG Keen Fiend Bane Sunblade. Int 14, Wis 17, Cha 18. Empathy. 1 x Extraordinary Ability: Heal 1/day. Special Purpose: Slay Chaotic Evil Creatures. Special Purpose Power: Confusion. Lukarn has an Ego of 25.
"The Skin of Sarth." +4 Full Plate Armour of Invulnerability.
"Melimpor's Iron Girdle." Belt of Giant Strength +6.
"Melimpor's Shield." A Large +3 Shield of Blinding.
"Kirm." Heavy +2 Dragonbane Lance.
3 Javelins of Lightning
4 Potions of Cure Serious Wounds; 2 Potions of Haste.
The Left Eye of Palamabron: A Gem of Seeing with the “Discern Lies,” “Zone of Revelation,” and “Zone of Truth” abilities as cast by a 20th level Cleric usable at will.
34 Years. 190 lbs. 6’1”
Ortwin the Satyr
Male Satyr Fighter5/Rogue5/Bard7; Medium-size fey; HD 5d6+20 plus 5d10+20 plus 5d6+20 plus 7d6+28; hp 175; Init +10; Speed 40 ft; AC 28 (touch 16, flatfooted 22 ++ Displacement Effects); Attack: +27/+22/+17/+12 (Githla) or +26/+21/+16/+11 (Anguish and +3 arrow); Dmg: 1d6+7 (12-20/x2) (Githla) or 1d8 +5 + enervation (Anguish and +3 arrow); SV Fort +12, Ref +20, Will +12; AL CG(N Tendencies); Str 13, Dex 22, Con 18, Int 15, Wis 12, Cha 20 (24).
Languages: Common, Draconic, Old Borchion, Elf, Sylvan
"Dread Githla." +4 Keen, Throwing and Returning Scimitar
Cloak of Displacement (Major)
+5 Studded Leather Armour
The Blue Garnet Collar (Grants wearer +4 to Charisma).
Winged Boots
Potion of Fiery Breath.
Potion of Invisibility.
“Anguish.” A +1 Magical (+3 Mighty) Composite Longbow of Enervation. Those struck by missiles from this weapon are affected as though by the spell of the same name (Save DC17).
20 x +3 Arrows
Masterwork Pan Pipes
Masterwork Lute
Hat of Disguise
Nwm the Preceptor
Male human Druid 18; medium sized humanoid (human); HD 18d8+36; hp 121; Init +1; Speed 30 ft; AC 19 (Touch 11, flat-footed 18); Attack: +18/+13/+8 (Magical Quarterstaff) or +15 (Magical Javelin) Dmg: 1d6+4 (x2) (Magical Quarterstaff) or 1d6 +3 (x2) (Magical Javelin), SV Fort +13, Ref +7, Will +16; AL NG; Str 14, Dex 12, Con 14, Int 15, Wis 20, Cha 17.
Special Abilities: Woodland Stride, Trackless Step, +4 on Saves vs. Fey Enchantments, Wild Shape (6/day; Huge; Elemental 3/day), Venom Immunity, A Thousand Faces, Timeless Body.
Spells Per Day: 6/7/6/6/6/5/4/3/3/2
Nwm's Staff (+2 Staff of the Woodlands topped with an Orb of Storms)
"Leofric's Token," a +3 Amulet of Natural Armour
+3 Leather Armour
"The Bleeding Spears of Huttur," 2x +1 Javelins of Wounding
Bag of Tricks (Rust Colour)
Nwm’s Torc: Command activated device which allows the wearer to ‘Commune with Nature’ as cast by a 9th level Druid.
46 Years; 178lbs; 5’11”
Mostin the Metagnostic
Human Diviner 8 / Alienist 10; medium-size outsider (human); HD 8d4+8 plus 10d4+10 +6 (Insane Certainty); hp 74; Init +3; Speed 30 ft; AC 22 (touch 17, flat-footed 19); Attack: +10/+5 MW Rapier melee; Dmg: 1d6+1 MW Rapier melee (18-20/x2), SV Fort +7, Ref +9, Will +18; AL N(G Tendencies); Str 11, Dex 16, Con 13, Int 27 (33), Wis 16 (18), Cha 12.
Special Abilities: Alien Blessing (+1 Insight Bonus on Saving Throws), Extra Summoning, Summon Alien, Insane Certainty, Timeless Body, Pseudonatural Familiar, Transcendence
Phobia: birds.
Spells: 4/7/7/7/6/6/6/5/4/3 per day. Specialty: Divination (+1 spell/level/day). Extra Summoning = 1 x Summon Monster IX. Prohibited: Necromancy. Save DC 21 + spell level (or 23 + spell level for Conjurations).
Looking Glass of Urm Nahat (Mirror of Mental Prowess)
Portable Hole
Bracers of Armour +4
Ring of Protection +4
Incandescent Blue Sphere Ioun Stone (+2 Wis)
Pale Green Prism Ioun Stone (Sustains without Air)
Iridescent Spindle Ioun Stone (Sustains without Food or Water)
Amulet of Absorption (21 Spell Levels Remain): 3 currently stored
Headband of Intellect +6
Robe of Eyes
Belt of Many Pockets
Mostin's Comfortable Retreat
4 Potions of "Cure Serious Wounds."
There is a compounded meaning within this phrase. Not only saizhan – i.e. “Insight,” but also insight into the nature of insight, and insight into that etc. The rational mind rapidly loses the ability to grasp the spiralling nature of the Real.
I-THOU
This calls into question the conventional apprehension that the object (in this case, Oronthon/Tramst) and the subject (Eadric) are, in fact, separate entities. By extension, all other dualities between the perceiver and the perceived are shown to be merely conventional, and not ultimately Real.
BEING-NONBEING-BECOMING
The three possible ontological states as understood by Urgic Mysticism: either something is, or is not or is in the process of becoming something else. No phenomenon, when viewed from the standpoint of conventional philosophy, can exist outside of this triad. Again, this is called into question by saizhan when describing the Real.
KNOWING-UNKNOWING
The nature of saizhan itself cannot be framed in conventional epistemological language, and transcends the usual categories of gnostic understanding. The duality between whether the Real is known, or whether it is not, is also shown to be false.
SEEKING-FINDING-LOSING-FINDING
The rational mind attempts unsuccessfully to reassert itself and grasp the nature of the Real. During the experience of saizhan, when the subject attempts to articulate the nature of the Real using conventional thought, the experience eludes him. Only when it is lost to the rational mind, can its nature be apprehended. The Real is slippery.
TIME-BEING ETERNITY-NONBEING NOW-BECOMING
The ontological triad (being, nonbeing, becoming) is linked with the three temporal states (conventional linear time, timelessness/eternity and the moment Now), but saizhan reveals these correspondances to be nothing more than convenient labels. The true nature of the Real is beyond these categories, and cannot be described by normal temporal language.
EVERYTHING-NOTHING
The extremes of monism (i.e., the philosophical idea that ‘all is one’), and nihilism (‘nothing is Real’) are shown to be false conceptions – saizhan reveals that the duality between them is constructed, not Real.
IDENTITY-DIFFERENCE
An important point, in which saizhan diverges from other mystical systems. Even the duality between regarding whether something is identical to something else, or different from it is shown to be vacuous.
RELATIVE-ABSOLUTE
The philosophical coup, which marks saizhan as unique (and is a demonstration of Tramst’s genius). Here, the distinction between the Real (the absolute) and the merely conventional (the relative) is shown to be false. Even this duality is addressed. Now there is nothing left for the rational mind to grasp onto.
NOTHING IS. NOTHING IS NOT. NOTHING BECOMES
The final, bold assertion framed as a threefold dialectic of negation, and reiterating the ontological questions raised before. The Real cannot be described as either existing or not existing, or as being in the process of becoming. This is the central mystical assertion of saizhan.
Last edited by Cheiromancer; 25th July 2003 at 08:01 PM..
Wyrt, a cloth-merchant of considerable financial means, lived in a large, comfortable manse in the Temple district of Morne. His home – constructed on a single level in the antique style – was maintained to immaculate standards. Pristine whitewashed walls, a red clay pan-tiled roof, and a neat, formal garden were looked after by Wyrt’s small but diligent retinue of indentured servants.
Wyrt – a member of Morne’s influential middle class – enjoyed his life, although of late the war had taken a toll on his income. His wife, Qéma, was a younger daughter of the Silubrein household – relatives of the incumbent Earl of Scir Cellod in the south of Wyre. The marriage had been a favorable one, elevating Wyrt to quasi-noble status, and benefiting the Silubreins with a much-needed boost to their near-empty coffers. Wyrt was a Gilded Thane, in the popular parlance – regarded with disdain by those of established pedigree, but nonetheless one who wielded as much power as many of those who could trace their lineage back twenty generations.
An hour before sunset, as clouds were gathering again in the sky above Morne, and many wondered what new sorcery was at work, Wyrt suddenly paused above his ledgers and accounts, his quill pen twitching nervously in his hand. He swallowed, and his hackles rose. Blood thundered in his temples as he thought of Qéma, and he wondered what folly had led him to marry her in the first place. He glanced around his study, selected a sturdy marble book-end, and went in search of his wife.
Wyrt never had a chance to smash her skull, however, because as he exited a small drawing-room, Qéma stood in wait for him. She pushed a long larding needle into his throat, and Wyrt fell over, gurgled briefly, and died.
In a red haze, Qéma walked outside and went to look for the gardener, who had annoyed her earlier that day by what she perceived as his mismanagement of the shrubbery.
Across Morne, with minor variations, the pattern was repeated a thousand times.
**
"The Goddess is angry," Nwm said with startling certainty, as his torc relayed a variety of natural grumblings to his mind.
"Graz’zt has come?" Eadric asked anxiously. "Can you determine his whereabouts?"
"I cannot," Nwm answered. "And Graz’zt is merely the latest in a succession of aliens who should not be here." The Druid’s disdain towards demons, devils, celestials and incarnate deities alike was barely concealed. His perceptions shifted repeatedly as he tried to focus on something tangible in his consciousness. Half a minute passed.
Across his field of inner vision, tiny points of light – sentient beings – appeared. All of those within nine miles, in fact. There were eighty-four thousand three hundred and nineteen of them. In the Temple district of Morne, many flared rapidly – enjoying a brief moment of intensity – before they disappeared permanently. He watched in morbid fascination as lives were snuffed out.
Death – unnatural - violence – the desire to do great violence – fear – hatred.
Nwm vomited, as his groping mind resonated with the emotional reality of what was transpiring within the city.
"Hatred," he gasped.
"Enchantment?" Mostin asked cannily.
"Yes. YES."
"Intriguing," the Alienist observed.
"Is it permanent?" the Paladin asked. "Are those who enter likely to feel its effects?"
"No, and no," Mostin answered. "Unless Graz’zt’s stature has somehow grown tenfold."
"Do we really know how powerful he is?" Ortwin asked nervously.
"Not that powerful," Mostin assured him.
"Er, so remind me why exactly Oronthon’s avatar isn’t doing anything about this," Ortwin said sarcastically.
"I am in no mood for a Theological debate," Eadric snapped.
"Nwm would say Thealogical," Mostin quipped.
The Druid groaned, and abruptly turned into an eagle. He exited the tent, screeched, and was quickly joined by two more – Sem and Gheim. The three flew towards Morne. Eadric, Ortwin and Mostin followed him out, to be greeted by a riot of colour – Templars, aristocrats, soldiers and mercenaries – all of whom had expectant looks upon their faces.
Ahma, they cried with one voice.
Oh, Sh*t, thought the Paladin. The damn army wanted someone to tell them what to do. He motioned to Brey and Sercion, who approached expectantly.
"Assemble every anointed Templar*," Eadric instructed his captains. "We are going into Morne."
A wide grin appeared on Brey’s face. "That is a wise choice, Ahma. Our holiness alone will prevail. We have no need of foreign mercenaries."
The Paladin smiled grimly. "You misunderstand, Brey. We are not going in to fight. I require swords to remain in their scabbards."
Tramst had told him that he would know what to do. He hoped he was doing the right thing.
**
Inside the audience chamber of the Royal Palace – the ceiling of which still dripped slowly from the torrential rains of the previous night – Prince Tagur was finally received by King Tiuhan and the remainder of the Small Council. He limped, his arms were burned and painful from the exchange with Rimilin and the Demons outside of the gates, and he was still bloody and bruised from his escape from Hullu’s encampment.
Foide, who had privately hoped for Tagur’s demise, feigned relief at his appearance. The Prince of Einir, who seldom misread others’ motives, scowled briefly.
"So who had the bright idea of employing the Demonist as an ambassador?" He spat sarcastically.
"His Majesty," the Chamberlain replied loftily. "And you should speak with more respect, although we are glad to find you alive and well."
Tagur gave an icy stare. "Foide, shut up." He bowed to the Boy-King. "I fear that you may have made an error of judgement, your Highness.** It is a hard lesson – but you should learn from it. Where is Rimilin now?"
"No longer here," Sihu answered. "The Bishop of Gibilrazen says that he and the Heretic are most likely engaged in some diabolic feud, where they are arguing about who claims the spoils after the world ends."
"Where is that fat oaf, anyway?" Tagur asked irreverently, causing Tiuhan to snicker.
"He has returned to the Temple," Sihu replied with earnest piety. "He left abruptly, and did not explain why."
The Prince grunted. From Eadric’s words, he had an inkling of the reasons for the Bishop’s sudden departure, but felt no urge to share them with the others present. Damned religious nonsense. Why couldn’t people just get by without it?
After an hour of wrangling about how best to deal with the ongoing crisis in Wyre – half a dozen armies in the area, all but their own respective troops of dubious loyalty to each of the magnates present – Attar, the Warden of the North returned to the chamber. His normally taciturn manner had been replaced by something which Tagur perceived to be close to panic.
"Riots have broken out in the Temple Quarter," he panted.
"If it is, I’ve never seen anything like it before," Attar replied. "It’s some kind of hysteria. They’re killing each other in the streets. Templars, soldiers who were stationed on the West Wall, old women, toddlers, everyone."
Tagur groaned. The Demonist probably had a hand in this new mischief. And with the Heretic outside of the city, they could hardly draw soldiers away from the walls to contain it. He motioned to Attar, winced in pain as he hurried out of the audience room, and made his way to the tall West Tower of the palace.
Sh*t, he thought as he looked out at the scene. They were butchering each other by the hundred out there, and new fires were starting – their smoke rising to join the smoldering remnants of those which had burned the night before. A lot had happened in a day. And now the Fane itself was burning.
In disbelief, Prince Tagur watched as the Temple’s south transept, wracked by earthquake, wind, torrential rain, and now, fire, teetered and cracked. Immense butresses and pilons snapped like straws, and the edifice collapsed in a ruin, briefly exposing a light in the nave beyond, before it was obscured by smoke and dust.
From inside the Temple, something reached out and gently touched his mind. Tagur suddenly saw. The cosmos melted, and was made whole again in an instant. Moments later, Eadric’s trumpets sounded beyond the city walls.
Tagur turned to Attar. "Let him in," he said. "Before its too late."
The Warden’s jaw dropped. "Your Highness…" he began.
"Do it. Open the South Gate."
**
"It is only a technical violation," Mulissu complained. "I don’t see what all the fuss is about." She lounged in one of the huge leather chairs in Shomei’s study.
Jovol sighed. "If you don’t have the stomach for this, Mulissu…"
"Don’t be so damned condescending. I admire the principle. I agreed to listen to you, didn’t I?" Her memory flashed back to her own fears of assault from Feezuu – although the Ogre’s proposition would have done little to protect her.
"Under much duress," Shomei said snidely. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, the scars from her exchange with Titivilus still apparent. "Besides, its not as though you will be the one to suffer the consequences of it."
"It is a tedious waste," the Savant answered. "And I still don’t understand why we can’t perform the ritual afterwards. Or why the clauses regarding summoning and wizards assailing other wizards can’t simply be dropped. There will always be extenuating circumstances."
"Not any more," the Ogre replied. "The Injunction will now be watertight."
"Nothing is ever watertight. Mostin won’t like this." Mulissu sighed.
Shomei laughed. "If there are any loopholes, he will find them."
"Mostin has hardly been an exemplar in observing the Injunction," Jovol agreed wrily. "Which is why I have decided to include him. I’d rather have him in on it, than trying to wriggle around it. Besides, we need his input to fuel the spell. I have already sent written copies of the proposal to Waide, Tozinack, Daunton and Hlioth – a quorum is desirable."
"Mostin means well," Mulissu sighed. "But will be reluctant to surrender his sovereignty to an abstraction." A worried look crossed her face. "You’ve made a powerful case, Jovol, but I fear that what you suggest will rip the heart out of magic in Wyre."
"It will merely relocate a certain aspect of it."
"And Hlioth? She is hardly reliable."
"You do not know her as I do. I’ve shown you the Web of Motes."
"It is indecipherable to me," the Witch said, waving her hand in a dismissive gesture. "I must take your word for it. And what happens if you receive a blanket refusal from all of those whom you have asked?" Mulissu probed.
"Then I will Gate in half a dozen Solars and they will help me instead," Jovol grumbled. "One way or another, this will happen."
"Have you decided upon the Enforcer?" Shomei asked. "One of the Akesoli*** could be bound with this spell."
Jovol shook his head. "They are too political," he said. "And to co-opt them would cause too many ripples. But I concur with your reasoning – something Diabolic would seem to fit the bill, but something outside of the established order – I am leaning towards Gihaahia."
"That is certainly a terrifying prospect for potential violators," Shomei nodded.
"An infernal magnate?" Mulissu asked, uninformed about the nuances of the Diabolic hierarchy.
"An Infernal," Shomei replied. "The offspring of Prince Astaroth and the dead Goddess, Cheshne."
"She is not dead," Jovol smiled. "She dreams with the others."
"In any case, Gihaahia is an abhorrence. An atavism from a previous reality."
"Your concept of reality is quaintly rational," Jovol chided.
"And yours is numinous bunkum," Shomei retorted. "But I am not here to argue metaphysics – or transmetaphysics, before you say anything."
Mulissu groaned and looked bored. This was precisely why she had isolated herself for so long. "I will fetch Mostin," she said, and vanished.
**
The Alienist seethed, looking at the huge, carved marble slab.
"You have no right to do this," he snapped.
"I have the power," Jovol replied calmly. "And the foresight. And a responsibility to the future. That is enough."
"And you?" Mostin looked incredulously at both Mulissu and Shomei. "Have you lost your wits? You of all people, Shomei. You live for this. You cannot ban an entire subschool of magic."
"I accept the limitations as part of a larger set of rules, Mostin. Jovol will not move on any of them. Besides, it will only affect those who cannot perform their summonings elsewhere."
"That is precisely why it won’t work," Mostin sighed. "Those who wish to will simply go elsewhere in order to do it, and then order their creatures into Wyre."
Jovol touched the slab. In response to his words, a minute paragraph carved upon the huge tablet glowed, and seemed to grow in size. Luminous runes hung in the air.
33.6(e)…this prohibition extends to the calling or summoning of creatures outside of the excluded area, and their subsequent deployment within it. Such violators will also be subject to the Enforcer.
"Pah!" The Alienist snorted. "What about the didactic implications? To remove summoning from a mage’s repertoire will impact the understanding of magic in general."
"I have the same concern," Mulissu nodded.
"And I am concerned about defense," Mostin said. "What happens if a Wizard is magically attacked, and his or her specialty is conjuration? He can no longer summon creatures to protect him."
Jovol smiled, and touched the tablet. "Observe…"
5.0No Wizard shall, at any time or in any way, assail another Wizard by magical means…
"That’s pretty radical," Mostin said.
"The theory of summoning is not banned, nor is the practice beyond Wyre’s boundaries. Please, Mostin, do not get stuck on this one point. Read the tablet in its entirety. There are clauses to cover every contingency, and even an appeal clause in the case of possible miscarriage."
"Appeal? Appeal to whom? To you?"
"To the Claviger." Jovol replied.
"What the Hell is the Claviger?" Mostin asked.
"You are looking at it," Jovol said, a wide grin appearing on his huge face, and exposing rows of enormous fangs, "at least, in a manner of speaking. The Claviger inhabits the tablet upon which the Injunction has been scribed."
"The tablet is sapient?" The Alienist asked in disbelief.
"Profoundly so," Jovol nodded. "It can also independently manifest itself. The Enforcer will be bound to the Claviger, and will act as directed by it."
"What is this ‘intelligence?’" Mostin asked. "Where did it originate?"
Jovol laughed. "Dream," he said.
Mostin raised an eyebrow. "What is its order – in the sense of its size, rather than its genus? Its inclination? Its motivations?"
"It is the Claviger," Jovol said simply. "And it has agreed to my suggestion."
"To inhabit this piece of rock? It must be crazy. I am disinclined to trust it."
"Trust is inconsequential," Jovol sighed. "It is not in the nature of the Claviger to manipulate others for its own ends. It does not have an ego or a personality, in the conventional sense. As to its order – deific would be an understatement. It perceives the magical continuum at all times. It will instantly know of any violation."
The Alienist’s jaw dropped. "This is outrageous," he said.
"I told you he wouldn’t like it," Mulissu groaned. "Perhaps we should have asked Jalael and Troap."
"To do what?" Mostin inquired suspiciously.
"To help us bind the Enforcer," Shomei answered.
"And what will the Enforcer be?"
"I am leaning towards Gihaahia at present," Jovol answered.
Mostin wracked his memory, until he recalled the name. The blood drained from his face. "Please wait for a while."
He scanned the tablet minutely for one hour.
"You’re all cracked," he said, and then laughed loudly, as an epiphany struck him. "But count me in. I’ve a feeling you’re going to do it anyway, and if there will be no more summonings, I’d like my last one in Wyre to be a big one."
"I was hoping you’d feel that way," Jovol nodded. "But we are not calling Gihaahia. We will be going to her, in order to bind her."
"That would be less arduous in terms of the magic required," Mostin nodded. "Are co-operative spells a particular specialty of yours, Jovol?" He asked archly.
"They were once," the Ogre nodded, seeing the knowing look upon the Alienist’s face.
"Thought so," Mostin said. "One last thing," he asked, "I was planning on calling two Balors tomorrow…"
"My Web of Motes indicated the possibility," Jovol answered. "If you proceed, you should make sure that you are outside of Wyre, and do not force them to act as your agents within it."
"I assume that extradimensional spaces are not excluded?"
"Of course not," Shomei replied. "You see? It will have little impact on you and I, so long as we exercise prudence."
"When do you propose to bind the Infernal?" Mostin asked.
"Is your highest valence available to you?" Jovol asked.
The Alienist puffed out his cheeks, and nodded.
"Then now is as good a time as any. I will contact Waide and the others. Mulissu?"
The Elementalist agreed, and looked sadly at Jovol. Here was one whom she had barely begun to know, the passing of whose friendship she already lamented. The Ogre had indicated that there was a ninety-six percent chance that he would be dead within two days.
Jovol smiled quietly to himself. His prescience had seldom failed him.
**
Nwm circled overhead, ready to conjure elementals in order to tear down Morne’s South Gate if necessary. Below him, Eadric sat upon Contundor amid three hundred Templars – those of particular holiness and devotion who acted as channels for their deity’s power.
A deity whose proxy was within the Temple walls, Eadric thought to himself.
At that moment, a roaring noise – masonry cracking and falling – echoed across the city and to the gates. In the sky, Nwm screeched at Gheim, and the eagle plummeted downwards, broke its dive, and alighted upon the pommel of Eadric’s saddle.
"Part of the Temple just collapsed," Gheim said in a matter-of-fact way. "It is on fire. There are other fires within. Men, women and children are murdering each other on the streets."
Eadric felt sick, and motioned to Jorde, who bore the horn of the recently burned Hyne around his neck. It rang out, to be quickly followed by several more amongst the Templars.
Perhaps a dozen arrows and bolts issued from the towers above the gate, and clattered off of armour and barding. A rather half-hearted response, Eadric mused to himself. Perhaps the others were being deployed inside the walls. He waited. Within the walls, another horn sounded. Moments later, the gates opened.
The Paladin, half-expecting a charge directed at him from within, braced himself for the assault. Instead, numbers of Morne’s inhabitants surged outwards, carrying children too young to walk, and those few possessions which they felt worth saving. Most simply fled. Others seemed to be randomly killing those attempting to escape, or each other. It was impossible to determine who were the victims, and who the attackers. Who was enchanted, and who was not.
"Apprehend anyone behaving aggressively," Eadric’s voice boomed out. "Knock them out and tie them up. We can decide what to do with them when we’ve subdued them." He prayed that it would be enough. Motioning to Brey, Sercion, Jorde and a dozen others, he rode through the gate and headed for the Temple.
The scene which greeted him on his procession was more barbaric, more obscene, and more painful than anything he had ever before encountered. Mutilated corpses were strewn around. Burned. Impaled. Dismembered. Screams of pain echoed across the dust and smoke-filled streets.
As they proceeded, Eadric recalled the words of Titivilus, his appointed Tempter, at his own insistence that Celestials would not permit something like this to happen: Would they not? Are you confident that you understand the Mind of Oronthon that clearly?
Apparently, Oronthon had permitted it to happen.
He grimaced. The old paradox again. Have I come so far, only to be confronted with that same doubt? Eadric emptied his mind, and allowed his wavering to pass. He recalled the place where all polarities cease, and drew strength from it.
I will have your head for this, Demon.
*I.e. Clerics, Paladins and spellcasting Prestige Classes.
** As a Prince of the Blood, Tagur is not required to address the King by the honorific ‘Majesty’ – he may use ‘Highness’ instead. By doing so he also asserts his precedence over those others present.
***The "Pain-Bringers," a group of nine unique Devils charged with administering Amaimon’s justice. My infernal organization is only loosely based upon official D&D canon – I can include it as an attachment if anyone is interested.
"Last season’s style looks good upon you, Mostin," Waide said drily, adjusting his cravat.
The Alienist scowled. "It’s a shame that you’re too fat to do justice to the current one." His dislike for the other Wizard was based mostly on their all too-similar temperaments (Waide was as tight-lipped and pedantic as Mostin himself) – combined with Waide’s disdain for all non-transmutive spells and processes.
Waide smiled thinly. "Thus endeth summoning in Wyre. How do you feel about that, Mostin? What will you do with yourself?"
Wait until you venture outside of the proscribed area before I unleash the Pseudonaturals on you, he thought. He shrugged. "I’ll get by. This is only one small part of one small reality."
"Quite so," Shomei interrupted. "We are still waiting for Hlioth and Daunton. Would you care for some refreshment, Waide?"
"Hlioth? That mad old crone won’t come. She’s long past it. I’ll have a herbal infusion, thank-you"
"She will come," Jovol said smoothly, entering the drawing-room.
"Where is Tozinak?" Waide asked. "I assumed that he was to be included."
"He is. He is currently experimenting with object-identification."
A small credence table nearby shifted into a more recognizable human form, spilling the drinks which sat upon it onto the floor. The ever-shifting features of Tozinak appeared beneath his characteristic hooded yellow cloak. He bowed dramatically, and when he rose, he had grown a long beard and his skin had changed colour.
"So we are going to Hell, then?" He asked brightly.
"Not exactly," Mostin said. "Although close enough. Gihaahia abides in the blasted regions abutting Avernus."
"Ahh, an exile," Tozinak nodded sagely.
"It is more complex than that," Shomei said irritably. "In any case, there will be eight of us: You, I, Mostin, Mulissu, Waide, Hlioth, Daunton and Jovol."
"Eight is an inauspicious number," Tozinak said. "Seven or nine would be better. What of Griel?"
"He is unnecessary," Jovol said. "Eight will be enough."
"And you are sure that we have sufficient power to accomplish this?"
Mostin nodded. "Shomei and I have both inspected Jovol’s calculations. We should have no problems. Gihaahia is vastly powerful and ancient, spawned in a forgotten aeon between a Prince of Hell and a Goddess of Nothingness. But we can bind her."
"Are we opening a Gate, or shifting straight there?" Waide inquired nervously.
"I would suggest an Astral Spell," Mostin offered, "although someone other than I will have to cast it." He was in no particular hurry.
Jovol shook his head. "I will Dream us there."
Mostin raised an eyebrow. "Isn’t that rather unreliable?"
"Not at all," Jovol replied. "And it is much more discreet. It will only take a few minutes.
"And casting the spell?" Waide asked. "Will she just stand there while we bind her?"
Mostin groaned. "Where is your sense of adventure, Waide? You’re so boring. In answer to your question, no. Which is why we will cheat. Jovol will create a temporal bubble before we encounter her – we will not be in the same time-stream."
"That is a sensible precaution," Tozinak nodded.
"Trust me," Jovol said. "It will all be very anticlimactic. The only other thing I should mention is this: we will all sustain backlash from the spell, with the majority of it falling on me. And each of us will invest a small portion of our personal reservoir in addition – again, I will bear the brunt."
"Wait a minute…" Waide began.
"You are so selfish," Mostin chided. "Have you no thoughts for posterity? Can’t you see beyond your own small world? Great magic suffers because of atrophied minds such as yours."
"What is ‘small’ for Jovol, may be more than I can render!"
"Tish!" In fact, although the Alienist himself was distraught by Jovol’s request, the chance to criticize Waide’s reluctance in front of those others present almost made up for it.
**
Eadric rode through the streets of Morne with a dozen of his most stalwart followers, appalled at the scenes which he witnessed. The bulk of the Templars, Ortwin and Iua – together with the circling Nwm and his two eagle companions – were left to deal with the chaos around the south gate and the mustering grounds within the city’s tall walls. Identifying who was affected by the compulsion was near impossible, and as Ortwin clobbered random people over the head with the pommel of his scimitar, he wondered how long the mass subdual would take.
Fortunately, Nwm intervened. With a spell that made many of the Paladins and Clerics shake with the memory of what had transpired on the Nund meadows, the Druid conjured a writhing mass of poisonous vines which entangled the limbs of those present. More than three-quarters of the crowd were pinned, and many succumbed to the paralyzing effects of the burgeoning vegetation.
The work of the Temple knights was made considerably easier – the vines covered an area of more than two acres – and at the Druid’s command, they next wrapped and bound around five hundred of Morne’s hapless citizens. Seeing the success of the conjuration, Nwm squawked and flew in search of other pockets of conflict, preparing to cast as many entangle spells – and variations thereof – that he could muster. He was joined in the air by both Ortwin and Iua, taking advantage of the perspective that it offered, and grimly observing the wreck of the Temple quarter – from the air, the pattern of death and violence seemed to radiate outwards from the Fane itself.
Night was falling. The Temple compound itself was eerily quiet. Several outbuildings had been torched, and they burned steadily. Dust still hung thick in the air from the recent collapse of the Great Fane’s south face. The bodies of Templars – many of those few dozen who had remained in Morne – were scattered across the blackened lawns and terraces. Eadric ordered his followers to attend to those few that were still breathing – but only after they had been bound or restrained. He dismounted and, followed by Brey, Sercion and Tatterbrand, passed through a blackened door into the sacristy.
Heaps of torn and shredded chasubles lay within, and vessels lay strewn around. More bodies – priests and acolytes – lay in unlikely postures, where they had struck each other down with ceremonial staves or swords when the spell had taken effect. Before they exited into the ambulatory, Brey’s sharp eyes caught a movement beneath a pile of heavy vestments – he said nothing, but gave Eadric a meaningful look and flicked his eyes towards the robes. The Paladin drew Lukarn, cautiously approached, and pulled the coverings aside. The rather pathetic figure of the Bishop of Hethio was revealed, quivering uncontrollably. Upon meeting Eadric’s gaze, he made a number of ineffectual warding motions.
"I am doomed," he groaned. "The Adversary has come for me."
"Get up," Eadric commanded.
"Leave me, Devil. Get you gone." He brandished a pendant displaying an eagle at the Paladin.
"GET UP. You reek of taint," Eadric said, grabbing the Bishop’s hair, and dragging him towards the door. "You are an assassin, a liar, a manipulator and a coward."
Hethio screamed in pain as he was pulled along. "Will you sacrifice me?"
"No indeed, Eminence," Eadric spat. "I will take you to see God – which is neither more nor less than you deserve. Why you were spared from this is beyond my understanding. I assume that he has some purpose for you, so I won’t sentence you to death. But be warned – I am in a very, very bad mood."
So Eadric, Brey, Sercion, Tatterbrand and the – albeit reluctant – Bishop of Hethio made their way to the chancel and the Archiepiscopal throne. The Paladin recalled his premonition of the scenes along the Temple corridors. The reality was a thousand times worse than his vision could have possibly suggested.
*
Nine thousand dead, Nwm thought to himself as his mind reached outwards and took a grim tally. He groaned.
A vine mine contained an episode of looting and violence in the Street of Goldsmiths, but by the time that the Druid had circled the city for the third time, he saw that most of the outbreaks were localized and involved only a few people. Tagur had committed soldiers from the defense of the city to arrest any others who were under the effects of the compulsion, and Nwm turned his hand to dousing the flames within Morne. Again. Periodically, he would commune with the Green in an effort to locate any other demons, but they were either out of his range or warded from his inner vision.
The Satyr and the Duelist descended into the outer courtyard of the Temple compound, where Jorde was directing the restraint and healing of any survivors of the Wave of Hate. Even Ortwin, a staunch opponent of Temple policy and activity since long before the current crisis had begun, found the scene depressing and unnerving.
"Where’s Ed?" The Bard asked.
"The Ahma has gone to seek the Sela," a Paladin replied gravely.
"Where’s Tramst?" He asked irreverently.
"The Sela is most likely within the chancel," the other answered with more earnest piety than Ortwin thought necessary.
The Bard turned to Iua and grinned. "Wanna go and see a god?" He asked flippantly. "Its okay – he’s harmless. His head stooge is a old friend of mine."
Jorde sighed. He, at least, was used to Ortwin’s idiosyncrasies. "I think, perhaps, only the faithful should be permitted within for the time being."
Iua was about to say something, but a look of ecstasy combined with contrite horror passed across Jorde’s face. "Yes, Lord," he mumbled to himself. "Forgive my presumption."
Ortwin raised an eyebrow.
"The Sela will receive you before the throne," Jorde explained nervously. "He apologizes that the main gate to the Fane is in ruins, and suggests that you use the entrance through the vestry."
"Quite right," the Satyr said facetiously, staring at the wreck of the South Transept. Inwardly, he swallowed, and wondered whether it had been such a good idea after all.
**
Tramst sat beneath the immense symbol of Oronthon – the Eagle-and-Sun which reared in the centre of the Fane. Large chunks of masonry lay scattered within – ornate carvings which had fallen from the ceiling and shattered the pews and cracked the smooth flags of the floor. Yet more bodies lay there, and aside from a handful of Temple officiants and lesser clergy, the Sela was alone. The few present seemed enrapt in some mystical state. Somehow, the Proxy seemed even more mortal and even less divine than before.
Eadric approached tentatively. Despite his best efforts to stop it, his mind swam with questions. How could you allow? Why did you? Why did you not? What was the purpose? He grimaced and tried to make the queries go away.
Do not repress the doubt in your mind, Ahma. You know better than that.
I wish there had been another way.
Do you mean, "Was there no other way?"
(Ruefully).Yes, Holiness.
Not all Truths are unequal, Eadric. Consider this question: What if Graz’zt acted as the unwitting agent of a wrathful Oronthon, dispensing ire and justice upon those who defied his will?
Is that so?
That is one interpretation. Here is another question: Presently, an Eagle flies above Morne. Where it acts, those who suffer from the madness are restrained and can do each other no harm. What if this is the mercy of Oronthon, bringing succour to those who deserve it?
I understand, Holiness. The fact that it is Nwm does not diminish the fact that certain people will perceive it in a certain way.
It is no less true, in fact: the Sophists would claim that Uedii and Oronthon are one and the same. Equally, it is true to some that you are the agent of the Adversary. You brought ruin upon the Temple. Your desire for a demoness signalled the death-knell for Orthodoxy. Have you accepted that truth yet?
(Wrily).That is harder.
Why, if the Adversary is an aspect of Oronthon?
That is only one of many conflicting truths.
Ahh, saizho, Ahma.
What must be done now, Holiness?
There are still loose ends to be tied up. Events are not resolved. When they are, we begin the process of rebuilding. First we must deal with tomorrow: it will bring yet more pain.
I still have yet to see my role in this, beyond vague ideas.
The Magistratum will be consolidated into one body – the names ‘Mission’ and ‘Inquisition’ will no longer be employed. ‘Temple’ will become the catch-all term: it is a trend well-underway, in any case. The troops in Iald have already been ordered to disband. Eisarn is withdrawing back to Morne. I need to speak with the Royal Council. I will need your diplomatic savvy.
I promised disestablishment.
They will have it.
(Embarrassed). I vowed to the Uediians that I would strive to end indentureship, and the Temple would recompense them.
Our coffers are not limitless, but I will honour your promise first.
I am also concerned of reprisals from the secular aristocracy directed against Hullu’s faction.
Sihu will not act: she is devout, if misguided – this can be corrected. Tagur is an ally.
Tagur is a rationalist, Holiness. As much as I respect him…
I have shown Tagur. It was he who ordered the gates open for you.
(Surprise). And Foide?
Foide will remain a problem.
There is also the issue of Trempa. Soraine’s death will leave a gap, and squabbling nephews will soon begin their maneuvering.
You could claim the Duchy. You have the support.
I have neither the time nor the inclination to administer it. My spiritual position would also be compromised by temporal concerns. Given the effort that I have made to separate the two, this might be interpreted as somewhat hypocritical. I would have supported Ryth, if he had made a claim.
You may yet be forced to intervene, to prevent more bloodshed. Such is the weight of responsibility.
(Confession). You have granted me time to act, Holiness. I purpose to assail Graz’zt. I have yet to determine how this is best accomplished.
(Amusement). That is a formidable task. If you ask for my blessing, I cannot give it: vengeance and retribution are not within my purview. Are they yours?
I don’t know. Perhaps.
*
Tramst turned to look at the Bishop of Hethio, who stood between Brey and Sercion. Each of the great Templars held an arm of the clergyman, whose eyes had remained closed and whose lips had muttered fervent prayers during the silent exchange between Eadric and the Sela.
A brief communion occurred. Tramst made an offer.
In doubt, and fear, and spite, and self-hatred, the Bishop declined.
A look of sadness passed across the face of the Sela. "Let him go," he said aloud to Brey and Sercion. "Depart, Hethio. Go where you will. At any time, you may approach me again. I do not judge, I merely teach."
But as the Bishop departed in haste from the chancel, Tramst spoke to him again. "You may be disappointed if you return to your see, Hethio. Your palace will be mortgaged, and your estates dissolved: I would hate to burden you with material concerns when your spiritual welfare is at stake."
Hethio grunted. Oronthon’s Proxy turned his attention to Sercion and Brey.
"When the Ahma departs, it would behoove you to remain. There is much that you need to un-learn."
Somewhat daunted, both Templars bowed.
As Eadric exited, picking his way through the rubble and smashed benches, he encountered Ortwin and Iua, both of whom, apparently, were walking towards Tramst. A quizzical look crossed the Paladin’s face.
"Hi Ed," Ortwin said. "Just thought we’d come and take a peek. I’ve never met a god before."
Eadric sighed. In matters religious, would Ortwin never be anything but a casual tourist?
**
What is this place? Mostin wondered, as phantasms floated past his vision for what seemed like hours. Half-formed dreams and reflections, insubstantial yet strangely real. Trees, roads, skies, a vaporous castle, a silver void. He looked around himself.
They didn’t seem to be moving – he, Jovol and the others – although the dreamscape changed in a pattern that he could not quite discern. After a period of intense turbulence, where scenes and sounds manifested in rapid succession, he felt that he had descended into someone else’s nightmare.
Such hatred. It staggered him. His mind span as he strove to maintain his focus. He shot a concerned look towards Tozinak, who of the others there was finding the current strands of consciousness hardest to deal with.
"It will pass," Jovol assured them. "It is merely an echo of an event long past, or one which happened in another time – depending on your perspective. Dream remembers all potentiality – realized or not, past, present or future. Parallel, perpendicular, or extending into an infinity of dimensions."
"What is/was/will be the event?" The Alienist asked, careful not to frame his question in the language of conventional linear time.
"That also depends on your perspective," the Ogre grinned. "The Prime Nodality. The beginning of dualism. The birth of the dialectic. The planting of the seeds of knowledge or damnation."
"The Fall," Shomei said.
"If you subscribe to that particular paradigm," Jovol nodded. "For the moment, we should adopt it whatever our respective world-views: it is relevant to our situation. Let’s just assume that it’s provisionally correct, and act accordingly. We are on the fringes of Hell."
"And Devils dream?" Mostin asked incredulously. "I’ve never seen one sleep, and I’ve known a few."
"Everything dreams," Jovol answered.
"Twaddle," Shomei muttered.
"But why do we feel the ripple here and now?" The Alienist pressed.
"There has been a sympathetic vibration, which hearkened back to an aspect of the Original Nodality."
"Ahh, Graz’zt."
Jovol nodded, sighed, gestured, and modified the passage of time.
*
In her abysm, where she had dwelt for untold aeons, brooding in bitterness and corruption, she stirred. Unlike those who had their place in the Adversary’s grand, despotic regime, she was an outsider – too potent to overcome, too alien to harness. A monstrosity conceived between a fallen Seraph and a forgotten deity who predated existence. Shadows swarmed about her. The fire that burned – within her and around her – both tortured and assuaged her.
The inkling that she had was vague and indistinct, but nonetheless present. A threat, certainly – although from what was impossible to say. It had been an age or more since Devils had attempted to woo her or eliminate her. Instinctively, she wreathed herself in void and vanished, shedding hatred and malice in waves which pulsed from her form. She pulled four Pit Fiends to herself from Hell’s deepest layer, and waited.
It was to no avail. In their temporal bubble, linked by Rary’s Telepathic Bond, the Wizards acted in uncanny coordination – an organic unit, from which potency flowed. In her Fiendform, Shomei’s eyes pierced the darkness. Their collective sight dispelled the veil of Invisibility.
Gihaahia, and her attendant Devils, appeared frozen in time and space. Jovol spoke the words, and raw power coursed through them all. Mostin’s head span ecstatically, and he resisted the urge to giggle.
The backlash was terrific, causing the Alienist’s skin to crack and his teeth to rattle in his head. Blood vessels across Jovol’s temples, down his neck, and along his arms ruptured, spraying blood over the other Wizards. He groaned, and pulled open the portal to Dream again.
The cabal vanished back into the unconscious world.
Gihaahia noticed nothing until it was too late. She would be called to the Prime, and serve the entity called Claviger.
Strange, she thought. It almost felt like some form of compulsion – not that she had ever experienced one. There were, after all, no compulsions capable of affecting her.
*
And so it transpired, as Jovol had either foreseen or determined – when a Wizard is an actor in his own visions of the future, who can judge whether it is ordained or not? Mostin, Shomei, Mulissu, Waide, Hlioth, Tozinak and Daunton submitted themselves to the Ogre’s direction, and wrought a spell that would change the future of magic in Wyre.
In that moment, when Gihaahia – scarce less than a demigoddess in her power – was bound to the Claviger, Mostin experienced first-hand his own theories of Will, and the power to make it manifest. It was true. Anything was possible. Anything.
Henceforth, the Claviger would reside in a cave in the weathered hills of Mord, south of Morne. Its location would be unknown to those who were not initiated – arcanists of sufficient power and reputation – but would exist as a rumour amongst those who aspired to be counted among the great.
Those Wizards who were vexed by dilemmas regarding their actions could approach the Claviger, and ask it for guidance. In its faultless interpretation of the Injunction, the Claviger would relay its adjudication in a sombre voice, issuing from the tablet upon which Jovol’s words were scribed.
Occasionally, those who spoke with it would encounter a small child in the chamber – this was generally considered to be the Claviger itself, and was interpreted as a favourable omen by the lucky petitioners. Less often, a woman of singular beauty would relay the Claviger’s stern remonstration to those who, for their own ends, attempted to interpret the letter of the Injunction against its spirit. This was known to be the Enforcer, whose manifestation was recognized as a dire warning, or worse.
Even with his own great foresight, Jovol could not have guessed that a Mystery cult would eventually develop around the site. The need for religion is incomprehensible to most Wizards, and despite Jovol’s friendship with celestials, and his concern for the welfare of Tramst, he was no exception.
As for those Wizards who, in fact, violated the Injunction, they would feel the wrath of the Enforcer in measure to their transgression. This was determined by the Claviger, which possessed a near-omniscience with regard to all things magical. Punishments ranged from confiscation of minor items from the Mage’s possessions, through subjection to a symbol of insanity in the event of a more major breach, to summary execution in the most serious of cases.
The first to fall to the Enforcer would be Jovol himself, when, in order to prevent a larger catastrophe, he slew the mage Kothchori.
When dawn broke, and the rains abated, Eadric stood upon the cracked roof of the Fane, looked out, and inspected the damage. He grimaced. The swathe of ruin which emanated from the Temple encompassed a fifth part of the city. And still, although with increasingly less regularity, Templars and city guardsmen reported capturing those who suffered from the madness engendered by the Wave of Hate.
Nearly ten thousand dead, in all, if Nwm’s figures were correct. Material damage that would run to more than a hundred tons of silver. A wound in the collective psyche that would probably never heal.
And, ironically, neither new Temple taxes to pay for the rebuilding of the Fane, nor sufficient in the coffers to both recompense the Uediians and begin repairs. He sighed. The price of success.
To the south, beyond the walls of the city, neat rows of Temple tents – interspersed with a disordered riot of gaudy aristocratic pavillions – were plainly visible. His banners floated in the morning wind.
"They’ll want paying, you know," Ortwin said, fluttering down behind him in his winged boots. "At least the Ardanese. The Aristocracy will expect land-grants and tax breaks. The Uediians will want…"
"I know, I know," the Paladin grumbled.
"If you claim the Duchy…"
"I will not," Eadric snapped.
"You might have to, Ed. Even Tramst said you might have to. You don’t have to govern it directly – appoint a steward or something."
"Ryth would have made a good Duke."
"Ryth got burned up with the Duchess, if you recall. I doubt Soraine would have favoured him, in any case. Did she leave any clues to who she felt was suitable? Other than yourself, of course." Ortwin couldn’t resist the final jibe.
The Paladin shook his head.
"Who’s the technical heir?"
"Probably Skadding. But Trempa has always held with the bestowal of favour, combined with lineage. At one point, it advocated ultimageniture. It’s eccentric like that. Too close to Ardan."
The Devil’s eyes narrowed when he learned of the news.
You sneaky old bastard, he thought, as he considered Oronthon. You keep changing the damn rules. Where’s the fun in that?
Gihaahia! He wondered who amongst the Infernal hierarchy had been privy to the likely course of events – or rather who the Adversary had deigned to inform for his own, inscrutable ends. Titivilus scowled, and wondered why he had not been one of them.
The sweet promise that the Accord had been relaxed for him – in order to facilitate the ongoing temptation of Eadric – was now sullied by the countermeasures set in place by Fillein, or Jovol, or whatever he called himself these days.
An Injunction carved in stone was no bad thing – those Wyrish dilettantes needed a measure of discipline in their lives. But a ban on summoning? He sensed the Bright God’s meddling hand in events, and wondered what deal had been struck between the Ogre and Rintrah. He also wondered who of the Wizards in Wyre might draw the same conclusion. But Oronthon’s interdict extended to the Infernal as well – at least in theory. And now she was the helot of some damned Dream-thing. Damn celestial double standards.
Titivilus recalled the deal that Shomei had forced upon him. It, also, was not to the Duke’s liking. Sneaky bitch.
He fumed silently.
He had thought that he’d had her cornered, that she had been foolish enough to return to him openly. And despite her rod, and the numerous wards that sat on her, he should have finished her there and then. It had been the first time that he’d used his sword in almost two hundred years, and had caught her off-guard. But she weathered the assault and vanished.
Fifteen minutes later, Titivilus had been dragged into a pocket dimension and trapped within a thaumaturgic diagram. At that moment, both of them had known that she could ask for anything and he would be forced to yield: to miss his appointment with the Ahma would have been inexcusable.
The Devil relaxed, and smiled. She was audacious. He couldn’t help but admire her.
Not that that will stop me from killing her, when the time comes, he thought.
**
"What do you mean, he’s dead?" Mostin was livid. "That’s impossible. He was a little shaken up yesterday, but that’s hardly surprising given the magic that he harnessed."
Mulissu shrugged. "He knew he would die. He merely needed to choose the way in which it occurred – to maximize the potential for order, and to maintain the Injunction."
The Alienist blustered briefly. "Well, what happened? Was it the backlash?"
"Oh, no. He’d fully recovered by about midnight. He killed Kothchori, and the Enforcer annihilated him."
Mostin’s jaw dropped. "But…"
"Kothchori was about to open a second Gate. Jovol’s prognostications revealed that had he done so, even the death of the other mage at the hands of the Enforcer would have come too late – Graz’zt would have made a second transit and…done something which Jovol felt was unacceptable, I suppose. Rimilin was present also, and Griel, but Jovol didn’t kill them."
"Griel? What the…? How did he find them?"
"I guess Griel was not Mind Blanked and he inferred their location through his Web of Motes."
"But I wanted to talk to him! I never had the chance to speak with him, to question him. Jovol was Fillein, you know."
"Fillein? Mostin, you need a drink. Fillein has been dead for…"
Mostin waved his hand. "He had some kind of…self-incarnating thing…or something. Titivilus intimated as much to Eadric. In which case, death may only be a temporary inconvenience for him."
"One would certainly hope so," Mulissu said optimistically, although somewhat disbelieving. "He left me his Web of Motes, although I cannot penetrate its mysteries – yet. I believe that he passed something along to Shomei as well, and maybe others."
Mostin sniffed, feeling rather snubbed.
"And, yes, he left something for you, Mostin. It is very heavy." The Witch snapped her gloved fingers, and an ornate box of carved wood appeared beneath her arm.
The Alienist raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"
"I don’t know. It seemed a little rude to sneak a look."
"I’d have looked," Mostin said honestly, unlocking the silver clasps. The lid opened smoothly, to reveal a stone tablet wrapped within red silks.
"I hope it’s not a copy of the Injunction," Mulissu sighed. "That would be rather tedious."
The Alienist pulled the fabrics aside and swallowed. The tablet was weathered and cracked, but still quite readable. "It’s a spell."
"Mmm?" The Savant said in a distracted voice, attempting to sound disinterested. "What’s it called?"
The unrelenting tempest of acid roared again across the face of their blasted world. Demons, damned creatures, and a million souls consigned to perdition screeched in agony, as lurid flames burst from fumaroles, and immense fulgurations illumined the shattered plains.
Graz’zt cursed, and screamed, and raved. All fled and hid themselves save Ainhorr only – his ability to read his master’s mood was unparalleled by any other. Too often, he had witnessed this scene.
The catalogue of disaster was growing. First, Cerothumulos. Then Rurunoth, gone without a trace. Uzmi and Feezuu, lost at Khu. Uruum, slain by the Alienist outside of Morne. Kothchori, assassinated by the cursed Ogre, before the Prince could realize his plans. And now, in rapid succession, Choeth and Djorm – two of his generals – conjured and eliminated, and one of his Succubi first ripped from Azzagrat, and then sped back to him with a message from the Paladin.
To the Demon Graz’zt, who styles himself ‘Prince,’ in Zelatar from the Ahma, the Breath of God in the World of Men, a warning:
Let it be known that, by your actions, you have roused my ire and my eye is directed towards you. As Grand Master of the Temple, and the anointed dispenser of Oronthon’s justice in Wyre, you are summarily condemned to death.
In order to demonstrate my commitment to your overthrow, I have begun with the removal of two of your chief attendants. My intention is to render your position untenable in any confrontation which occurs between you and your enemies within the Abyss.
Ahma.
That is it? Graz’zt had ranted. Nothing more than a message of intent? No coercion? No attempts to negotiate for the return of the bitchling? How dare he?
In his fury, he had annihilated the Succubus who had borne him the letter, but it had done nothing to quench his rage.
Eventually, after prevailing over his own urge to destroy everything within view, the Prince retired to his sanctum and sank into black contemplation. Despite his arrogance, he was wise enough to recognize the possibility of a threat to his own position. And the new interdict set in place by the Wyrish Mages made things that much more complex. He still had agents abroad, but not sufficient for an assault upon Eadric – in any case, Rimilin and Griel were effectively barred from acting within Wyre’s confines.
Graz’zt meditated.
An hour later, his eyes narrowed as yet more ill news reached him. Griel was dead – slain by sonics and Pseudonaturals in the crumbling fortress of Kothchori in the ocean west of Pandicule – outside of the circumscribed area.
He cursed.
**
The Satyr combed his short beard as his spouse – from whom a gentle breeze continually issued – attempted to question the creature. It was barely waist-high, and its skin bore a greenish tint with a wet sheen. The nimble fingers of one hand, and its toes – which were long and slender – were graced with a webbing which bespoke its aquatic origins. Its left hand was missing, and in its place was a sticky, weeping stump, which had been inexpertly treated.
"We mean you no harm, little one," Iua said for the fifth time, bending down to speak with it. "We are merely seeking information. We can have someone take a look at your wounds. Please say something."
The Sprite remained silent.
"Oh for pity’s sake," Iua grumbled impatiently. "Are you stupid? We will not hurt you."
It quailed.
"Bah!" She huffed. "This is ludicrous. You try, Ortwin. I’ve never met a Sprite as reluctant to talk – one generally has to beg them to stop. I’m going to sniff around down the corridor. Where is Mostin, anyway?"
Ortwin shrugged, sat down next to the diminutive figure on the dirty flagstone floor and grinned. He produced a bag of sugared figs from his pouch and ate one. "Fig?" He asked, munching.
The Creature eyed them hungrily.
"I am Ortwin," he said truthfully, "and I am the king of Feys in the North of the World," he proceeded to lie. "This island is now a part of my realm, and you are now under my protection – hence, you are my subject. Whilst this state of affairs may be something of a shock to you, you will come to happily accept my benign rulership in due course.
"You should know by now that Kothchori is dead," the Bard continued. "He attempted to interfere with – well, things which he shouldn’t have interfered with. This is regrettable, from your perspective, I am sure…"
The Sprite began to wail.
"However," Ortwin added quickly, "you should be gratified that your captors have been driven off or slain. Your master was mixing with a bad crowd at the end. He did all kinds of wicked things."
In response, the Sprite placed its good hand over its right ear and closed his eyes, as if to block out the Bard and his words. Ortwin attempted to speak for several minutes, but found he was making little progress.
The Bard sighed. This was insufferable. He, like Iua, was quickly beginning to lose his temper. "Snap out of it! Get over it! Yes, you’re traumatized. Yes, your world has been turned upon it’s head. Too bad. I’m offering you a chance here – don’t be a fool and turn it down. I can help you, if you let me. Well? Will you?"
There was a long pause.
"Yes, Your Majesty," the Creature squeaked.
"Good," Ortwin smiled. "Now, first of all, eat."
*
"Eek!" Mogus squeaked, alerting Mostin to the presence behind him. The Alienist turned, prepared to unleash his remaining offensive spells. He relaxed – if only a little – when he saw that it was Iua.
"Don’t sneak around. Someone will blast you if you’re not careful."
Iua grinned. "Find anything?"
"Nothing," Mostin moaned. "And I can’t believe that Kothchori actually lived in this pigsty. He was one of the great, you know. It’s a miserable story."
"His books? Papers? Oddities?"
"All gone. I’m guessing that Rimilin has the ones that Feezuu’s demons didn’t steal, way back when." Somehow, Mostin’s words lacked conviction.
"And Griel? What have you determined about the items that he carried?"
"Er, nothing, as yet. I’d completely forgotten about them, in fact. Just…dropped them in the old portable hole and put them out of my mind."
Iua gave a condescending look which reminded the Alienist of her mother. "Why was he here?"
Mostin shrugged. "I’m not sure. He was a fool to leave Wyre – the Injunction would have protected him there."
"Do you think he was looking for something?" She asked archly.
"Um, I suppose it’s possible," Mostin replied vaguely.
"Mostin, why do I get the feeling that you’re holding out on me?"
"I don’t know anything, for sure," the Alienist confessed, "but I’ve got a feeling that something is missing from the big picture."
"Why?"
"Because it doesn’t make sense that Kothchori planned to open the second Gate within Wyre, rather than here. Distance would have been no object to a Demon, and to open the Gate here would not have violated the Injunction."
"Did Kothchori even know about the Enforcer, at that point?"
"Exactly my point," Mostin said. "If he’d known about it, why would he have opened the Gate in Wyre? If he hadn’t known about it, why would he have bothered to travel to Wyre anyway, thus inadvertently violating the Injunction?"
"You aren’t making much sense."
The Alienist sighed. Something was amiss, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. He was tired. That day, he had already performed three Bindings, four Dimensional Anchors, one Banishment launched a dozen sonics, fired off three Disintegrate spells and Summoned a trio of huge Pseudoelementals.
With the help of Eadric, Nwm, Ortwin and Iua, the result – the elimination of two Abyssal generals – had proven almost child’s play. Mostin grinned to himself. Doing it alone wouldn’t have been so much harder.
The removal of Griel had been a more controversial move, in which neither Nwm nor Eadric had been willing to participate. It was ethically dubious, given the fact that the Wizard had not, until that point, actually done anything.
Mostin, however, had felt no such compunction. Griel had to go, before he could be effectively used as a tool by Graz’zt. Ortwin had concurred, and Iua had come along for kicks. Griel, a noted Evoker, never had a chance to evoke anything. His location determined, he had been Anchored, struck by two powerful sonics, and then ripped up by Ortwin, Iua, and the monstrosities that Mostin had brought with him. Scrying and Frying, as Mostin had come to know the process.
Now, within the dusty and cluttered cellars of Kothchori’s abandoned castle, Mostin reflected upon the situation. Somewhere out there, Rimilin was hiding – impervious to all attempts to locate him. With the exception of the great Ainhorr, the last of Graz’zt’s Balors – Irzho – was likely also present somewhere on the Prime – along with several Succubi, who were less of a concern. The Alienist guessed that they were scattered – Graz’zt would not risk the wholesale annihilation of his minions if one of them were located.
Tomorrow, I will try to find Irzho, he thought grimly. But now, I need to sleep. Badly.
**
"Are you afraid of me, Ahma?" Titivilus asked, relaxing into a worn leather chair. He wore comfortable, loose-fitting hose and a baggy white shirt. His countenance was simultaneously both serious and amused.
"I wouldn’t say afraid," Eadric replied, pouring two glasses of firewine. "Suspicious, and on my guard, yes." The Paladin warily handed one of the crystal goblets to the Devil, careful to avoid touching his hand.
Titivilus immediately recognized his reticence and smiled. "I have yet to decide whether your receiving me at Deorham was a bold move or a cautious one. This is your home, after all. And you must still be in shock – I believe that Tahl hasn’t even been buried yet."
"If there is even a square inch of Wyre that will suffer the burden of your presence, I would prefer that it is mine," Eadric replied, scowling. "Tell me, Titivilus, how are your plans for my temptation and corruption progressing? How do you rate your chances? What boon will you receive if you succeed? I am interested by your motivation in this endeavour."
"They are still in the process of being formulated," the Devil answered with utter plausibility. "As to my chances – not too low, but not too high either. Any boon is a matter between myself and those whom I serve."
"There are questions that I would like to ask you," Eadric said openly. "I would rather that you didn’t lie, so I will wear the eye of Palamabron – if you don’t object."
"So you would like to play that game again? Very well, Ahma. I am in no hurry."
"Are you feeling talkative?" Eadric asked, placing the stone around his neck.
"I am invariably loquacious," Titivilus answered. "Although I should warn you that there are certain questions that I might feel compelled to deflect or avoid altogether, if the option of lying is not open to me."
Eadric nodded. "I understand. Your silence will speak volumes in itself." If I interpret it correctly, he warned himself.
Titivilus merely smiled.
"Then tell me of The Fall, Titivilus. From your perspective. From the beginning."
The Fiend’s eyes narrowed. "That is an intrepid opening gambit! I must but approve."
"I trust that your memory doesn’t fail you. I realize that it was some while ago."
"Oh no," Titivilus replied smoothly. "I remember it well enough. And the notion of Time is only partially applicable, in any case. I suggest you abandon normal temporality – for the time being, at least," he gave an ironic look. "But before I begin, I am curious – why do you ask?"
"It was something Mostin said," Eadric answered. "He felt an echo."
"Ahh," the Devil smiled. "Then I will speak in the past tense – although that is more for your benefit, than because it is necessarily correct.
*
"It was glorious. You are a warrior, Ahma. It would have stirred you."
Eadric shook his head. "War is nothing more than a bloody necessity."
Titivilus laughed aloud. "As you wish," he said wickedly. "Never since has there been, and never again shall there be such a conflict fought. We were without number, our power immeasurable. Were there more of them than us? Who can tell? It raged for aeons beyond count through nascent spheres, but lasted a merest instant in the unmanifest Mind of Oronthon – a dissonance in the continuum of perfect consciousness."
"Please refrain from overt metaphysical speculation," Eadric interrupted. "And from the beginning, if you please. Let us start with how and why. And I apologize for arresting the flow of your narrative."
Titivilus raised an eyebrow. The Ahma was getting good at this. "You should be wary of enjoying yourself too much when consorting with Devils," the Duke jibed. "You would not be the first to be drawn in through love of badinage and wit."
Eadric experienced a brief discontinuity in his mind, curious as to why the Devil was warning him. "Thank-you," he said honestly. "I appreciate the advice."
"I am your advisor, after all."
Eadric sighed. "Proceed," he instructed.
"How and why will vary by degree for each of those who were involved in the Great Emancipation," Titivilus continued. "In my case, it was a desire for power, and for a growth of potential within a paradigm which rewarded the strong rather than appeased the weak."
"I find the term ‘Great Emancipation’ rather misleading," Eadric interrupted again. "‘Malign Dictatorship’ or ‘Brutal Despotism’ might be more accurate."
"Do you wish a dialogue on this matter, or am I relating my experience, Ahma? Or would you prefer a little of each?"
"I apologize again," Eadric said, "but, as I say, there is much that I wish to learn about your motivation."
"Perhaps you wish to develop compassion for me. Believe me, that is a wholly futile task."
"Compassion is never futile."
"An interesting observation, but one that I must differ with," Titivilus offered. "Perhaps you should be asking ‘How did it all begin? What was the prima causa of the Great Emancipation.’ Or ‘rebellion’. Or ‘Fall.’ Pick your own terminology."
"I would be interested in hearing your theory," Eadric replied. "How did it all begin?"
"Compassion," the Devil answered. "Didn’t you know, Ahma? All great dictatorships first begin with compassion."
Eadric groaned. He’d been maneuvered quickly into that one.
**
Nwm glanced from of his glade towards the castle at Deorham, and scratched his head. The Steeple was visible, jutting like a tall finger above the treetops. Eadric was closeted with a Duke of Hell within the tower – an improbable turn of events, given conventional theories about Paladins – especially considering the fact that a quartet of Devas still circled invisibly about Kyrtill’s Burh.
The Druid idly wondered whether the Celestials were bored. Whether such creatures ever became bored. It occurred to him that Devas and their ilk must suffer from a perennially dull existence.
Nearby, behind a moss-covered cleft in the rock from which flowed a tiny stream, was the small cave which the Druid occasionally identified as ‘home.’ His long absence had been taken as a sign of abandonment by a variety of animals, with whom Nwm had politely asked to share the space when he returned. Now they fussed, and tried to tidy things up. Sem and Gheim, the two eagles who accompanied the Druid, eyed several mice greedily, until Nwm remonstrated with them and explained the protocols which existed within.
He unloaded his pack, put his staff to one side, stretched briefly, and sat upon the litter-strewn floor. Concentrating on his torc, his mind stretched outwards, and the Green absorbed him.
Every fold in the land, every rivulet, every tree, every mammal, every bird was revealed to him in a barrage of visions which erupted into his waking consciousness, flashing briefly across his mental landscape before being replaced by the next in a series of infinite facets. His ancestors had called the totality simply Ollon, "The Whole." Eadric’s forebears, the Borchians who had migrated from the south, had termed it Hahio, "Interwoven" – at least, before they adopted the cult of Oronthon, and replaced an older set of mysteries with a newer one.
Buildings and settlements were revealed as gaps in the continuum, blank spots, where the Green had been smothered or driven away. Cultivated fields appeared diluted, their essence contained or mastered. Here, near Deorham, the balance was still acceptable. In and around Morne, Nwm remembered, there was more emptiness than anything – isolated trees and plants seemed like blighted pockets within a sea of dull grey.
The Druid swallowed, and turned his attention to the interlopers. The experience was uncomfortable, as though his sight had been turned inside out. The Celestials near the castle were exposed as ravenous voids, seeming to suck the very essence of the Green into them. The natural order buckled in their vicinity, singularities around which mental space warped uneasily.
Within the blankness of the Burh, two more voids rested in close proximity. Outsiders who had no real business being there, Nwm moaned silently to himself. Their potency – which appeared significant – was closely matched, and the Druid could not ascertain which was ascendant. No hint of their respective dispositions was revealed – the Green was above such petty distinctions.
Nwm sighed. Perceiving Eadric in that light was not an easy thing to accept.
His senses extended again, searching for Feys. The Sprites near the meadow where Mostin had erected his manse. A lone Dryad, deep within woods south of the road. He waited until the Satyr came suddenly into view, in the company of another Fey – odd, the Druid thought – and a locus of elemental energy that was Iua and her steed. Mostin also appeared briefly, and then vanished again. He dispatched Sem to intercept the others.
"You’d better tell them to come to the glade," Nwm instructed the eagle. "Eadric hasn’t finished his business yet."
**
"Compassion," Titivilus continued. "A desire to make things more equitable, more agreeable, less tyrannical."
"I have doubts accepting it – although you probably won’t be surprised to learn that. I realize that you aren’t lying, per se, but I suspect that you are misperceiving. How do you reconcile this notion with the fact that you currently exist within a regime that is anything but less tyrannical? Or with your own ideas of ‘strength’ and ‘weakness?’ Or with your own admittance to ‘considered, philosophical evil?’ – I hope I am not misquoting you, but I vaguely recall your words being along those lines."
"A philosophy which is dynamic, rather than static, inevitably produces change and evolution," the Devil replied. "The Adversarial Law is reflexive. It adapts to circumstances as they occur. You must remember that we are, ultimately, eternally downtrodden, rejected and anathematized. We are consigned to a shattered world and appointed as the punishers of the rejected souls whom Oronthon has seen fit – in his ineffable wisdom – to deny entry into his blissful abode. Likewise, temptation and seduction are cosmically ordained tasks – it is not as though we have any choice in the matter."
"But you take pride in these tasks! You enjoy inflicting pain and causing misery."
"If one does any work for long enough, one comes to enjoy it," Titivilus answered simply. "And to excel at any vocation is surely desirable?"
"And how do you explain Nehael’s repentance and escape from her eternal lot?"
"Do you think she was the first, Ahma?"
"The possibility of there being others had occurred to me." Eadric answered. "Well? Have there been others?"
"I respectfully decline to answer that question," Titivilus replied, "and hope to leave you frustrated and guessing as to the reason why. Now, if I may continue?"
"Please do."
"So, the Nameless Adversary, the Great Enemy is the first to have an inkling that, perhaps, things could be better organized than they are – his efforts would be directed towards the collective, of course, in an attempt to improve the lot of all. Incidentally, has it ever occurred to you why he is not named? Has that never struck you as odd?"
"To name something is to empower it," Eadric replied.
"But to categorize and name something is also to contain it, to set boundaries upon it," Titivilus replied.
"Orthodoxy maintains that he was stripped of his name, and it was erased from every whisper of consciousness. Nothing in creation, including himself, can recall it, save Oronthon himself."
"And you believe that?"
"I have yet to hear a better explanation," Eadric answered.
"The Irrenites claim that they know his secret name. That it was preserved."
Eadric raised a dubious eyebrow. "And what might they claim it is?"
Titivilus laughed. "Unfortunately there is some disagreement amongst them on that count. In any case, I cannot recall it, and I assume that, at some stage, I knew it, so there may be some truth in the traditional explanation."
"You are digressing. Return to the original point."
"I think we can move on from compassion, now. Let’s talk about arrogance and presumption – I am correct in assuming that those qualities had a large part to play in events?"
"Yes, indeed," the Devil replied easily. "Although confidence and initiative are less loaded terms. One hundred and sixty-nine Seraphs agreed with the call for emancipation – can you imagine it? More than a few were exalted* even amongst the highest choir. Tired of being eclipsed by Oronthon, they decided to form an opposition."
"You make it sound very egalitarian," Eadric said drily. "I’m sure that next you’ll tell me that the rebels conducted their affairs with due consideration for the democratic process. I am interested in your role in this, Titivilus – what was your former station? Under whom did you serve? Did you betray Oronthon along with your master, or did you defy them both?"
"My former master is my current master, Ahma. My loyalties have not changed."
"You mean they remain to yourself?"
"Ultimately, yes. I am honest in that regard, and make no pretence of altruism. As to my former station, I was messenger then, and am messenger now. An exemplar* among the Dominions."
"That is an office of high degree," Eadric sighed. "It is regrettable that you have been reduced to this lowly estate."
"Reduced?" The Duke guffawed. "Ahma, sometimes your naïveté is truly charming. I am more potent now than I ever was under the yoke of your glowing tyrant!"
"Potency and value are not synonymous."
"Ahh, on that count we differ."
"You are reflective and philosophical. Do you never regret your choices? Wish to be restored to your former station? Lament your actions?"
"Eternity is too long a time for regret," Titivilus snapped.
"Does the question make you uncomfortable?" Eadric asked.
"Do you think that I would be so transparent? Perhaps you should ask yourself this question, Ahma: ‘Do I have sufficient insight to penetrate the motives of the Devil with whom I speak?’"
"I am looking for truths from you, Titivilus, not the Truth. Whatever role you adopt with respect to me, whatever emotion you choose to evince to me – it reflects something, however small, which is part of you."
The Duke looked impassive. Sometimes, this one could be very cunning.
**
"I seek power, Shomei," Mostin groaned. "Quickly."
The Infernalist fidgeted. "You look exhausted. We all seek power quickly, Mostin," she sighed. "Jovol made quite an impression on you, didn’t he?"
"I am beginning to find my current status limiting. I am afraid of stagnating. I crave infinite potential."
"A modest goal," she laughed. "You are ripe for seduction. Beware of Fiends bearing gifts," she smiled wickedly, "or embrace them. What has precipitated this new existential crisis?"
"I have a spell that I cannot cast. A transvalent masterpiece graven by Jovol – or Fillein, as he was then."
Shomei raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
"What did he leave you? Mulissu intimated that he may have bequeathed something to each of us who took part in the Binding. Just a casual inquiry."
"Which deserves a casual reply," Shomei answered. "Something very utilitarian. What is the nature of the spell?"
Mostin squinted. "It is sensitive material," he replied.
"Perhaps it has a name?"
"Suffice to say that it is germane to my current predicament, and that of my friends. It requires a cabal in order to realize, and was one of Fillein’s more noted accomplishments."
"Ahh, that dweomer," she nodded in understanding. "Are you reluctant to speak his name now, Mostin?"
"As long as he remains at large, I will avoid speaking his name again," the Alienist replied. "And will caution my comrades to do the same. If he knew…Shomei, I am taking a big risk in sharing this with you. You have dubious associates, and a reputation for dealing in secrets. This information is valuable. The spell is priceless to other entities – do you follow me? And I suspect that he would see it destroyed, if he knew of its continued existence."
"With aid, Mulissu could use it…" Shomei offered.
"She won’t cast it," Mostin said. "And why should she? It’s not her problem – although she has offered to contribute if I eventually lead it. Shomei, would you be willing to also? We can accomplish great things. Our time is near. Jovol may have been more of a visionary than any of us gave him credit for."
The Infernalist gave a quizzical look.
"The Enforcer," he continued, "a written Injunction. A ban on arcane vendetta within Wyre. The strategic distribution of his own possessions amongst other great Wizards. He is forcing us to cooperate."
"Perhaps," Shomei looked dubious. "Although if he hadn’t been so aloof for so long, it might hold more weight with me. How many does Gra…the spell require?"
"Seven, including the leader. It is a day-long rite. It also requires a large contribution from each of the participants…"
"Something which I am loathe to do again so soon," Shomei sighed. "And which others will flatly deny you, Mostin."
"Hmph. Anyway, just bear it in mind. To return to the idea of power, and its speedy acquisition, what do you suggest?" He asked. "Infernal pacts notwithstanding," he added.
Shomei shrugged. "If I had any such knowledge, I would have seized it myself. I see three possibilities: either an object which will empower you; the details of a process which will do the same; or an entity which will bestow the power, or give details of one of the first two possibilities."
"I am beginning to regret some of the things that I invested my power in," Mostin grumbled. "If I had been more single-minded about the pursuit of mastery…"
"Rest assured, Mostin, few have been as single-minded as you. Your reputation for miserliness is safe." Shomei smiled.
"Thank-you," Mostin said, "I will take that as a genuine compliment. Now, Shomei, I have disclosed and, in the interests of mutual reciprocity, I wonder if you feel inclined to do the same? What did Jovol leave you?"
"Something no less useful than when you last asked the question," she replied.
Mostin tried to smile endearingly. The effect – an insane grimace – caused the Infernalist to laugh despite herself.
"A bracelet, if you must know," she sighed. Shomei rolled up her purple velvet sleeve, to disclose a plain silver band.
"Intriguing," Mostin said. He had noticed the Ogre wearing the same band.
"And its function?" He pried.
"The promise of future greatness," she said mysteriously.
**
"Allow me to introduce Orolde," Ortwin said to Nwm. "Former servant of Kothchori. I have promised him that you will attend to his wounds."
"That is very generous," Nwm said laconically. "And then what do you propose to do with him?"
"Mostin will retain him," Ortwin said. "Orolde has no interest in being reunited with his clan and kinfolk, and is eminently suited to aid a Wizard in his tasks. He also has some small skill in magic which, if nurtured, might grow into something more."
"Mostin has agreed to take an apprentice?" Nwm was incredulous. "This is something I thought I’d never see!"
"Mostin doesn’t know, yet," Ortwin whispered quietly. "It is up to us to impress the moral incumbency of this idea upon him."
Nwm sighed, and turned to the Sprite. "I can stop the bleeding, the pain, and return you to health. I cannot restore your hand, however."
Orolde nodded, appearing slightly bewildered. "Thank-you," he said timidly. "And thank-you, your Majesty." He bowed to Ortwin.
Nwm groaned inwardly, but said nothing. If Ortwin wanted to play at being the sponsor of disenfranchised Sprites, then the Druid wasn’t going to object.
Goddess knows, he thought, these days, Feys need all the help they can get.
*Exemplar, Exalted, Paragon and Perfect are ‘dignities’ or, in game terms, four templates applied to leading celestials of any choir. Exemplar and Exalted are ‘permanent’ templates – i.e. they reflect the innate nature of the Celestial. Paragon and Perfect, on the other hand, are granted temporarily by Oronthon for specific purposes, and the Celestial ‘assumes’ the qualities of the template for a period of time (c.f. Eadric’s adoption of the Paragon template). Of the Celestials mentioned thus far in the story, both Rintrah and Enitharmon are Exalted. Urthoon, the conduit to Oronthon is an Exemplar, as were the Devas which accompanied Tramst.
The fifth dignity, Magnified, is represented by the bestowal of one or more Divine Ranks upon a Celestial, Ascended Master or mortal acting as a Proxy of Oronthon. Tramst is Magnified, and as such is considered to outrank every Celestial in Oronthon’s host – he is effectively identified with Oronthon himself, and the fact that he represents the Gnostic faculty (Sela) of the Deity affords him a particularly revered status. According to the Urgic Mystics, Magnification (Haujan) is a discrete act – the particular moment at which an aspect of the Godhood inhabits another being. From that moment onward, the vessel (kas) and the indwelling spirit (ahmasaljan) are identical.
Again, with reference to the Fall, Enitharmon (who drove the Adversary from Heaven), was accorded the highest status at that time: according to Orthodox tradition, he was Perfect, Exalted and Three Times Thrice Magnified. In some eschatological beliefs, Enitharmon will also be the Adversary’s Antiparallel – the Celestial who will slay him at the end of days.
"What am I supposed to do with it?" The Alienist asked Ortwin, his eyes fixed on the diminutive figure of Orolde. The Sprite seemed a little offended about being referred to as an ‘it’ in the third person.
"You will take him as your aide, and instruct him in the arts of magic." The Bard said regally, mostly for Orolde’s benefit. "He will act as facilitator in your experiments, maintain your house, bring books to you as you need them, and perform other sundry tasks."
"This is inconvenient," Mostin sighed. "It is not as though my manse stays in one place for too long. What happens when I decide to move it? And I don’t want some hanger-on to worry about when I make translations to the insane realms." He peered at the Sprite.
Orolde looked distinctly uncomfortable.
"Mostin," the Bard said, assuming his most reasonable demeanour, "Orolde is an innocent victim of an arcanoreligious conflict. But his loyalty to Kothchori was steadfast even to the end. He is efficient, discreet, deft and nimble (despite his one hand), intelligent and small enough to be unobtrusive."
"Arcanoreligious?" Mostin spat. "What kind of nonsense word is that?"
"One designed to demonstrate the ambiguous nature of the current situation," Ortwin grinned. "Do you have a better one, when Wizards are co-opted by Demon Princes in order to assault members of a church, and when other Wizards need an oracle to consult about their actions?"
"The Claviger is not an oracle," Mostin hissed.
"Semantics," Ortwin waved his hand dismissively. "In any case, Orolde would make an excellent apprentice. He has a grasp of the fundamentals of the practice, and is diligent. You could do much worse."
The Alienist looked again at the Sprite. "Do you know what the Far Realm is Orolde?"
Orolde looked dubious. "I have a theoretical understanding of the mathematical possibility," he replied.
Mostin cocked his head in surprise at the answer. "I do not deal extensively with Transmutations, as your former master did," he cautioned the Sprite. "I am unsure whether your mind could stand the strain of my work."
Orolde seemed nonplussed. "King Ortwin has recommended you as a potential teacher. I would suggest a probationary period of, say, one year. If things progress to our mutual satisfaction, then perhaps we could extend the agreement?"
"You would receive no stipend."
"Naturally not," Orolde replied.
"The work will be onerous, repetitive and dirty. It will be frustrating and slow to yield results."
"This is not unusual," the Sprite said brightly.
"There is a strong chance that you will lose your sanity – I am quite mad."
"This, also, is not unknown amongst Wizards."
Mostin sighed, and nodded. "After all, if King Ortwin has given approval, who could deny his royal decree?"
Inwardly, however, despite his apparent reticence, Mostin was immensely excited. As Ortwin had suspected he would be.
**
"It’s very simple," Mostin explained logically. "We cannot hope to overcome Him in open conflict, therefore we need to cheat. His position in the Abyss has been weakened thus far by our actions, and he needs to turn his attention to internal matters or risk his rivals gaining ascendancy in the wars that he is currently engaged in. His political situation is immensely complex, and he can’t afford for his vendetta against you to cripple his other schemes."
"I think you ascribe too much wisdom to him in these matters," Eadric sighed.
"And I think that you overestimate your own importance in his larger reality. He has suffered several setbacks and defeats – he needs to woo his vassals and allies and to reassure them. Do not underestimate the precarious nature of Demonic politics – it lacks the ability to resist upset, which either the Celestial or Infernal hierarchies demonstrate."
"And how did you come to this conclusion?" The Paladin asked.
"My discourses with Shomei have been productive, as always. But she advises a change of tactics on our part."
Eadric grimaced at the mention of the Infernalist, whose relationship with Mostin he still eyed dubiously. "And what new approach does she recommend?"
"To strike Him on a number of different fronts simultaneously. She draws attention to our mobility, and the fact that Wyre is now – to a large extent, and thanks to the Claviger – a ‘safe’ zone. Assault from conjured Demons is less of a risk."
"He’s got a good point, Ed," Ortwin chimed in. "We can find all kinds of other ways to piss off Gra…"
"Hup!" Mostin interjected, before Ortwin could finish the word.
"Although I do think he’s being overly paranoid about that," the Bard continued.
"I don’t want to just annoy him," Eadric explained. "Any actions that we take need to have strategic value."
"And Nehael?" Nwm asked. "For every act that weakens or undermines him, she will suffer."
"We cannot attempt a rescue," Eadric sighed. "It is not a realistic proposal."
"If we push him too far, he may annihilate her," the Druid continued. "That is what concerns me."
"Perhaps," Mostin said carefully, "although inflicting pain is his forté. I suspect that he will be reluctant to prematurely end that pleasure. Besides, he may yet view her as a bargaining piece. He is supremely paranoid, like all Demons. And he is not blind to the fact that we can threaten and hurt him. Although I think the letter that was dispatched may have been too much, I think the premise that we are operating under has merit. But we cannot bring up the matter of Nehael with him – I guess that he does not fully understand our motives in acting. He is depraved, power-hungry, hateful and vindictive – he may assume that it is simply out of a desire for revenge that we have targeted the Balors and Griel."
"You do not know that," Nwm groaned. "You are speculating."
"Well, of course I’m speculating," Mostin snapped. "I am not privy to his counsels. But we cannot deal with him openly – at least, not entirely openly. At the same time, his capacity for subterfuge far outshines ours – he has had a lot of practice, after all. I think we need to keep him guessing, at present."
"For how long?" Nwm inquired, exasperated.
"Until I master the spell," Mostin said simply. "It is our best option. In complete honesty, I think the question should be how can we all contribute to the empowerment of Mostin, so that he can cast this spell?"
Ortwin laughed. "How convenient," he said drily.
"Don’t be so blind," Mostin hissed. "There is a great deal hanging in the balance. Yes, I crave power. Yes, I wish to blaze a name for myself in the annals of magical history. Yes, I am vain and self-centered. This does not detract from the fact that it is our best option."
"And how do you reconcile this with your opinion that we need to ‘change tact?’" Eadric asked.
"The cosmos is infinite," Mostin replied. "The Demon has his fingers in many pies, of which Wyre is only one. Let’s start sh*tting in a few of them."
"Which pies did you have in mind?" Ortwin asked.
"Some regions where he holds sway…" Mostin began.
Eadric groaned.
"No, listen," the Alienist continued. "Some are much less dangerous than others. I have asked Shomei to do some research for me…"
Eadric spluttered.
"Listen. It is not just Demonic abodes where his influence is felt," Mostin persisted. "There are some worlds which suffer from his interference. Others where his dominion is entrenched. Yet more that he would try to subdue. He is active in many spheres. And we have more potential allies than perhaps you might guess."
"So where does your Diabolist friend suggest we act?" Eadric asked.
"She is making inquiries," Mostin answered haughtily. "And she is not a Diabolist – Shomei would be most offended if you referred to her as such. And if consorting with Devils is such a problem, then you’d better look to your own house first – unless you have forgotten who you were chatting with yesterday afternoon."
The Paladin opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, and closed it again. Mostin had a point.
"And Irzho?" Ortwin asked. "There is still a Balor loose somewhere. He needs to be dealt with."
"That had been my plan today," the Alienist nodded. "It shouldn’t take too long. But we need to maintain the initiative. Keep the ball rolling. Give Him no chance to act, or to second guess us." Mostin grinned wildly.
Eadric squinted, and chastised himself. So much had happened, that it was sometimes easy to forget that Mostin was completely crazy.
"Well, we aren’t going anywhere yet," the Paladin said. "I need to go back to Morne, bury Tahl and Soraine and too many others. And then there is the matter of my troops. And…"
"You would honour their memory best by avenging them," Mostin said.
"Don’t push it, Wizard," Eadric replied.
"Ed," Nwm said, "go and meditate, or pray, or whatever it is that you do. You need to find some perspective before you commit to this course of action. I will support your decision - I’m not necessarily saying that this is the wrong thing to do, merely that you should be fully conscious of your motivation before you act. I would hate to see your desire to hurt the Demon outweigh your duty to help Nehael."
"As would I," the Paladin agreed.
**
Five days passed.
Mostin’s efforts to find Irzho were unsuccessful, indicating that the Balor was mind blanked – either by spell or device. If the former, then Irzho may have returned to the Abyss, and be under Graz’zt’s protection. If the latter – and that seemed more likely, as whatever means Kothchori had used to conceal himself was still unaccounted for – then the Balor could be anywhere.
Mostin brooded upon the name that he had gleaned from the writings of the unknown Alienist – the name of the Pseudonatural Daemon who was, in all likelihood, responsible for the demise of his former mentor, Vhorze. Binding the creature seemed conceivable, but controlling it – or even communicating with it – seemed unlikely, if not altogether impossible. And there remained the problem of not being able to dismiss it, even if it were successfully contained. No doubt it would merely wait until the wards upon it expired, and then rip off the head of its captor, and drag the remains off to whatever insane realm that it had issued from.
Shomei visited Mostin at his retreat in the woodland meadow southwest of Deorham, interested in the progress of the Alienist’s plans regarding Graz’zt. It was a balmy afternoon, and bees droned in the warm summer air as they sat on the porch and drank chilled firewine. The Infernalist had opted to forego her normal purple attire for a simple, light robe of purest white silk, gathered in around her slim waist. It seemed to soften her pointed features, and made her look more Celestial than Diabolic. As always, she carried her intricate iron rod in her left hand, and was accompanied by the faintest hint of cinnamon. She raised an eyebrow when she saw Orolde, and her mouth dropped when Mostin told her about the Sprite’s position.
"An apprentice? How intriguing! Is he any good?"
Orolde sighed – apparently, being talked about as though he were not present was something he would have to adjust to. And it seemed as though Mostin was far less reclusive than Kothchori had been.
"He has marked potential," Mostin nodded.
"I have a favour to ask, and information to impart," Shomei said carefully.
"What is the favour?"
"I will reserve my request until we have spoken more," the Infernalist replied. "Before you ask, you are under no obligation to honour it, and what I am about to tell you implies no contractual exchange."
"I am glad to hear it!" Mostin said. "Although now my curiosity is piqued."
"I have been most active on your behalf, Mostin. The containment or overthrow of, well, You-Know-Who – I will humour your caution on that count…"
"It is paranoia, not caution," Mostin corrected her.
"Quite. In any case, one might say that I am acting out of enlightened self-interest. If he is reduced in power, removed temporarily – albeit only for a few decades – or even, possibly, eliminated, then it would…"
"Be to your advantage, politically speaking," Mostin finished for her.
"Precisely," she flashed her rare smile. "So bearing that in mind, that it is not out of altruism that I have acted…"
"I would never even suggest it," Mostin quipped.
"I should bring a number of worlds to your attention," Shomei continued. "I will need to use your Mirror, Mostin."
"Very well," he sighed, reaching into his portable hole. After a few moments of fussing, he had erected the Looking-Glass of Urm Nahat on the porch of his manse.
"This is exciting, isn’t it?" The Infernalist said. "Like opening presents when you were a child."
"I never had presents," Mostin said drily. "Get to the point, Shomei."
"May I? One just scries normally?"
"It is very fast," Mostin replied. "And also resembles the clairvoyance spell. And your sensor may rove. You will quickly master it."
She waved her hand, and the mirror rapidly became opaque, and then cleared to show a scene within a gloomy forest composed of trees possessed of colossal girth and height. A thrush sat upon a branch in the canopy, several hundred feet above the forest floor.
Shomei issued a message. The thrush immediately chirped, and seemed to stand to attention.
"It is a polymorphed Devil," Shomei explained. "I currently have several compacts still unexpired." The thrush vanished, and when the Infernalist brought it back into view, the scene beyond was fantastic.
The sky was a mixture of indigo and vermilion, and stars faintly glimmered within it. On a rock buttress of considerable size, thrusting above the treetops, an elegant castle sat perched, its lacy towers soaring into the air and defying the laws of both architecture and gravity. Tendrils of steam or smoke clung to the base of the fortress, giving it the appearance of sitting on a cloudtop. Something vast moved across the sky in the distance, temporarily extinguishing stars before they rekindled at its passing.
"Faerie?" Mostin asked.
"No," Shomei replied, "and although it is accessible from Faerie, a good deal of shadowstuff bleeds in as well. It is a demiplane called Afqithan by its inhabitants who, as you have already guessed, consist mainly of Feys – most notably Sidhe and their ilk."
"And this plane is of particular importance because...?"
"The pre-eminent clan are called the Loquai," Shomei explained. "They are cultists of the Demon whose name you are reluctant to utter. You are looking at one of their strongholds: that belonging to their most important king, Irknaan."
Mostin’s eyes bulged. "And they are Sidhe?"
Shomei nodded. "Of a particularly degenerate type. The umbral bleed has affected them to a large degree – or rather, as they have recognized it as a means by which their power can be increased, they have embraced and exploited it."
"Intriguing," Mostin said. "How large is Afqithan? What are the numbers of the Loquai? How potent are they? Is their dominance challenged? Are there demons present?"
"It is of moderate size," the Infernalist answered. "It has a virtual diameter of around three thousand miles – although the circular warping begins some distance before that. The Loquai number in the low thousands, although their hegemony extends over most other sentients – tens of thousands of other Feys and fantastic beasts. In terms of potency, their leaders may rival you or I. Dominance is always challenged, Mostin. And yes, there are demons present – notably Succubi and Glabrezu. The Loquai are intensely erotic, and seem to venerate that particular aspect of the Lord of Zelatar."
"And your Devil has been spying for you?"
"For several days, now. I have attempted scrying within the fortress, but it is warded from both sight and teleportation. There may be a Gate within its confines linking it directly with Azzagrat. The Devil has been eavesdropping on groups that issue from the walls – the Loquai are obsessive hunters who ride Tenebrous Griffons in pursuit of various other beasts."
"In that regard they differ little from most Sidhe," Mostin observed drily.
"They are crueler," Shomei said.
"Then they must be very cruel indeed," Mostin sighed. "Very well, Shomei. I appreciate the information. What is the favour that you request?"
"I haven’t finished yet, Mostin," she gave a curious half-smile. She waved her hand, and his mirror went blank for a few seconds. Another scene appeared on its surface.
"This frigid world is called Saraf," she said, as scenes of mountains, glaciers, and ice fields flashed across the looking-glass. "It has been incompletely subdued by Our-Friend-Who-Shall-Remain-Nameless. His tactics here have been less subtle and insidious than in Afqithan, and he has favoured a more direct approach. One of his allies, the Demon Kostchtchie has been instrumental in annexing this plane, primarily through the use of Bar-Lgura and Fiendish Giants – there are probably Gates to the Ice Wastes in the Abyss. The native inhabitants have been all but eliminated – they exist now only in a few, isolated pockets."
"What are they?" The Alienist asked, fascinated.
"A hirsute race of humanoids whose name I do not know," Shomei answered. "They once possessed a high civilization, although millennia of aggression has removed almost all vestiges of it."
Mostin screwed his face up, as a leaping Demon appeared in the mirror. "Another of your spies?"
Shomei nodded. "Another polymorphed Devil. I have gleaned some interesting knowledge, regarding Saraf. Observe." The Infernalist sent another message, and the Devil vanished. When it came into view again, it was standing outside the gates of a city which seemed to have been wholly encased in a glacier.
"I am not sure how this came about," Shomei said. "Whether some sorcery of His, or a defense of the native inhabitants, or through a natural process, but the city itself seems to have been largely preserved."
"Is it inhabited?"
"Only by ghosts and demons. But secrets reside there, of that I am sure."
"Have you scried within?"
"Not to any great extent," Shomei responded. "Unlike you, I do not have the leisure to spend hours in casual observation," she remarked acidly, "and my own crystal ball has roamed further afield." She waved her hand, and the mirror became blank again for the briefest moment, until yet another picture showed itself to them. It was a scene from a dark nightmare, in stark contrast to that which had gone before.
Molten waterfalls cascaded over steep lips into basins, where networks of funnels and troughs distributed liquid metal to forges and foundries. The only light present was a reddish glow, issuing from the seething metal, illuminating the faces of thousands of slaves, who toiled ceaselessly. They were watched and bullied by a variety of demons, who took fickle delight in their work.
"Another demiplane. Most of the captives are Azer," Shomei said. "Needless to say, I have an agent placed here also. Below this area, there are mines, and pits, and yet more foundries. And more. The full extent seems to be vast – I haven’t come anywhere close to mapping it all. They are extracting adamantine from other ores: it might interest you to know that after the metal has been purified, it is transported to a system of storage vaults, before passing through a Gate to Azzagrat, and thus to the Demon’s treasury."
Mostin raised an eyebrow. Shomei had certainly excelled herself. In five days, she had uncovered an extraordinary amount of information. "Is there more to see?"
"Presently, no. I have plane shifted several other compactees to different locations, however, and they are currently following on leads. More information will doubtless be forthcoming. There are several hundred worlds where the influence of his Highness is felt."
"Hmm, I suppose I should ask you what boon you seek," Mostin grumbled. "It will be hard to deny it, given what you have uncovered."
Shomei bored into him with her violet eyes. "If you engage upon any extraplanar jaunts, I should like to accompany you."
Mostin relaxed. "I would be delighted," he grinned. "Convincing Eadric may be harder, however. He mistrusts your Diabolic connections."
"That is only reasonable," she admitted.
**
Eadric and Nwm returned to Morne, where the Paladin oversaw Tahl’s funeral – a modest affair in light of the events which had transpired after the Inquisitor’s death. He was laid to rest in the Fane’s crypt with little ceremony, and Eadric mourned quietly – part of him lamenting the fact that his most faithful friend received such small recognition.
Until, to the confusion of all, Tramst declared his immediate beatification. Bewildered, Eadric sought out the Sela.
Why waste time with pomp and ceremony, if death is merely evanescent? Why wait for a cult to grow, or for miracles to manifest? I know the Masters ere they are born.
Eadric bowed, and left joyfully.
Soraine was to be interred in the cemetery adjoining the Temple compound, along with Hyne and the Penitents who had perished in the ambush outside of Morne’s gates. But Eadric changed his mind – the body of the Duchess would taken in state back to Trempa, accompanied by Ekkert and Streek, her most trusted Thanes. Somehow, it seemed appropriate: Soraine’s religiosity had been too eccentric and individual to be confused with the zealots and martyrs. Likewise, Ryth would be returned to Har Kumil in the north of Trempa. Nwm offered to conduct the ceremony, but Ryth’s son, Caur, politely declined.
"The local priest will serve well enough." Caur was young – maybe sixteen – but already a giant of a man.
Eadric shifted awkwardly, unsure whether his actions would offend, but passed a heavy casket to the boy. "Soraine would have given you more, for your father’s loyalty and friendship. Say nothing. Do not object or refuse: if you have no use for it, distribute it amongst the poor in your Lairdship."
Caur nodded. Eadric could be very persuasive when he turned his mind to it.
"Temple money?" Nwm asked as they departed.
"Hardly," Eadric laughed. "The Fane’s coffers will be empty within a month in any case. No, it was mine."
Nwm raised an eyebrow. "How much did you give him?"
"Five thousand."
Nwm coughed. "That was exceedingly generous."
The Paladin shrugged. "Its all the same to me. And Soraine would have given him more. Unfortunately, I have to pay nearly a thousand mercenaries."
"Trempa should foot the bill," Nwm said.
"The allocation of Trempa’s finances is not within my purview," Eadric replied.
Nwm stopped in the street, and span the Paladin around. "Don’t be a fool, Ed," He hissed. "You are avoiding the issue. You will have to either let Foide’s boy inherit the Duchy, support a rival candidate, or make a claim yourself. You cannot simply ignore it, and wait for it to go away. Unless you want your taxes and feudal duties to end up in Foide’s hands. Just how compromised do you think you’d feel then?"
"There is time, yet," Eadric replied patiently. "Let them jostle and maneuver for a while. What if Skadding inherits Soraine’s estates? Who knows? Maybe he’ll throw off his father’s yoke."
"Do you believe that?"
"I am optimistic that given the right guidance, Skadding could be a good Duke."
"And you would provide that guidance?"
"When I could," Eadric replied.
"And in your absence?"
"Then maybe he could make mistakes to learn from," Eadric sighed. "The Sela told me that I might be forced to intervene. He said nothing about open conflict. Intervention takes many forms, Nwm." Eadric tapped his nose. "And when the boy makes his annual progress around Trempa, I will invite him onto the rampart at Deorham. Devas make effective proctors."
Nwm guffawed.
**
Ortwin preened himself.
"You never cease," Iua observed.
"Perfection requires continual readjustment," he grinned, unsheathing his scimitar with a flourish, and cutting an orange in half. The sending, issued by Mostin, had seemed urgent. Now, typically, the Alienist was late. Orolde had refused them entry into the manse, apologizing profusely to the self-proclaimed Fey King and his consort, but unwilling to contradict Mostin’s instructions.
"Wizards and their servants are such depressing literalists," Ortwin had remarked, but was content when the Sprite had provided them with refreshments on the porch of the retreat.
Presently, in vaporous form, Nwm and Eadric appeared. As the Druid corporeated, so did his two eagles, who had appeared as nothing more than wisps of smoke attending him.
"Mostin will appreciate their presence, I’m sure," Ortwin said caustically. "Although, personally, I find them far preferable to that stinking bear."
"You’re in a good mood," Nwm said, "your manners are always impeccable when you’re happy."
After reassuring an increasingly nervous Orolde, waiting for a further half-hour, and depleting Mostin’s supply of beverages, they were finally joined by the Alienist.
Eadric, Nwm, Ortwin, Mostin and Iua sat in discussion for three hours. It ranged from lively to – at several times – openly confrontational. What were their goals? What resources did they jointly command? How long did they have? Who would be most effective in which spheres? How could the elusive synergy of their respective abilities be evoked?
As night fell, they moved from the porch of Mostin’s manse into his drawing room, where Ortwin consumed too much firewine and became loud and rambunctious.
When Shomei arrived, just after midnight, Eadric became reluctant to further discuss details until she had submitted herself to scrutiny from the Eye of Palamabron – something which the Infernalist flatly refused to do. Shomei’s discomfort was further compounded when a drunken Ortwin made several lewd and cutting comments alluding to her history of diabolic suitors.
Shomei said nothing in response but eyed the Bard venomously. Mostin, afraid that things would get off to a bad start, fidgeted uncomfortably. Fortunately, Nwm intervened by neutralizing the alcohol in Ortwin’s system and bringing him back to a state of painful sobriety, and, somewhat surprisingly, jumping to Shomei’s defense.
"I suggest you remember Nehael’s own words, Ed. Those regarding allies in unlikely places. You can’t go around beaming your Eye at everyone you meet – it lacks respect for their integrity. You haven’t used it on Mostin, and I’m sure that his motives are less than noble."
Mostin blustered briefly. Ortwin apologized, and Eadric eventually relented – not before voicing his concerns regarding Titivilus, however. He was less than satisfied by the state of affairs existing between Shomei and the Duke of Hell and – in his mind, reasonably – saw their antagonism as a source of potential problems. This was agitated by the fact that Paladin and Infernalist viewed the Devil from two different perspectives: to the Ahma, Titivilus was a source of potential growth through friction and adversity, but one which was divinely ordained; to Shomei, he represented one of many discarded tools in the perpetual quest for apotheosis. Their respective paradigms were both uncannily close and dangerously divergent: something Eadric immediately recognized as a source of friction.
Nwm ignored him. "Moreover, I think there is something which you seem to have forgotten in your – at times, egotistical – desire to first redeem and now rescue Nehael from the clutches of the Demon who, for Mostin’s benefit, I will not name."
"And what is that?" Eadric sighed.
"She is a Uediian priestess and mystic," Nwm snapped.
Eadric tensed briefly, and then relaxed as though a great weight had left him. "Thank-you Nwm," he said openly. "And I’m sorry."
"Good," Nwm replied. "So, if we can discuss the matter in hand. We have a twisted version of Faerie filled with cultists, a frozen wasteland or some hellish smithy of huge proportions to choose between."
"I can add one more to the list," Shomei said. "So far. It is a jungle-like region of the Abyss itself: here the Demon is engaged in a war with a rival named Soneillon. The plane is called Throile. Soneillon is a succubus of great power, and was at one time the ally and consort of the Prince."
"I would rather avoid being caught in a lovers’ tiff," Ortwin said drily.
"You are oversimplifying the nature of Abyssal relationships," Shomei remarked humourlessly. "But I agree that Throile may not be the best option – at least at present."
"This frozen world sounds interesting," Nwm said. "Let’s consider it for a moment. Could we seal the Abyssal Gates – assuming that we could find them all?"
"Only temporarily," Mostin answered. "Or, at least, until Gra… – you see, I almost said it myself – could open them again, either with his own power or through one of his minions. There is nothing barring him from acting personally in Saraf – something else we need to consider. Outside of the Prime, we do not have the benefit of celestial interdict to protect us against Demons – even if it less than a hundred percent effective, it prevents fiends travelling here on a whim. It takes our enemy a great deal of effort to translate a servant here: plane shifting any of them to one of these other worlds would be child’s play to him."
"This is true," Shomei nodded. "And this is where the risk lies – as soon as we venture abroad, we run the risk of being chased through the spheres by hordes of demons. Wyre is safe, however, and hence the issue of mobility is crucial – as long as we can return here, we will be comparatively sure of a haven."
Eadric screwed his face up. "In which case preserving anonymity would seem to be crucial. And how can we protect against his divinations?"
"Mind Blank," Mostin sighed. "On all of us. Which will seriously deplete my stock of powerful spells."
"I am willing to share the load on that count," Shomei offered. "I concur: it is crucial. It will render us undetectable and immune to most Enchantments – the utility of this spell is not to be underestimated! Mostin’s remaining higher valences can be crammed with Sonic Evocations, mine with Conjurations. Multiple disintegrates will be a useful backup."
Mostin looked at Eadric, unsure as to the Paladin’s reaction to his next suggestion. "I have also given some thought regarding the procurement of a guide."
The Ahma dubiously raised an eyebrow.
"One who is close in the Prince’s confidence would be logical, although the transient nature of his court means that it is difficult to judge amongst those whom he currently favours. Ironically, Uzmi would have been a good choice – she was, for a while, high in his estimation."
Shomei seemed as surprised as anyone else at the Alienist’s suggestion, but guessed where he was heading.
"I suggest binding a Marilith," Mostin continued. "We can trap one in a thaumaturgic diagram, and then compel it into a jar. If Shomei aids me in the spell, it can be achieved with the minimum of fuss. Such a guide might prove invaluable: it could provide all kinds of useful information regarding his plans. Mariliths tend to be well-informed regarding the bigger picture – their strategic and military capacity is well-known."
"It could also mislead and dupe us," Ortwin observed. "Demonesses are equally renowned for their mendacity."
Mostin smiled. "You see that big, shiny rock around Eadric’s neck, Ortwin…?"
"Good point," the Bard conceded. "But would such a captive cooperate? An intractable demon who wails and attracts attention would be equally annoying."
"I will need to reach an agreement with it. This may involve a few minor compromises, but I think it would be worth it."
Shomei nodded. "I like the plan. Casting the binding is time consuming, however, and I mislike the idea of the demon breaking out of the diagram before the jar is ready. We should target her with multiple hold monster spells to prevent her escape until the binding is complete: one of them is bound to work. You will need opals, of course."
"And an accurate rendering of the target," Mostin added.
"If you do not have any names…"
Mostin sniffed, and began to chant the names of Graz’zt’s Marilith servants in an obscure verse.
"Your information is dated, but still somewhat useful," Shomei half-smiled.
"How many of these demonesses serve him?" Nwm asked. "Are we talking a handful, like the Balors, or many more? And what of other demons, for that matter?"
"A few dozen Mariliths, I suppose," Shomei replied. "Not all are currently favoured – many, if not all, are former consorts. Some maintain armies in the field at his command. A few are probably in temporary exile. Some remain at court. And there may be a hundred Nalfeshnees, thousands of Succubi and Glabrezu, and probably tens or hundreds of thousands of Babau, Uridezu, Bar-Lgura, Chasme and Vrocks at his call. Other, more obscure types in smaller numbers fulfill specialized roles, and then, of course, the ubiquitous Dretch - who are close to numberless."
"We are rapidly drifting away from the focus of this discussion," Eadric sighed. "I have no objection to the containment of a demonic guide – provided that it can be undertaken safely, of course." The Paladin himself seemed surprised by the words which issued from his mouth.
"I had expected more resistance to the idea," Mostin said sarcastically.
"It is a logical proposal," Eadric admitted, "and, frankly, I’ve pretty much given up on conventional standards – they don’t seem to apply to my life any more."
"I’m tired," Ortwin grumbled. "I say we take a vote. I favour Afqithan – it sounds interesting."
"As do I," Iua agreed. "It is neither too cold nor too hot."
"My thoughts exactly," Eadric said.
"I rather thought Saraf might be interesting," Mostin said. "But I suppose it can wait. Very well. Afqithan it is, unless Nwm or Shomei has an objection?"
"I would prefer Saraf, as it sounds the least unnatural – although I admit that Afqithan’s Green intrigues me," Nwm said.
"Shomei?" Eadric asked.
She shrugged. "I’m just along for the trip, Ahma. Whatever you decide is good with me."
Eadric scowled, unsure whether the reference to him in his religious capacity was sarcastic or not.
So, over the next hour, they hatched a plan. Ortwin’s contribution was significant, and his trademark cunning, boldness and braggadocio were written all over their strategy. It took another two full days in order to make preparations.
**
The Marilith was called Nufrut. She was less than happy to be reduced to the state of a disembodied head, and confined to a perfectly spherical jar twelve inches across, suspended on a metal chain. The chain had a convenient handle, for ease of transportation.
"Is it safe?" Eadric asked. He was inside the extradimensional area of Mostin’s retreat: the Alienist was reluctant to bring the bound demon into normal space, in the event that it would rouse the ire of the Claviger.
"It cannot escape, if that is what you mean," Mostin reassured him.
"What if you drop it? Will it break?"
"The jar is adamantine. I have polymorphed it into transparent adamantine. It is near indestructible."
"Does such a substance exist?" Ortwin inquired.
"It does now," Mostin grinned. "Excepting dispellings, disjunctions and disintegrations, we should be relatively safe – nonetheless I will keep the jar out of harm’s way in potentially dangerous situations. As Shomei was so willing to aid me – and us, I might add – we have agreed that she may keep Nufrut after we are finished."
Nufrut snarled, and cursed, her beautiful face contorting wildly.
"She doesn’t look very cooperative," Ortwin observed.
"We are still negotiating," Mostin explained. "The promise of freedom is, of course, the boon she seeks – we merely have to come to a mutually acceptable agreement. This is complicated by the fact that I have consented to pass Nufrut to Shomei. We will bicker for a few more hours, I am sure."
Eadric sighed and departed.
An hour after noon, Mostin and Shomei exited the manse. Both sported looks of smug satisfaction.
"I see you’ve reached a compromise." Ortwin said.
"Nufrut has acquiesced to our demands," Mostin replied. "We agreed that she will be released after ten years, if she cooperates. Her tenure with me will last for two months, and the remainder will be with Shomei."
"And you intend to dishonour that promise, I assume?"
Shomei looked genuinely offended. "Certainly not! An agreement with a fiend is a sacred enterprise. One does not violate such a trust."
Orolde seemed unfazed by the responsibility that Mostin suddenly and unexpectedly foisted onto him – namely, the maintenance of the manse and the wizard’s affairs in his absence. He nodded in a resigned fashion as the Alienist enjoined him to ignore the nearby population of sprites, who were nothing but a gang of childish hooligans. Mostin left Orolde several large tomes with the express command that they should be memorized before his return – each was a treatment on various aspects of the Far Realm by Wizards the extent of whose insanity rivaled or even surpassed Mostin’s own. No-one was to be permitted entrance to the manse for any reason whatsoever, and in the unlikely event that it was assailed Orolde was to immediately retreat to the extradimensional area, seal it, and issue the sending which Mostin had hastily scribed.
"A prismatic sphere and several meteor swarms might also prove invaluable," Orolde suggested.
"You can rest assured that if there is any blasting to be done, I will not fail in my responsibilities." Mostin said drily.
The preparations were made within Mostin’s sanctum and, to the surprise of all, he took his mirror down and placed it within his portable hole.
"I will open a gate," he explained. "I am loathe to leave the mirror unattended, and any portal would only remain open for a day. Besides, it might be useful in a pinch if we need an emergency exit."
"Not that you’d ever leave it behind anywhere," Ortwin said.
"Probably not," Mostin admitted. "But a scrying device is always useful."
The Alienist and Infernalist proceeded to mind blank everyone present.
"We will need to repeat the same procedure tomorrow," Mostin said. "And the next day, and the next – for as long as we are abroad, in fact." He nodded to Shomei.
The Witch cast a polymorph on Ortwin, Eadric, Nwm and herself, which gave them the appearance of Sidhe: tall, graceful feys of unearthly beauty who had long since fled the Prime. Their clothing and equipment seemed to assume an equally elegant style. "If this ruse is to be successful," she said, "we should remember that Ortwin and Nwm are to be our spokesmen: both are fluent Sylvan speakers, and Ortwin is an adept liar. The rest of you should keep quiet unless either Mostin or I has time to use tongues: I also speak Fae, but I have no intention of acting as representative or negotiator. I will try to keep my communication to a minimum."
Shomei handed Ortwin an exquisite coronet which seemed to have been cut from a single, massive diamond. In fact, the Infernalist, a jeweler of no small ability, had used a fabricate spell on half of the stones which the Bard and Iua had received as their dowry. He placed it upon his head – the contours of which felt unfamiliar.
"King at last, eh?" Iua said sarcastically.
"I am a Duke, not a King," the Bard said coolly, effortlessly, and with utter conviction. His poise and movement spoke of natural command.
Shomei laughed despite herself. "Dammit, you’re good – I have to admit it. Watch your accent – we don’t want anyone to suspect that you’re a bumpkin from the Prime. The weight of scrutiny will fall upon you, and they will be looking for the smallest details and inconsistencies. Eadric – you should keep your helmet closed at all times. You are an inexpert liar, and manage to make even a Sidhe’s face look trustworthy and approachable. As a bodyguard, your role will be minimal in any case. And…"
She cast an empowered cat’s grace.
"…that should stop you lumbering inelegantly. Iua, you may still adopt another form if you prefer."
The Duelist shook her head. "I am the daughter of Ulao. I will masquerade as myself – an Auran princess is the role I am most accustomed to playing, in any case."
Mostin, not to be outdone in any matters of style, invoked a spell which turned him into a handsome fiend with ruddy skin, short horns and long, talon-like fingernails.
Shomei raised an eyebrow. "You cannot maintain that guise for long."
"On the contrary," Mostin grinned wickedly. "You forget that I have transcended your limited vibrational state. This is no obstacle to me.*"
Eadric gave an inquiring look.
"I am now a kelvezu," Mostin explained. "A demonic infiltrator and assassin. They are highly feared – it will give us an edge in negotiations, if they see that I am one of Ortwin’s retainers. I will remain enigmatic." He drew a long pair of gloves over his hands, and brought the hood of his cloak over his head so that his face became shadowed, and his features hidden.
"Then why are you covering up?" Eadric asked.
Ortwin sighed. "Ed, I really need to give you some lessons in duplicity."
"We are almost ready," Mostin said.
"This is the part that I don’t like, I assume," the Eadric said in a resigned voice.
Mostin nodded apologetically, and led them all into another area of his magnificent mansion.
**
An area had been cleared within the largest of the rooms in the extradimensional space. Its technical function – that of a banquet hall – had never, in fact, been observed.
Now it acted as a corral for six horses of fearsome visage. Nightmares conjured and confined by Mostin and Shomei, and subjected to torment from the Infernalist until they had submitted to her demands.
Mostin had finally seen her rod in action, and had been both awed and terrified by the power that, through it, she wielded.
"These are evil creatures," Eadric said. "And I am loathe to have one bear me."
"I am sure that they are equally loathe to bear us," Shomei sighed. "Nonetheless, we need them – both for the convenience of transportation that they grant, and the impression that riding them will convey to any who see us. We have them for nineteen days – no more, and no less. They will remain loyal – albeit reluctantly so."
"I hope so," Eadric said, "I do not wish to be borne away to some nameless Hell. And this compacting…"
"They are not compacted," Shomei shook her head. "They are coerced. Compacting would have been far easier, but Mostin forbade it for your sake."
"I fail to see the difference."
"Souls, Ahma, I would have paid them in souls."
Eadric looked aghast. "You use such currency? That is monstrous."
"They are damned already," Mostin said.
"It doesn’t matter…" Eadric began.
"Wake up! Saizha!" Shomei said sharply, with no hint of irony. "I have compromised for your benefit. You will be forced to make many more choices that will be far more challenging before this is over. You are the Ahma. You are empowered to decide right from wrong, according to your belief. Look at me! Where is my taint? Why do I bear none?"
"I don’t know," Eadric confessed. "You are anomalous."
"That much is true," Mostin leered, bearing his sharp fangs. "Shall we be on our way? That was an attempt to diffuse the atmosphere, incidentally."
Eadric nodded. "We should remember that this is an open-ended sortie. We don’t know how long we have, how we will fare, whether we will return here before pursuing other avenues, or continue onwards. We don’t know whether we are spies, guerillas, instigators of unrest or any combination of the above. We are looking for potential allies. We are looking to thwart the Demon. We are seeking to release Nehael. And we are hoping to somehow augment Mostin’s power, to bring the spell within his reach."
"The last is most important," Mostin nodded, mounting one of the Nightmares, which champed restlessly and snorted fire. "Can we go now?"
In the purple skies, above the mists and shadows which lay upon the ancient woods of Afqithan, a Gate opened. A group of Sidhe, accompanied by a demon and an elemental, mounted on huge and malign steeds which issued smoke and fire, thundered through. A hunting party, from some dark region of Faerie, no doubt. One of them – accompanied by two magnificent eagles – concentrated briefly, and then called out in Sylvan.
"A chimera, five miles yonder," he pointed.
Their leader – a nobleman of some kind – spurred his mount onwards and drew a great, black bow which seemed to pulse grimly. Starlight glistened in the diamond coronet upon his brow.
On the walls of the castle, not a furlong from where the party had appeared, several guards dressed in ornate armour stared impassively at the spectacle for a few moments, betraying no emotion – or perhaps feeling none. Whoever this group was, they seemed oblivious to the fact that this was the castle of Irknaan, king of the Loquai, and they were trespassing in the airs above his demesne. One of the guards nodded silently, and another turned, and walked quickly but without hurrying to inform his captain.
*As an outsider, Mostin’s options for polymorphing are somewhat expanded.
Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 03-31-2003 "It was only a chimera..."
The chamber was of blacks and muted greys. They flowed and rippled, as if they possessed a will of their own, absorbing all incident light, yet still conveying a sense of variance. If there were other colours present, then they were veiled by the pervasive gloom.
The Captain, whose name was Shupthul, stood before his King, Irknaan, and explained what had happened.
"Only a few moments ago, you say," Irknaan reclined in darkness in an unconcerned manner, not even deigning to look upon his retainer. "Have you dispatched a party?"
"Twelve, your Majesty," Shupthul said.
Despite his confidence and level voice, Irknaan perceived a measure of nervousness hidden behind the Captain’s expert façade. It made the King feel strangely comfortable – Shupthul’s apprehension was based on fear of him, rather than of any external threat. He smiled inwardly. "Which way were they headed?"
"Towards a chimera, five miles to the north. They are looking for quarry."
"And there is a demon with them? How curious. At this hour, the chimera will be Lorochtoh, of course. She is predictable in her habits. This may be amusing. How did they know where to find her, I wonder?"
"The guardsman who brought me the report indicated that it seemed a random choice – one of them sensed the beast, and they immediately took up the chase. The demon was cloaked – a kelvezu assassin, in all likelihood."
"I feel that I might observe." Irknaan clicked his fingers, and a sprite with a wicked expression hurried to fetch his scrying stone. Already, his mind raced with possibilities, although he evinced nothing to Shupthul. Who were they? How did one of them sense the beast? Was the demon an ally of the Prince, or a foe, or neither? They seemed potent. He would need to tread carefully. Irknaan wondered whether he was in disfavour, and his termination had been ordered by Graz’zt.
In any case, a confrontation with Lorochtoh would prove distracting for a few moments – others had made the mistake of underestimating her strength, and had paid dearly for it.
**
Nwm’s mind was bombarded with sensations as he switched between different aspects of their environment. The Green of Afqithan held a majesty that was warped by shadows and darkness, and possessed an alien quality that made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. As well as the chimera – the nearest of the nodes within his field of consciousness outside of the castle walls – other beasts flitted on the periphery of his thought. Manticores and griffons, displacer beasts and basilisks, a dragonne on the very edge of perception. Many of the trees possessed black and brooding sentience which filled the Druid with dread.
He turned his mind to feys, and they blazed across his inner landscape, too numerous to count, and then to outsiders, concentrated both in a knot within the fortress and also where other beasts were located. They overlapped in a confusing fashion, and Nwm noticed that the chimera – like many of the other denizens of Afqithan – was an indistinct type, and bore multiple conflicting signatures.
As did the griffons and their riders who were now following: they had taken flight from one of the castle’s tall towers. The Druid glanced over his shoulder, and saw specks in the sky to their rear. He yelled to Ortwin.
"There are twelve feys – or part-feys, at least – mounted on griffons – or part griffons – in pursuit. They are less than a mile behind."
"They can’t catch us," the Bard shouted back, the wind rushing past.
"They are closing in."
"Griffons can’t fly that fast," Ortwin objected.
"They are tenebrous," Shomei called to him. "part shadow-stuff. They slip through the gaps in space."
"The chimera is likewise a complex of different realities," Nwm yelled, "and should not be treated lightly. This could be interesting. What should we do?"
"Ignore the Loquai," declared Mostin. "It will irritate them."
"I agree," Ortwin nodded. "If they try to apprehend us, or behave aggressively, we should obliterate them with as much apparent ease as possible. We need to show both strength and disdain. Pay attention to the chimera."
"They will reach us, before we close on it," Nwm pointed out.
Iua concentrated briefly, and then yelled a warning. A powerful wind began to blow behind them, speeding them forwards. The Duelist and Eadric – both expert riders – dealt with the sudden change in pace without effort, although the Paladin found the increased smoke and fire kindled from his steed’s mane and hooves somewhat disconcerting. Likewise, Mostin and Shomei stayed in control of themselves and their mounts, albeit with more strain. Nwm clung on tightly.
Unfortunately, their leader, Ortwin, flamboyant as he seemed, was a poor rider. Iua’s warning had given him no time to prepare, and he was blown from his saddle, still clutching his bow.
Gods, how embarrassing, he thought as he tumbled towards the ground. He recovered quickly, and commanded his boots to action. As they sprouted tiny wings, the Bard did his best to make his mistake look intentional.
"It’s a good thing they can’t scry us," Mostin grumbled, as Ortwin drew level with him. "That’s precisely the kind of blunder we have to avoid, if we want to stay alive. I thought you could ride."
"I can," Ortwin lied. "I just haven’t, for a long time."
"I wish you’d take this more seriously," Eadric yelled.
"Nothing is further from my mind," the Bard grinned. "How far to the beastie, Nwm?"
"Half a mile," the Druid pointed.
"Will it sense us?"
As if in response to Ortwin’s question, the air was abruptly filled with demons.
"Somebody did," Shomei remarked drily.
**
Lorochtoh, who had lived for an untold age in the haunted woods of Afqithan, was a devious creature who had evaded or confounded the hunts that had been mounted in search of her on numerous occasions. Irknaan had long since given up on eliminating her, and had found that, left to her own devices, she posed no threat and proved an effective deterrent against the bands of sprites who occasionally vexed his patrols. The King of the Loquai had come to respect the chimera, and although it would have been within his power to remove her, the use of magic in a chase would have been a breach of the etiquette which existed between hunters and quarry – an unfulfilling exercise, against the spirit of the hunt in general. After all, if there was no risk to the participants, then the sport held little appeal and amounted to little more than execution.
Sat upon the branch of an immense banyan, immersed in shadows, Lorochtoh had gazed skywards with one of her three heads – her draconic eyes were her best – after catching the rumour of movement in her peripheral vision. A hunting party, headed towards her. The chimera wondered briefly if she was their target, and thought it best not to take any chances. She summoned five succubi.
"Go and charm those annoying Sidhe, my pretties," she instructed them. "And after they’ve chopped each other up, don’t forget to bring me any baubles that they might have."
Lorochtoh shifted, and waited to see what transpired.
**
Ortwin, who had regained the lead, but had elected not to mount his steed again, was suddenly beset by four of the demonesses, who appeared directly in front of him. Still holding his bow in his left hand, the Bard drew his scimitar, whilst gaping at their naked beauty. Iua, acting with her usual speed, urged her mount forwards and instantly slew one of them before anyone else had even fully reacted to the situation.
"Mine," a succubus said to Ortwin, beckoning.
"Mine."
"Mine."
The three demonesses were bombarding Ortwin with erotic impulses, which he found himself uncharacteristically capable of resisting – due to the mind blank, he remarked to himself, rather than any overwhelming feelings of fidelity. Githla lashed out, and the Bard – feeling somewhat regretful – rapidly dispatched a succubus and wounded another. Eadric impaled a another with his lance.
The remaining demoness – the fifth – who had appeared next to Mostin and whispered mine, was pulverized by a sonic that made Mostin’s eyes bulge. He had empowered it, but he hadn’t maximized it – nonetheless, the spell had borne the hallmarks of that metamagic.
Shomei raised an eyebrow. "That was rather an overkill."
"Did you check the magical trait of this plane?" Mostin asked.
"Ahh," Shomei nodded. "Like Faerie itself. No, I didn’t think to look."
The Alienist fired a clutch of quickened magic missiles at the last, wounded succubus. They blazed gloriously, and obliterated the demoness. "We need to seriously reconsider our options," Mostin sighed. "This puts things in a very different light." He glanced over his shoulder. The wind conjured by Iua still sped them onwards, and their pursuers were nothing but dots in the sky.
"You can ease up," Nwm called to the duelist, "or we will overshoot. The creature is close by."
Iua nodded, and the gale rapidly began to subside. But as the group began to descend, three hundred feet up, they received an unpleasant shock. Mostin knew the sensation which preceded it – he had experienced it when Feezuu had subjected him to it – but there was nothing he could do. An instant after the tickling feeling, his arms and legs twitched as the fluids were wilted from his body. Nwm, Shomei and Eadric were also struck by the necromantic assault: fortunately Ortwin and Iua were beyond the area of the spell’s effect. The pain was immense, and Mostin hysterically considered that Feezuu’s attack had been as nothing compared to this.
Infernalist, Paladin, Alienist and Druid began to drop like stones, their mounts withered to lifeless husks beneath them. Shomei wasn’t moving.
Lorochtoh broke from the treetops below. Blackness issued from her wings, and her form shivered with dismal power. Space twisted, and stretched uncomfortably around her. She was immense.
Nwm acted quickly, invoking a reverse gravity on the area around him, abruptly forcing himself, Mostin, Eadric, Shomei and the corpses of the Nightmares skywards again. Mostin cursed, uttered a quickened haste, cast a fly spell, aimed a disintegrate at the vast bulk of the chimera, and promptly missed. He swore profusely.
Ortwin sped a volley of arrows into the beast’s flank, where they quivered and caused her to screech. Iua struck Lorochtoh with a powerful blast of lightning, but still she climbed relentlessly towards them. Eadric drew Lukarn and waited, bobbing impatiently.
"Bad bad bad bad bad," Mostin grumbled. "Can you deal with Shomei, Nwm – assuming she’s still alive."
The Druid nodded, even as the chimera was closing, a foul draft blown before her by her wings. She spoke, and black fire began to kindle over Mostin, threatening to immolate him. His amulet absorbed it noiselessly.
Nwm waited, unwilling to act until he had seen Mostin’s retort.
Three colossal sonics issued from Mostin’s fingertips in rapid succession, swollen beyond all normal limits by the native magic of Afqithan. The noise was terrific as they detonated, superheating the air and causing massive ionization. As if by some trick of profound slipperiness, the chimera seemed to twist and gyre in space. She was unaffected.
Mostin gaped. Impossible, he thought.
Nwm glanced at Shomei, gauged that she would live, and struck Lorochtoh with a finger of death. Ortwin and Iua, descending on her flank, erupted into a vicious flurry of slashes and stabs.
The monster shrugged the spell effect off, effortlessly changed tack, and ploughed devastatingly into the Druid, ripping and rending him with horns, maws and claws. As her body swung around, finally within his range, Eadric hewed her with Lukarn – his blade blazed within the gloom which surrounded her. She screamed. Eadric struck again. And again. And again. Nwm blasted her with a thunderswarm, Mostin with more sonics, and both Bard and duelist continued to prosecute their attack.
Space folded. Concerned for her life, the chimera vanished into the Plane of Shadow.
Nwm, barely conscious, spoke with a mouthful of blood. "Get us out of here, Mostin."
The Alienist nodded.
Irknaan had watched the exchange with interest. From his perspective, only the steeds of those present and the chimera were apparent – some kind of ward prevented the observation of the interlopers themselves. Nonetheless, he could infer the use of powerful magic. Moments after the beast had vanished – no doubt fleeing to Shadow – the hunters’ two remaining steeds likewise disappeared.
Irknaan cogitated, wondering whether they pursued her, or had passed into another reality altogether. Whoever they were, they weren’t playing by the rules of the hunt – or his rules, at least. He shrugged. They probably wouldn’t be back. Nonetheless, he would double the patrols and call on some demonic assistance – one couldn’t be too careful.
**
They sat within a magnificent mansion hastily conjured by Mostin.
Shomei groaned. "It still hurts," she complained.
"The attack was charged with loathsome power," Nwm explained. "I need to be on hallowed ground in order to repair much of the damage done."
"We are behaving like rank amateurs," Eadric muttered. "We need to reappraise our situation. Prepare. Encase ourselves in wards and protective magics. We need back-up plans."
"Gods, Ed, we thought it was only a chimera," Ortwin sighed. "None of us could have expected it to be capable of that."
"I tried to warn you," Nwm shrugged.
"Then try harder, next time," Ortwin snapped.
"If you weren’t so concerned about creating an impression…" Nwm began in a reasonable voice.
Ortwin snorted. "That’s exactly what this is about. It is a bluff. A ruse. We are wearing a façade. We are not appearing as ourselves."
"In any case," Shomei shifted uncomfortably, and winced, "we should note that our mounts are less durable than ourselves. That was the most potent horrid wilting that I have had the misfortune to encounter."
"And I," Mostin agreed. "The beast is part fiendish and part tenebrous. We should be on our guard. Now we have only two steeds left between the six of us."
"I will conjure more," Shomei sighed.
"They need to be potent," Mostin said. "I suggest ecalypses – they will also give the impression that we have been to Shadow, where the chimera doubtless fled. It will reinforce the notion that we pursued it."
The Alienist reached into his portable hole, stroked Mogus briefly, and pulled the Looking-Glass of Urm-Nahat from within.
"What are you doing?" Nwm asked.
Mostin grinned. "I am lending credence to our ruse," he replied. "Ortwin, Eadric, Iua – if you would be so kind as to follow me?"
Eadric looked deeply suspicious.
"I will scry the beast, and we will attack and kill it. It is greatly weakened. We must strike before it can recover."
"You cannot be serious!" Nwm objected.
"It will involve only a brief sojourn in Shadow. We’ll be back before you know it."
"Very well," Eadric groaned. "We should finish what we started."
Ortwin nodded, it was a matter of pride, now. Mostin drew upon the power stored in his amulet, and empowered the Paladin and Duelist with flight before scrying Lorochtoh with the mirror.
"Don’t screw up," Iua said, and leapt through.
*
Immersed in shadowstuff, the chimera was aware of the sensor, but paid it little heed – she assumed it was Irknaan spying on her again. Suddenly, and without warning, the Auran with the rapier was attacking her ferociously, puncturing her thick hide with the slender blade. She was joined by the two Sidhe – one of whom bore the sword that had caused her so much pain. The demon appeared last of all, grinning widely.
Lorochtoh screamed in pain. Flames leapt from her dragon’s mouth as she lashed out with claws and horns in an uncoordinated fashion. But she was spent, and had nowhere left to hide. It was brief and brutal. She quickly cowered.
"Spare me," she grunted in Draconic, and repeated it from her lion’s head in guttural Sylvan.
Ortwin slashed at her with his scimitar, and the blade bit deeply into one of her shoulders. Leaning forward, and applying all of his great strength, Eadric pushed Lukarn into Lorochtoh’s sternum. The blade sank in four feet to the quillons.
The chimera twitched once, and died. Eadric sighed, and black ichor cascaded over him as he withdrew his sword. He made a brief supplication for the creature’s soul, before looking around himself.
The Plane of Shadow was cold, and drab, and featureless. All colour and life, all vitality and variety seemed to have been bled from the place.
"This is a grim Limbo," he remarked, "and I would like to leave."
Ortwin hacked at Lorochtoh’s draconic head with Githla, until it parted from the thick neck. He dragged it behind himself as he walked back through the portal, and smiled.
That wasn’t so bad, after all, he thought.
NOTE:
This post demonstrates how completely messed up conventional Challenge Ratings are. Officially, the beastie is CR14. Off the cuff, I'd pegged her at 16-17 and thought that it would be relatively easy - although not a cake-walk - for the characters.
In fact, it almost resulted in a three character fatalities. Shomei was unconscious. And Nwm and Mostin were in single-figure hp by the end of it. Do not underestimate advanced half-fiendish shadow chimerae! - especially when they face a bunch of complacent players.
They had chosen a small hillock with a flat top, covered with short, springy grass, some sixty miles from Irknaan’s fortified palace – technically beyond his immediate hegemony, or so Nufrut had told them. It had once been the abode of sprites according to Nwm, although none now lived there. It was an isolated area, and their nearest neighbours were a bevy of Nereids who dwelt in a small lake three miles distant, and a solitary Redcap – perhaps the most unpleasant and disagreeable of all feys – who had taken up residence in a crumbling structure that may once have been a tower. None represented a threat to the party, although the Redcap had succumbed to – or willingly embraced – the mixture of umbral bleed and Abyssal taint that seeped into Afqithan.
At Ortwin’s request – and in keeping with the Bard’s general scheme to exhibit as much blustering grandiosity as possible – Mostin summoned a group of Djinn and had them erect a modestly-sized pavillion and several smaller tents on top of the hill, complete with banners and pennants which fluttered in the gentle breeze. Ortwin had chosen the device of a scarlet basilisk surrounded by nineteen oriels, which, although promising some esoteric heraldic significance, was in fact as vacuous as his own claim to nobility. Lorochtoh’s dragon-head sat upon a pike: the grim trophy of a hunt successfully – albeit painfully – executed. Presently, however, the camp was blanketed by a screen cast by Shomei, until their defenses were established. All, with the exception of Iua, maintained their respective disguises.
The group discussed the peculiar traits of Afqithan – notably its enhanced magic, and the implications of the shadowstuff which seemed to exist in varying concentrations. The demiplane was anomalous: according to Shomei, there were portals which linked it to Faerie proper, and at certain times sympathetic resonances would allow passage between the worlds. But, excepting powerful magic, there was no way of accessing the Prime other than through Shadow – which was an uncharted and likely perilous route.
"Shadow and Faerie are not mutually coextant," the Infernalist explained. "Afqithan should be seen as a threshold between two realities which do not normally interact."
"And the taint?" Eadric asked, sighing.
"I suspect that that was here long before Graz’zt took an interest in the place. Perhaps other fiends have had connections here in the past. Perhaps a legion or two of damned spirits fell through here on their way to Hell, and the gravity of their passing caused a bubble to break away from Faerie. I have no idea. As I have said, within Irknaan’s palace there may be a Gate to the Abyss. But this combination of shadow and taint has been owned by the Loquai, and others – such as the Redcap who lives four miles yonder."
"And the chimera," Mostin rasped, still suffering from dehydration. "As I see it, we are dealing with a notoriously tricky group of creatures who have been rendered even trickier by the local conditions. They will be difficult, at best. How many of them can invoke horrid wiltings, for example? Shomei indicated that their leaders may possess as much magical potency as she and I. If one factors in control of the umbral and demonic energies, we may be heavily outmatched in terms of sheer power, although not in utility and versatility. And there is another question – the passage of time here is altered, so do we retreat to Wyre in order to prepare, or do we take advantage of the natural empowerment of magic that Afqithan offers? We need to weigh the benefits of the two options."
"We can do both," Shomei said. "I will return to the Prime – although not to Wyre – and perform my conjurations. A day here is a week there – and I can accomplish a great deal in a week. I assume that areas of Shadow which are coterminous with Afqithan also suffer from the temporal dilation – Shadow will reflect the local conditions on any plane it touches. As far as the power of the Loquai is concerned, I agree that we must tread carefully: the one thing to remember is that many Sidhe focus on enchantments – the mind blanks are likely to prove useful in that regard."
Mostin grumbled, and shook his head. "All it takes is for each of them to know just one evocation, and we’re in trouble. They’re bards and sorcerers, and they can drop as many empowered maximized whatevers on us as they like. And there is no spell that effectively protects against horrid wilting without negating our own effectiveness."
Shomei nodded. "It was never going to be easy. And it’s enervations that I’m afraid of."
Eadric groaned. "This place is rapidly beginning to lose its charm. And if a week in Wyre passes for every day that we spend here, that is doubly concerning. And you speak of conjurations, Shomei. Why does this give me a bad feeling, I wonder?"
"I admit that there may be a certain moral ambiguity – from your perspective, at least."
"It’s not that I dislike you. It’s just that I don’t entirely trust you," Eadric explained.
"Ahma, I am returning to the Prime. If you wish, you may accompany me, and we can visit Morne, and you may confer with the Sela. If he instructs you to discontinue our acquaintance…"
"He will not," Eadric smiled grimly, "as you well know. I am both sanctioned and expected to exercise my own judgement. Which is difficult," he added wrily, "when I lack the clarity of vision possessed by Oronthon’s proxy."
Shomei laughed. "Saizhan requires a great deal from its practitioners. It is ruthless and uncompromising in its demand for self-perfection."
"Your view is partially correct, but…" Eadric began.
Ortwin held up his hand. "No philosophy," he demanded. "It will only lead to unhappiness, and one or both of you will end up upset or frustrated. We need to concentrate on the matter in hand."
"That sentiment is always true," Nwm added wrily.
"We need to think to defense. Can we be attacked from Shadow?" Ortwin asked.
Mostin swallowed. "Probably," he nodded.
"Can we do anything about it?" The Bard pressed.
"I need to think about that," the Alienist sighed. "It depends on how accessible the Plane is to the locals."
Mostin grimaced. "When they have determined our position – which shouldn’t be too long, when we reveal our gaudy tents – that will be a possibility, I suppose."
"I will hallow this area," Nwm said, "and will tie it to a dimensional anchor that Mostin will cast. We have done something similar before, if you recall. We will designate those currently present as being unaffected by the anchor. Hallowed ground will also allow me to repair the long-term damage from the chimera’s attack."
"Very inventive," Shomei nodded approvingly.
"In which case," Mostin grumbled, "someone will need to procure the relevant herbs and oils. Which means I need to return to Morne, I suppose."
"I will go to Magathei," Iua offered. "You can buy anything and everything there."
"Hallowed ground here will be rather a giveaway, don’t you think?" Ortwin asked.
"Only if they think to look for it," Nwm replied. "And, let’s face it, would you?"
Ortwin grinned.
Eadric sighed. "If. If. If. There are too many ifs for my liking."
"Relax, Ed," Ortwin said. "I’ve pulled off bigger lies than this one before."
"Have you?" Eadric asked. "Which ones?"
"My memory fails me," Ortwin replied.
**
After Shomei had departed and Iua had returned from a brief excursion to Magathei on the Plane of Air, Nwm hallowed the hilltop in a long rite, until it became an island of brighter Green amidst a sea of long shadows.
"Where is Ortwin?" Iua asked Mostin, as the Alienist sat outside one of the smaller tents. Half of his attention was directed to Nufrut, whose disembodied head leered from out of her crystal prison, and half was focused on Nwm, who had begun to pace in a circle, mumbling the spell.
"He is reconnoitering," Mostin said distractedly. "He is invisible and flying, so he will be quite safe from casual observation. Sem has accompanied him – hopefully the avian’s eyes should see anything before it or they see him. Barring sidhe hunting parties, of course." The word avian was spoken with ill-concealed loathing.
Iua raised an eyebrow, and made an educated guess as to where Ortwin’s ‘reconnoitering’ had taken him.
Mostin ignored her and returned his attention to Nufrut, whose face seemed to be caught in a continual scowl.
"What can you tell me of Irknaan, o happy one?" Mostin asked drily.
"What do you wish to know?" The Marilith pouted.
"The means by which his connection with your master is maintained; the number and disposition of his forces; the extent of his personal magical power; his resources – does he, for example, possess any rarities which might interest me? Any information, in fact, that I might have overlooked which may prove useful."
"These questions are late in coming," Nufrut observed.
"I know or can guess the answers to most in broad terms, but now is the time for specifics," Mostin replied. "Is there an Abyssal gate within his fortress?"
"Yes," Nufrut answered grumpily.
"If you are more forthcoming, your incarceration will be briefer!"
"That is not in our agreement," the Marilith objected.
"Nor is your reticence or dissembling," Mostin replied. "I assume that the gate is a permanent, two-way portal?"
"It is periodic."
"And the length and regularity of its period?"
"This information is not known to me," Nufrut replied.
"I should remind you that even a single lie will render our agreement void, and you will remain in your sphere for the rest of your days. Do I need to ask the Ahma over? The Eye of Palamabron penetrates all counterfeits, they say."
"A period of twenty-four hours springs to mind for some reason," Nufrut said. "Although I may be thinking of another gate entirely."
"Would that be twenty-four hours here, or in the Abyss?" Mostin asked archly.
"I suppose it would be here," the Marilith said sourly.
"And it opens in Zelatar, I expect."
"That would certainly be logical," Nufrut conceded.
"Does it open in Zelatar, Nufrut?"
"Yes," the Demoness answered.
"Just making sure," Mostin said acidly. "How long does the portal remain open, in local time, Nufrut. Try to be precise."
"Three hours, twenty-five minutes and forty-two seconds," the Demoness said sarcastically.
"Thank-you," Mostin said with dry condescension. "That wasn’t so hard, was it? Are there other gates, other than the one within Irknaan’s stronghold?"
"There are many gates in Afqithan to many worlds," Nufrut answered.
"Are there others to Zelatar?"
"Not to my knowledge."
"To other regions of the Abyss?"
"Perhaps. If there are, I am not privy to them."
"Good," Mostin sighed, finally feeling that he was making headway. "Now let’s speak of Irknaan himself. He reveres your master, as do many of the Loquai. What does he gain in reward for his loyalty?"
"Power, you fool," Nufrut sneered.
"More specifically, please. And you may dispense with the insults, they do not make me sympathetic to your plight."
"Prince Gra…."
"Hup!" Mostin interrupted. "You will henceforth refer to him as my master, if you please."
Nufrut raised an eyebrow in an expression of amusement. "If you are concerned about him hearing his name, bear in mind how many billions say it every day in a billion worlds."
"Nonetheless, I would prefer not to take the risk. Most of those billions are not high on his list of ‘people to be dealt with.’ As I was asking, what does Irknaan receive as a boon from your master?"
"Irknaan is particularly favoured. The Loquai in general enjoy the attentions of succubi – or incubi – depending on their gender and preference. They have learned the secret language. They have demonic allies and servants. My master and his minions have taught them many arts – Irknaan most of all."
"And they crave erotic sensation above all else?"
"All sensation is erotic if you learn how to experience it," Nufrut answered.
"We can engage in such philosophical speculation at another time, Nufrut. For the time being, let us confine ourselves to Irknaan. Which arts do you speak of?"
"Efficacious magic, Mostin. Violated magic."
"And in return, what has the Prince received? How far does Irknaan’s loyalty extend? Are there Loquai within the Lord of Azzagrat’s retinue? Do they pay him tribute?"
"There are sidhe within his armies, yes. Many are capable warriors. Your encounter with Xerulko* is testament to my master’s eclecticism."
"How many Loquai dwell within Irknaan’s fortress?" Mostin persisted.
"Perhaps two hundred."
Inwardly, Mostin groaned. "And the location and disposition of his principal vassals within Afqithan?"
"They are numerous," Nufrut answered.
"Other fortresses of Loquai, or other creatures who support him," Mostin said, somewhat exasperated.
"Yytryn, a powerful Duke, two hundred miles to the northeast of here; the Queen Menicau; the Lamia Jetheeg; Threxu, the Wasted Nymph; King Samodoquol; the Wyrm Crosod…"
"A Wyrm? Of what kind?"
"A black one. He often flies to converse with Irknaan."
Mostin recalled the very first time that he had looked through his mirror with Shomei into this twisted world. Something huge had passed across the stars in the distance. It could have been a dragon, I suppose, he thought.
"And Crosod has embraced the umbral taint, no doubt?"
"Most certainly," Nufrut smiled.
"And within Irknaan’s fortress: are there other individuals who might pose a particular threat to us, beside the king himself?"
"His queen and consort, Nhura. His captain, Shupthul. He is served by an elite guard who may be more than a match for your puny gang. Fiendish umbral griffons, maybe a dozen succubi and several glabrezu at any one time. Who knows, Mostin – perhaps even a kelvezu or two?"
"You seem to be enjoying this."
"I must take my recreation when it presents itself to me. I am not equipped to go and find it myself."
"Nhura is a succubus, I assume?"
"No, indeed," Nufrut smiled wickedly. "Nhura is a rare creature indeed. She was once a Lillend."
Mostin’s stomach tightened in a knot.
Eadric spent much of the day, if it was a day – there was neither sun nor moon to mark the passage of time – in prayer and contemplation, still unaccustomed to his sidhe form. He meditated upon their current predicament, and the absurdity of it struck him: they were in a foreign world, full of potent magic, where taint was rampant, and with no overarching plan or purpose. As usual, Ortwin didn’t seem to be taking things very seriously, and Shomei was a nagging source of concern. Penetrating her motives was impossible. Mostin seemed to trust her, but Mostin’s perspective was more skewed than anyone else that Eadric knew, and was little cause for comfort.
Thank heaven for Nwm, he thought, as he emerged from his reverie. The Druid still paced, chanting quietly under his breath. Iua practiced impossibly complex maneuvers nearby.
As Mostin approached him, the Paladin resigned himself to the inevitable complications that the Alienist always managed to find. His demonic visage was distinctly unsettling.
"I have good news and bad news: which would you first prefer?" Mostin casually swung the globe containing Nufrut’s head.
"I would rather not hear the bad news at all," Eadric replied.
"Then I will tell you the good news: Nufrut is a veritable mine of information! Shomei was inspired when she suggested her name."
"I was an ambassador to many worlds, you imbecile! What do you expect?" The Demoness snapped from her prison.
Mostin opened his portable hole and dropped her inside. "She is, however, somewhat irascible, and is prone to petulance."
"What other good news is there?" Eadric asked.
"None," Mostin admitted. He proceeded to recount all that he had learned, drinking deeply from a waterskin at regular intervals.
"I do not like umbral fiendish black wyrms," Eadric moaned. "This is a disturbing development."
"I am in agreement," Mostin nodded, "but we can rest assured that such a creature will register in Nwm’s mind long before it finds us."
"If he is looking," Eadric added.
"Nwm immerses himself in the Green on a fairly regular basis, so I have no concerns there. Irknaan sounds well entrenched, however: finding any to oppose him is likely to be difficult."
"This is no revelation," Eadric sighed. "There are those here which the taint has not touched, according to Nwm. They may be potential allies."
"Pixies and Grigs?" Mostin laughed hoarsely. "Dryads? Satyrs? Nymphs and Nereids? Squeakers, Buckawns and Wood Gnomes? You cannot be serious! Even if these were normal Sidhe that we were dealing with, Eadric, that would be an ill-advised course of action. The Loquai are not such easy targets."
"Don’t let Ortwin hear you speaking thus," Iua interrupted, "he is, after all, King of the Feys in Wyre."
"Any fool can make that claim, and I’m sure he’s not the only one to covet that title," Mostin said drily. "Where is he, anyway?"
Iua drew a dagger from her boot. "About now," she said coolly, "I expect he is discovering whether his attempt to seduce one, or perhaps all, of the three Nereids who live yonder has been successful."
Left-handed, she hurled the blade with strength and precision at Lorochtoh’s head, where it sank into the skull between the dead chimera’s glazed draconic eyes.
The succubus Lehurze – who regarded herself as an occasional ally of Graz’zt, rather than his abject thrall – adjusted her visage to her satisfaction before pressing the face of the cubic gate which was keyed to Afqithan. She was unwilling to wait for two days until the portal opened, and even more loath to ask her Abyssal master to expedite her transit: the Prince’s mood had been particularly dark and violent of late. This was no special cause for concern in and of itself, but neither was he known for granting boons at such times. And had he been reminded of her, and chosen to slake his lust upon her instead, she feared that it may have resulted in her demise – over the aeons, more than a few succubi had been annihilated during or after the act of passion, whether or not they had begged a favour from him. Best not to draw attention to herself, she thought.
Lehurze played a dangerous game. Graz’zt knew that she was on amicable terms with Pazuzu, but was content to allow her to pass tidbits of information to agents of the Aerial Prince as long as the flow back towards the Lord of Azzagrat was greater in both volume and quality. Demons generally expected disloyalty and duplicity, and, in fact, became suspicious when it seemed absent.
Graz’zt also knew that Lehurze was still close in the confidence of his former ally and paramour, Soneillon – the abstruse and enigmatic succubus whose dark designs may have rivaled even his own. During their aeon-long association, Soneillon had initiated a number of demons nominally loyal to Graz’zt into her clique of followers, of whom Lehurze was one. Lehurze had seized every shred of knowledge which was presented to her, and developed a sorcerous talent of some ability – which she carefully hid from those around her. Lehurze was shrewd enough to appear to reveal the majority of her findings regarding Soneillon to one of Graz’zt’s agents – a Glabrezu named Shonchuk – who paid her handsomely for her information. She knew that Shonchuk was retained directly by Graz’zt – despite the fact that the other demon masqueraded as an informant for one of the Dark Prince’s frequent supporters, Lord Kostchtchie.
Lehurze was therefore surprised when events unfolded as they did. Irknaan, one of the warped sidhe kings from Afqithan, had issued the Nalfeshnee Maihodrot a sending, requesting information on a kelvezu and a group of rogue sidhe who had entered his realm. Maihodrot, the demon who oversaw events in Afqithan and with whom Lehurze at times found collaboration beneficial, had intimated that unusual events might be passing in the little demiplane. Upon further probing he had suggested that Irknaan – whose name was known to Lehurze – might be concerned that Prince Graz’zt bore him some unknown enmity. Lehurze was silent when quizzed by the other demon – her mind working furiously, as she tried to piece together possible scenarios. Many things were known to her, and she was privy to the plots of a number of Abyssal magnates.
Irknaan, she knew, had genuine cause for concern: if Graz’zt had discovered that the Loquai were also sponsored by the demoness Rhyxali, he may have acted to suppress the potential rivalry. Or he may have known for some time, and determined that things had reached a critical juncture. Her curiosity was piqued. Nonetheless, the succubus would have ignored the entreaty, had it not been for a quasit dispatched from her erstwhile mistress in Throile – the disputed Abyssal jungle where Graz’zt and Soneillon warred interminably with one another:
Inquire into Afqithan. A captured Devil has indicated that interesting events may be transpiring there. Shomei the Infernal is somehow involved.
Never one to believe in coincidence, Lehurze had slain the quasit without a moment’s thought, and approached Maihodrot again. After indulging the Nalfeshnee’s violent desires, she had secured the temporary use of the cubic gate which Maihodrot used to access Afqithan and a number of other worlds which he was charged with supervising. Unaware of the greater patterns which were moving, but nonetheless suspicious of the motives of the succubus, Maihodrot agreed to allow Lehurze to act in his stead – confident that he could extract at least a few scraps of gossip from her upon her return. From the Nalfeshnee’s perspective, Afqithan was a tedious and complex world, and he was wise enough to know that he lacked the guile necessary to wheedle anything substantive from Irknaan.
As she stepped through the gate, Lehurze felt a frisson of excitement: as much as she felt at home amid the tortuous intrigues of Azzagrat, occasional escape from the place, if merely to a pocket Faerie, was always desirable.
**
Iua was only partially correct in her suspicions regarding Ortwin. The polymorphed and invisible Satyr had made his roundabout way to the nereids’ pool, where he sat upon a rock and watched the three feys cavort happily in the water. Those with eyes to see would have observed an inane grin of huge proportions fixed onto his face.
After an unknown time had elapsed – it may have been minutes or hours – and seeing no abatement to the nereids’ antics, Ortwin removed his pipes from his belt and began a haunting melody of such enormous poignancy that, had he had tear ducts, Sem – who sat upon a nearby branch – would have begun to weep. The water-nymphs stopped abruptly, seized their shawls from the bank of the pool, and vanished into its depths.
Ortwin raised an invisible eyebrow, and continued to play – the tempo and mood of his music changing to become lighter and less melancholy, although still graced with a sweetness and depth which belied his own fickle and superficial nature. He concluded the tune, and waited.
And waited.
Ortwin frowned, and replaced his pipes at his belt. He pulled his small harp from its case on his back, and struck up another tune – this time accompanying the music with a voice which he hardly recognized as his own. Sidhe vocal chords had a smoothness he was unfamiliar with. He measured the passage of time by the songs that he played, and perhaps a further half hour had elapsed before he sighed and ceased his music. He waited again, glancing up at the eagle – who appeared to have dozed off. He picked up a stick and threw it at the bird, who screeched indignantly.
"Come on," Ortwin picked himself up. "We’re going."
"Better luck next time," Sem replied sarcastically.
"You are no Loquai," a honeyed voice said from the water at his feet. "And you play the pipes passably well for a sidhe – did a satyr teach you?"
Ortwin started, and looked down to observe only his own reflection in the water. He smiled ironically – apparently the invisibility had worn off at some time during his performance.
"Passably well? I am a satyr, lady," he said with quickly recovered charm. "I am Ortwin the Great, King of the Feys of Wyre and the Northern World – not your world, I hasten to add. I am currently in disguise."
"That is an implausible tale."
"But nonetheless true," Ortwin answered, surprised that less than fifty percent of his claim was a lie.
"And why are you here by our pool, ‘King’ Ortwin?"
"I have lustful urges," he admitted, "but that is not the only reason why I’m here. I am looking for information. What can you tell me of the Loquai?"
"Now you make me suspicious that you are a spy," the voice replied with acid humour.
"Please understand that I mean you no harm," Ortwin insisted. "If I had wished to, I could have stolen all of your shawls and forced you into submitting to all manner of lewd acts, and into divulging whatever I wished to know. I am looking for allies. I am the enemy of Irknaan, and his sponsors, and of the umbral bleed, and the taint which lies upon this place. Can you help me?"
"I cannot," the voice replied. "Now begone!"
"What is your name?" the Bard asked. But there was no response. She had fled.
Ortwin cursed.
**
Mostin watched as Nwm made his final invocations on the hilltop. "If you did that every day for ten thousand years, you might make a small impression on this place," Mostin scoffed, as he cast a dimensional anchor.
Nwm ignored him, and repaired the damage caused by the violated horrid wilting that they had sustained. He waited until Mostin apologized before attending to his needs: in the meantime, the Alienist had consumed several gallons of water in his unquenchable thirst.
When Shomei returned, it was in the company of four ecalypses that she had enlisted as steeds – six-legged horses native to Shadow. Mostin guessed that the Infernalist had struck deals with other creatures, although Shomei did not mention them, and the Alienist did not press her: she looked exhausted, itself an indicator that she had busied herself with summonings and callings.
To Eadric, Iua and Nwm, the witch handed small vials containing a transparent liquid which smelled vaguely acidic.
"Consume these," she instructed, sighing.
Eadric looked suspicious.
"They will allow you to master the beasts – currently, they are charmed, but you need to bond with them. The draught will simply allow you to stay on them while you break them. Ecalypses are notoriously willful."
"Where did you procure these potions?" The Paladin asked. The flasks had a faint aura of taint which clung to them.
"Abriymoch," Shomei grimaced. "But they were not made in the Hells, Ahma, only purchased there – with some difficulty, I might add."
"Does every choice that you present to me compromise my principles and threaten to erode my integrity?"
"That is for you to decide."
"And why do you inconvenience yourself for us to such an extent? Do you require payment for your services?"
"No," she said flatly. "And my debt to Nwm is still unsettled: I would have died had he not intervened."
"There is no debt," the Druid said easily.
"Yes," she replied, "there is."
Shomei opened yet another magnificent mansion to corral both the ecalypses and the two remaining nightmares – now that the hilltop itself was hallowed, they could not freely tread there.
"Where is Ortwin?" Shomei asked.
"He is reconnoitering," Mostin replied, avoiding Iua’s gaze.
"Is he warded?"
"Somewhat," the Alienist answered.
Shomei sighed. "We need to be more careful, Mostin. One of my devils is missing."
Mostin raised an eyebrow. "Which one?"
"One of the erinyes, named Aoloz. She was the one I dispatched to Throile."
"This complicates matters," Mostin said drily.
**
Lehurze arrived in Afqithan only moments after Ortwin had begun his flight back to the encampment, and immediately teleported to the gates of Irknaan’s palace. She was granted an audience with the King in private, and was greeted by his customary mixture of inscrutability and condescension. Their exchange was civil, as each probed the other for possible weaknesses. For the most part, Lehurze remained demure, sensing the power of the dark perception that the sidhe possessed – he was ancient, and as cunning as an Abyssal Lord, and she knew that she must tread carefully. Potency and command flowed effortlessly from him, but seemed to find no purchase on her – Lehurze had long since mastered the art of utter passivity, and transformed it into an effective tool for domination. She absorbed all. Soneillon had taught her well.
When the succubus casually mentioned the demoness Rhyxali, she was unsure whether she caught the merest flicker in Irknaan’s impenetrable gaze. She smiled inwardly, as she knew now that the King’s thoughts would be turning rapidly, seeking to make connections and attempting to place her within the larger picture.
Lehurze made no mention of the kelvezu, nor of the sidhe hunting party, until Irknaan broached the subject at the gruesome and shadowy revel which was held later that evening. Nine other succubi were present – compacted to Loquai nobles of varying station – as well as the glabrezu Tebdeluz and Narab, advisors and lovers to Nhura, Irknaan’s beautiful, sinuous, and deadly consort. The presence of Lehurze was a cause for doubt amongst the other demons – the succubus had a reputation for intricate and tangled schemes in Azzagrat, and they, themselves, suddenly felt under scrutiny. Lehurze delighted in the fear that she evoked, and many of the lesser sidhe to whom she spoke, despite their subtlety and guile, were no match for her shrewd and circuitous interrogations.
Irknaan watched her as she mingled. He was confident that he had gauged her correctly: here was one with the ruthless determination and ambition typical of her kind, but also with the skill and patience to actualize her goals – a much more valuable commodity. After their satiation of blood, and grim pleasure, and exquisite pain, Irknaan’s court retired for meditation or private indulgence.
The King and Queen – the latter flanked by the hulking presence of the two glabrezu – remained and questioned Lehurze, who seemed unfazed by the penetrating gazes of the two huge demons. All regarded each other with mutual distrust and cynicism, and beneath an opaque veneer of civility and etiquette, deals were struck, information was exchanged, and secrets were alluded to.
But when Shupthul entered at a late hour with his report, none could have expected the news that he brought with him. He bowed before Irknaan, Nhura, and their guest.
"My Lord and Lady, there are devils at the gate. They seek an audience."
The King’s eyes widened in an uncharacteristic display of surprise. "Their number, arrangement and purpose?" He asked.
"There are thirteen of them, Lord. Their purpose they would not divulge. Ten are Narzugons who wear many honours and decorations."
"And the three remaining?"
"Furcas, Murmuur and Titivilus, my Lord. Infernal nobility."
Irknaan turned to Lehurze. "Perhaps you possess some insight into the presence of Devils in my realm?" He asked acidly.
"I have no more information than you," the Succubus lied, as she considered Soneillon’s mention of Shomei.
The King’s eyes narrowed, and he pondered briefly. "Tell them to return in a day," he instructed Shupthul. "I am disinclined to deal with them presently."
"Offending them too much may be unwise," Nhura said, "at least until we discover their purpose. We should send them a token, and grant them the privilege to hunt, at least. There may be others in their wake."
Irknaan gave a cursory nod. Thirteen devils – even ten knights and three Dukes of Hell – were no particular threat to him in his own fortress, but he was nonetheless cautious. And like Lehurze, King Irknaan did not believe in coincidence. The image of the unknown sidhe hunting party was still fresh in his mind.
[quote]Originally posted by Sepulchrave II on 05-05-2003
Iua had sat largely quiet during the discussions, her emotions churning rapidly, but conscious of the inappropriateness of an untimely confrontation with Ortwin, who evinced his usual swagger and nonchalance.
When the Bard had recounted his encounter with the nereids – speaking no falsehood, but leaving sufficient room for all kinds of inference – she had sighed inwardly, aware of his capacity for gross insensitivity. Mostin had fidgeted uncomfortably, and Nwm had kept his eyes diplomatically lowered. Eadric, as always, had retained an open and accommodating expression which did not suit his current sidhe features. The duelist was glad that he would be wearing a helm – subterfuge was not one of the Paladin’s strong points. Subtlety, and reading others’ moods, however, could be.
"You should be cautious of roaming too far afield," Eadric said vaguely to Ortwin. "It may have unforeseen consequences."
Ortwin squinted, unsure of the Paladin’s meaning.
"It is important to maintain the group’s cohesion and unity of purpose," Eadric continued obliquely. "And one of us alone is too easy a target – invisibility is no protection against the sidhe, or a passing dragon, for that matter. Forays should be made in pairs – preferably in the company of a spellcaster – in case a speedy retreat is necessary."
"Good idea," Ortwin nodded. "Perhaps Nwm should come next time. You like nereids, don’t you Nwm?"
"I am reluctant to categorize my feelings towards an entire race of creatures in such simple terms," Nwm replied evasively.
"Nonsense," Ortwin said archly. "When you were younger, Nwm…"
"Alas, I am no longer young," the Druid interrupted.
"But when you were," Ortwin persisted blithely, "you frolicked with nymphs and dryads and nereids and sirines with the best of them. You were never stuffy, like Ed is."
"Nor was I as selfish and hedonistic as you," Nwm snapped. "Just because I don’t have Eadric’s…"
"Hang-ups?" Ortwin suggested.
"Perspective," Nwm continued. "Bah! What’s the use? You wouldn’t know what sacred meant if the Goddess pissed in your face."
Shomei shot Mostin an inquiring look.
Yes, it’s usually like this, was the Alienist’s unvoiced reply.
The Infernalist clicked her fingers. "Tactics," she said.
**
Mostin’s intellect was amplified to a level he had never before experienced, and his mind was awash with powerful spells. They seemed to compete for space, and threatened to spill over. Almost every one of his higher valences was occupied – four more castings of mind blank had actually relieved the pressure on his consciousness.*
Every spell – arcane and divine – that the party possessed would be deployed to maximum effect. They had spent over an hour discussing strategy in an attempt to coordinate their resources. Eadric would be contributing death wards, and even Ortwin’s paltry collection of spells would be used in order to free up some of Shomei’s lower valences.
The Alienist had prepared gate, prismatic sphere, Mordenkainen’s disjunction, time stop, reality maelstrom; a chained phantasmal killer, a chained polymorph other, five disintegrates, and four sonically substituted fire orbs – he was intent on not having the targets slide out of the way again, as the chimera had done. He had prepared a pair of dimensional anchors in case they ran into anything that they didn’t want to get away, and two banishments in case they encountered anything that they did want to go away. He had prepared an insanity spell, his usual utility spells and divinations, and for his summoning he favoured pseudoimmoths – the idea being to conjure six or seven of them, and then ordering them to begin a magical barrage of their own. He had also prepared a chained flesh to stone spell – a tactic he had never before employed. He held a plane shift in reserve in case a speedy retreat was necessary.
Aside from two squamous pulses and a finger of death in the event that they met the dragon, Nwm would be acting primarily in a support role and providing a variety of wards, augmentations, and healing spells. Shomei was split between offense, defense and general utility, and would be deploying extended stoneskins and doubly empowered endurances – further augmented by the ambient magic – and two effulgent epurations, to limit the power of the initial assault if it came. She had a host of minor buffs, numerous abjurations and several powerful conjurations prepared – power word stun, maze and gate. She boasted a horrid wilting which would be empowered through her rod and further magnified – to truly stellar proportions – by the enhanced magic of the plane.
"If you thought that the chimera’s attack was bad," she said to Mostin, "you should wait until you see this one – if I have a chance to get it off."
"What is an effulgent epuration?" Eadric asked.
"You will see," Shomei half-smiled.
Mostin turned greedily to the Infernalist. "Perhaps that spell is tradeable?"
Shomei shrugged. "Maybe. Hopefully, it will not come to blows in any case – one of my highest valences will be invested in Ortwin. His charm is what stands between us and an unpleasant situation."
"And I assume that your gate would be to bring devils here?" Eadric sighed.
"Not necessarily," Shomei replied. "I am not above calling on other entities if required."
"And yours, Mostin?" The Paladin inquired.
"It’s a surprise," Mostin said, displaying a demonic grin.
Shomei shot him a glance filled with trepidation, before summoning a succubus and dispatching it to Irknaan’s fortress.
In its hand, it held a cordial invitation to hunt, from Duke Rhalid and his consort, the Auran Princess, Iua.
The screen which protected the encampment was lifted, and the hilltop – with its collection of tents – suddenly became visible.
**
Irknaan inwardly scowled, although his face betrayed no expression of his irritation. He stared from atop his tallest tower, a hundred fathoms above the base of the rock pinnacle upon which his castle was built.
The edifice, which had appeared at some stage in the past few hours, was less than a mile from his gates. Needle-sharp, black, lusterless and seemingly unpierced by any door or window, it vied for dominion of the sky with his own fortress.
Irknaan briefly considered whether allowing the devils into his own court may have been wiser than forcing them to ‘make camp’ outside of the walls. The infernal tower was, predictably, impervious to divinations of all kinds. Irknaan brooded about what was transpiring inside: they had opened at least one gate, as testified by the presence of sharp-eyed spined devils, in tireless flight about the place. And spinugons were the least of his concerns.
The three Dukes – technically one Duke, one Count and a Nuncio – who were, presumably, still closeted within the tower somewhere, had not shown themselves since Irknaan’s denial of an audience. Their actions, whilst provocative, were not entirely unexpected, and a good deal of posturing could be expected on both sides before any real communication of intent or purpose occurred.
Duke Murmuur, Irknaan knew, was the senior member of the diabolic envoy, although in guile and subtlety both Furcas and Titivilus no doubt outshone him. Whilst Murmuur was a relatively straightforward opponent – albeit a fierce and capable warrior – the others, both vassals of Dispater, were intellectuals without peer amongst the middle-ranking aristocracy. The Narzugons – Knights of the Order of the Fly – were Murmuur’s retainers, and were potentially dangerous opponents, although Irknaan’s own bodyguards were likely a match for them.
In any case, Irknaan considered ironically, if the Lords of Dis or Malbolge really want this place, what can I do to stop them?
Abruptly, Lehurze appeared behind him. Her words were a gamble.
"Will you petition Rhyxali for aid? Or Graz’zt?"
The King’s face remained emotionless. "You presume a great deal for one who has been here less than a day."
"I sometimes favour speed and efficiency of purpose over diplomacy," the Succubus replied.
Irknaan gestured briefly, and Lehurze was held with a look of astonishment upon her face. Suddenly, pain more intense than she had experienced in a aeon overwhelmed her. Her skin began to peel off in strips from body and her spirit screamed, but her mouth – clenched and unmoving – was incapable of vocalizing.
Irknaan waited until she was almost dead before he released her. Lehurze collapsed upon the marble flags of the rooftop, ichor pouring from her ruptured form. She lashed out at him with a power word, but space rippled around him and the syllables evaporated impotently.
He held her again. "You’ll have to do better than that," he said. "You’re one of Soneillon’s whores, aren’t you?"
I was.
"And whom do you serve now?"
Myself.
"But you still remain in communication with your former mistress?"
Amongst others. I have many contacts.
"I think that it is time that you were honest with me," King Irknaan smiled thinly.
There are a number of demons whom I can sue for help.
But at what cost? Irknaan mused. His grip on Afqithan, although relatively solid, would rapidly become tenuous if powerful demons with unknown agendas began appearing. More powerful demons with unknown agendas, he considered, as he observed Lehurze.
"What do you suggest, Lehurze?" He released her again, and her form became limp. She coughed dark bile.
"An alliance, whilst it remains to our mutual benefit."
"If you seek to supplant Nhura, then I would warn you: she is deadly. Do you have designs on Afqithan?"
"Every succubus desires to be a queen, Irknaan."
He had read her accurately – perhaps more accurately than she had read herself. Arcanists who came to Afqithan always reacted the same way. Whatever their initial view of the little demiplane – a parochial backwater, inward-looking and insignificant – they rapidly became enamoured.
The exhilaration of spellcasting was too much to resist. The magical power which coursed through everything. The effortless joy of manifesting. The dark, brooding beauty of the place.
A feeling of enormous poignancy threatened to overcome Irknaan. He would rather die a thousand times than surrender his kingdom to any other.
"I do not trust you one iota," he said to her.
"That is wise," she replied.
So he laid a geas on her, and bound her to him, which suited Lehurze well enough. Passivity was her oldest friend, and her greatest ally.
*Mostin rarely, if ever, fills every spell slot in the morning, preferring the flexibility of a quick fifteen or thirty minutes to cram another spell if required. He is usually at around two-thirds capacity. That morning, he was fully primed, and had an intelligence of 40 (he was under the effect of a trebly empowered fox’s cunning, further empowered and maximized by the magical trait of the plane): save DCs against his spells were as high as he could get them. He had just reached 20th level, and was relishing the power that it afforded: if it came to blows, the general tactic was to deploy fortitude-targeting spells, negating the evasion ability of the umbral feys and simultaneously forcing their weakest save.
This post demonstrates how obscenely overpowered time stop is when it is cast in Afqithan, and why I will never again allow its effects to stack with haste; how things like 'EL26' and 'CR22' in fact mean diddly-squat; and how, what the DM thinks are overwhelming numbers - designed to force compliance or retreat from the players - are, in fact, nothing more than a minor annoyance.
The title of this update is therefore devoted to not just the theoretical possibilities that a spell offers - which had been long known - but to actually putting it into practice for the first time.
Mostin Discovers Time Stop
**
Crosod’s immense pinions powered him forward at unnatural speed, and his sinuous body – which seemed to devour all light and belch it forth again as a cloying darkness – shivered with potency as space parted around him. Within his ebon form his eyes were lidless voids, filled with age, and wisdom, and infinite malice. Clinging to his foreleg, perched above his razor-sharp talons and exalting in the wind as it rushed over her was Threxu, the Wasted Nymph with whom, at times, the Dragon consorted. She was a lithe, supple shadow, whose delicate and beautiful form seemed incapable of performing the acts for which she had justly acquired her terrible reputation.
Below them, unaware of the passenger that he carried, wood-gnomes and sprites of every kind cowered, fearing that the slightest breath or movement would draw the Dragon to them. Crosod smelled them but had no interest in them – they offered little in the way of nourishment, and there was no time for sport.
Threxu, however, was thirsty. She glanced greedily at the forest below her.
"Here!" She yelled at Crosod, and pointed. The Wyrm banked abruptly, his wings emitting a thunderous crack which shook the treetops, before descending effortlessly to the forest floor and crushing a tump which housed a dozen grigs and pixies.
Threxu leapt from his leg and sank to the ground, pressing her lips to the soft grass. She drank voraciously, and rapidly – although only temporarily – she satisfied her thirst.
As the pair took to the sky again and made their way towards Irknaan’s fortress at the behest of their liege, the feys in the woods below wailed and cursed. Dryads wept in desperation, in the sure knowledge that, within a day, they, like their trees, and every other green thing within the blighted swathe that Threxu had left, would be dead.
**
The unknown sidhe had returned, it appeared.
Irknaan had been unable to capture their messenger and interrogate her – a summoned succubus – before she vanished back to her Abyssal abode. His attempts to scry the group had been unsuccessful, and clairvoyance of the locale that they described revealed only a collection of tents, with no inhabitants or owners. Nearby, one of Lorochtoh’s heads sat upon a pike.
They were warded, the King knew. Possibly even mind blanked – and that would prove awkward. His thoughts raced. Evidence of powerful spells had been left at the site where the corpses of the nightmares had been found, and the loss of four steeds had seemed to do little to diminish their effectiveness.
They were not Loquai, but they had followed the chimera to Shadow. They had chosen a particularly isolated locale, in a region unclaimed by any noble and with few inhabitants. One of them at least possessed a magical ability which rivalled or even outstripped his own – the pursuing scouts that he had sent after them after their initial appearance had heard sonic detonations of great power. And the succubi that Lorochtoh had summoned to deal with them had been dispatched with distressing ease – their charms apparently ineffective. And the kelvezu – where did it fit into the scheme of things? A retainer? He reluctantly approached Nhura, whose knowledge and wisdom regarding many things was deeper than his.
"Have you heard of Duke Rhalid?" He asked.
"No," she replied.
"An Auran Princess named Iua?"
She scowled. "The name is distantly familiar," she replied.
"Take one of the succubi. Go first to Faerie, and make inquiries of this Duke. Spend no more than an hour there. Go then to the Plane of Air. Find out what you can regarding Iua. Return as speedily as you can."
She squinted, and nodded curtly.
After the departure of the Lillend – if that was, in fact, something which Nhura could still be called – Irknaan called Shupthul to him and instructed his Captain carefully. Somewhat later, Shupthul left the fortress in the company of the succubus Iemazai – his compacted mistress, and one of the wilier members of Irknaan’s court. They were accompanied by a dozen Loquai mounted on tenebrous griffons; the witch Koilimilou and her called and bound servitors – currently a trio of Jariliths – as well as six quicklings of particularly evil aspect, and thirty hell-hounds.
Koilimilou – cantankerous and eccentric – was one that Irknaan seldom approached, as the witch was dangerous and preferred her own company, or that of demons, to that of the Loquai. Under threat of flensing however, she acquiesced to Irknaan’s demands, and stirred herself from her reveries. She possessed a powerful item which, amongst other things, would expedite the passage of the hunting party. In the past, Irknaan had used it to wage war on his rivals – and only Koilimilou could unlock it secrets.
Shupthul would make preliminary contact with the group of interlopers, and assess their strengths and weaknesses – inviting them to the castle, if he deemed it appropriate. Lehurze would attempt to reopen negotiations with the devils who were now entrenched nearby – they had yet to declare their purpose. In the meantime, Irknaan had ordered several of his most powerful vassals to attend him: the Wyrm, the nymph Threxu, King Samodoquol with eighty knights, and Duke Ytryn with thirty more.
After deliberating, Irknaan had yielded to his desire for demonic assistance, but reluctant to directly embroil either Graz’zt or Rhyxali had, at the suggestion of Lehurze, scried Soneillon in her abysm of pain and depravity.
Darkness.
"She is there," Lehurze assured him, "and she knows you are watching."
Irknaan issued a sending. The enigmatic demoness did not reply.
Irknaan brooded. Soneillon was less dangerous than either of his patrons, but dealing with her still required considerable caution and a clear head. Although he trusted no-one – be they ally, subject, thrall or open enemy – the King had millennia of experience in dealing with some of the most devious and manipulative entities in creation.
He inwardly hoped that it would be enough. Any sign of weakness would be exploited by one or more of his own servants or allies.
**
"Should we send another one?" Ortwin asked irritably, an hour after the succubus had been summoned and dispatched to Irknaan’s fortress. "There’s still no reply." He stood tensely, arms folded, whilst the others sat nearby upon ecalypses and nightmares which champed restlessly.
"He is no doubt machinating," Mostin replied.
"In which case," Nwm suggested, "we probably shouldn’t give him too long. In case he prepares too well."
More time passed. Nwm’s thoughts reached out in an attempt to discover perturbations in the Green nearby, but to no affect.
When they arrived, it was suddenly and without warning. They manifested at the base of the hillock where the party had set their tents, outside of the dimensionally anchored area. Shadowstuff swirled around them, gushing from the aperture through which they came, before sinking slowly into the ground. Ortwin immediately fell into character, resisting the urge to gape, and regretting that he did not have time to quaff his philtre of glibness without drawing attention to himself.
The Loquai were tall, elegant figures, their individual features rendered vague by the umbral energies which had suffused them. They appeared as dark shades, clad in darker armour and bearing lances, bows and long swords; they sat upon black-winged monstrosities that would have been griffons, had they been possessed of more real matter and less shadowstuff and taint. Tiny motes of sooty darkness darted about the riders: fiendish umbral quicklings, with only pinprick red eyes to lend them semblance of shape and form. Hunting demons – Jariliths – prowled amongst them, their maws full of sharp teeth. Hell-hounds bayed around them.
Their leader wore a helm and breastplate of jet, although the captured twilight hinted at other shades hidden within. Upon closer observation, his face – beautiful even for a sidhe – seemed serene; delicate features revealed in a thousand shades of insubstantial grey. In his left hand he carried a bow of impossible lightness, a slender dart nocked easily between his long fingers.
"I am Shupthul," he said in a soft voice. The words resonated, and seemed to hang in the air like smoke after he had spoken. Behind him, an invisible sensor hung – Irknaan was doubtless watching.
"I am Rhalid," Ortwin replied, nodding politely. His eyes darted quickly over those others present. A succubus – currently without wings, yet unmistakably demonic – although not a threat, given their mind blanked state. Twelve knights, akin to Shupthul but lacking, Ortwin suspected, the magical gravity of their leader – whether in spells or enchanted items. And then he saw her.
Beautifulohgodssheissobeautifulihaventeverseen…don ’t look at her…
Shades seemed to flash around her, but in her face was colour. Koilimilou was untouched by the shadowstuff which invaded Afqithan, although she bore more than a hint of the demonic.
Ortwin tore his eyes away from her, after they had rested the merest fraction of a second too long. She stared impassively back at him.
"I am hunting," Ortwin continued in a matter-of-fact way, his heart pounding silently. "I assume your master received my message? Would he care to join us?"
"It is customary to pay one’s respects to a lord, before one engages in a hunt on his land," Shupthul said humorlessly.
"For which, I apologize," Ortwin said, with what seemed like complete sincerity. "I suspect we became over-excited, and neglected to observe the customary niceties. Please convey my deep regret for any offense I might have caused." The Bard removed his diamond circlet, and casually offered it to Shupthul. "A token of good will to your King," he said openly.
Under his hood, Mostin raised an eyebrow.
Shupthul said nothing, but gestured – causing Shomei to immediately ready a spell in preparation. Instead, on his cue, one of the quicklings darted forwards to snatch the coronet, and delivered it to Shupthul’s hand within the space of a heartbeat.
Abruptly, the Captain switched into another language – full of grating sound and harsh syllables – and addressed Mostin. "What is your purpose?"
"That is no concern of yours," Mostin replied, somewhat shocked at hearing the Abyssal Tongue, but maintaining his composure.
Ortwin swallowed. This was not supposed to happen.
"Who is your master?" Shupthul continued.
"That…" Mostin began.
But Ortwin quickly realized that if he let this line of inquiry continue, then Mostin would betray them – although dishonest enough in his own mean way, the Alienist was not practiced in the art of subterfuge.
"SILENCE!" Ortwin screamed at Mostin, "how dare you speak? My apologies, Shupthul," he continued in Sylvan, seeming to master himself, "but this demon is compacted to me. He may speak only with my approval, and currently I do not grant it."
Shupthul sat silently. Ortwin hoped that the Captain was already developing a set of complex misconceptions.
"Allow me to introduce the rest of my companions," Ortwin continued nonchalantly, attempting to divert attention before more questions were asked about Mostin. "My consort, Iua; the witch, Aotheen," the Bard waved a dismissive hand towards Shomei; "my counsellor, Jhondrosokaur," at which Nwm nodded gravely; "Munhulmurliom the Dour," Ortwin remembered the name of an awakened oak tree that he had once encountered and randomly bestowed it upon Eadric; "and the demon Erizren. We are here to hunt, and although our arrival was not intentional, the quarry here present some interesting challenges."
"Afqithan," it was the female sidhe who spoke, the name rolling from her tongue and echoing in Ortwin’s mind. Aaf-kee-thaan. "This place is called Afqithan. Tell me, Duke Rhalid, does it strike you as an unusual coincidence – given your accidental arrival here – that of all the places that you might have appeared in this wide realm, by lucky happenstance your gate opened in the airs above King Irknaan’s fastness?" The words duke and accidental bore the slightest hint of irony.
"If it were coincidence," Ortwin quickly dissembled, "then I would call it lucky." His charm was effortless. "But our means of transportation is unconventional – we are drawn inexorably to existing portals and loci of power, siphoning a fraction of their energy in order to expedite translation. I can only assume that such a focus exists within your King’s walls?" It was a bold riposte, which elicited another question.
"Indeed? I would be fascinated to inspect such a device, if it exists. Will you show it to me?"
"I regret that the power exists within Aotheen herself. It is a unique ability, the secret of which is, unfortunately, lost to posterity. She is the last of her kin." Ortwin’s voice remained calm, with subtle overtones of condescension, as though he were patiently explaining a self-evident fact to an inquisitive child.
Inwardly, Eadric grimaced. They had just made contact with the Loquai, and already Ortwin had sown a convoluted web of lies which could only get worse as time went on. Behind his visor, the Paladin scanned the group of umbral feys and demons, looking for subtle cues and pointers to their motivation with regard to the interlopers.
The reek of taint which hung over them all was palpable. Shupthul was reticent and suspicious: the captain was a warrior who, no doubt, excelled in battle but – for a sidhe, at least – was relatively unpracticed in gauging the purposes of others. The woman was a different matter altogether, Eadric mused, and was opaque at best – although her inquiry regarding their imaginary means of transportation was couched in terms which could not disguise a tell-tale preoccupation with matters arcane. The succubus was silent and utterly inscrutable, and Eadric wondered what her role was – advisor, consort, spy, compactee – she could be any or all of those things. Eadric suspected that she was as focussed on penetrating their own motives as he was hers.
Shupthul spoke again, the merest hint of malice in his voice. "King Irknaan has issued instructions that you should attend him forthwith. We have been sent to escort you to his presence."
Sh*t, Ortwin thought. He smiled graciously. "I regret that, at present, such a visit will be impossible, as today, I hunt. Perhaps in a day or two. My proposition stands, however: King Irknaan is most welcome to join us."
"You misunderstand," Shupthul said menacingly. "Afqithan’s King requires your presence. Your hunt must wait."
"I…" The Bard began, but never finished.
Because Mostin, whether in a fit of paranoia, or anticipating an inevitable coming to blows, acted unilaterally, and made a decision which would change the way that the travellers related with the inhabitants of Afqithan. To the others, it also demonstrated the power that an arcanist of Mostin’s stature could wield in Faerie or any of its orbiting demiplanes. He spat a number of syllables out, prompting bows to be drawn or shot, and eliciting a desperate but ineffectual gesture in response from Koilimilou.
**
Ortwin experienced a strange sensation which lasted less than a fraction of a second – the merest flash in his mind. Shomei immediately recognized it for what it was – a temporal discontinuity in their vicinity. After it had passed, there was a colossal discharge of magical energy, and the tapestry of reality threatened to rupture completely before it rewove itself. Echoes of Sonics hung in the air.
The three Jariliths, Shupthul, the Succubus and twenty-six of the thirty Hell-hounds had vanished: the Captain’s empty armour and arms collapsed to the ground in a noisy rattle. Eleven of the Loquai had been petrified, along with six of their griffon mounts – some frozen with grotesque expressions of terror upon their faces. One other sidhe was dead from fear, and all but one of the remaining steeds had likewise been slain by a phantasmal killer. Each of the umbral quicklings had been reduced to a pulp by sonic attacks. The female sidhe sat upon a stone griffon with a vacant expression on her face.*
The last griffon attempted to flee with its petrified rider, along with the four hell-hounds. Mostin turned them into flounders, which flapped impotently in the air before suffocating.
Eadric gaped, a mixed expression of awe and horror on his face. Shomei looked mildly irritated and cast a dimensional anchor on Koilimilou. "Dammit, Mostin, was that really necessary? Ortwin can you restrain her? She might regain her senses at any moment."
The Bard and Iua both dashed forwards to bind and gag Koilimilou – the single remaining member of Shupthul’s party.
The Alienist’s head swam, as the full impact of his actions dawned on him. He glimpsed a vision of his future self – effortlessly commanding that kind of power had a definite appeal. To the arcanist, Afqithan was like a heady wine, and Mostin had just tasted it for the first time.
Nwm was staggered. "Mostin, you just killed the ambassador. And his whole embassy, in fact."
"They would have attacked us," Mostin replied simply.
"You don’t know that," Ortwin grumbled, expertly tying Koilimilou’s hands behind her back, and pushing one of his gloves into her mouth. "Gods, Mostin. I concoct an elaborate ruse, and you go and petrify everyone."
Mostin sighed. "As the alternative was to submit to Shupthul’s demands to accompany him to visit Irknaan, I fail to see what the problem is. Unless you would rather have been dragged off to the Loquai stronghold, to take our chances there. I have merely tipped the scales in our favour somewhat."
"Eadric?" Ortwin asked desperately.
The Paladin sighed. Unexpectedly, he came to the Alienist’s defense. "Whilst I don’t necessarily agree with Mostin’s methods, I have to admit that his reasoning is sound. It would have come to violence – either here or later. They were jealous of our power and lustful of it. They bore only malice towards us, and the desire to exploit us for their own ends. And the stench of taint and corruption was almost overwhelming."
"Bah!" Nwm snorted. "This is absurd. I mean, look at us. You’re here because of some vendetta you’ve got with Graz’zt…"
Mostin winced as the name was spoken.
"Ortwin just thinks it’s a big game," Nwm continued, "and this crazy bastard," he pointed at Mostin, whose kelvezu features seemed mildly offended at the insult, "wants to demonstrate to himself how dangerous he’s become. As if we didn’t know already."
"We are not in some nice sylvan glade in Nizkur," Mostin said irritably. "Wake up! This is a bad place, Nwm. Many of the inhabitants are bad. You are letting your sympathies for feys dictate how you think we should act – and the Loquai are feys in name only. They are no less wicked, vile and irredeemable than Rurunoth, Feezuu or any one of a host of others we have dealt with."
"And don’t moralize with me you hypocritical sh*t," Nwm hissed. "As far as irredeemable goes, might I remind you why we are here – ostensibly, at any rate. Does anyone recall Nehael? And Ed, if you’re going to judge people on how much lust for power they possess, at least be consistent about it and start with Mostin."
Eadric groaned. "The question again now is ‘what next?’ I hope someone has some ideas, because I’m fast running out."
"Well, it would seem that any prospects of subtlety have been complicated by Mostin," Nwm squinted. "Are we waging war, now?"
"Frankly," Eadric said, turning to the Bard, "I find open conflict less complex than your schemes, Ortwin. What do you suggest?"
Ortwin grinned despite himself. "We should offer an apology to Irknaan for the ‘minor misunderstanding.’ We should send our regards to him, and hope that this incident does not provoke a ‘diplomatic impasse.’ Obviously, we hope that he will still join us in hunting."
Eadric opened his mouth in disbelief.
"I’m serious," Ortwin continued, rapidly recovering his braggadocio after the incident. "It will demonstrate the contemptuous ease with which we can deal with Irknaan’s henchmen."
"He will throw everything that he’s got at us," Eadric said.
"Maybe," Shomei replied. "But you are assuming that he will want to remove us. He is not motivated by some ‘honourable’ desire to avenge his retainers, nor is he saddened by their loss – except insofar as it undermines his own power. If he can see a way to harness us, it might be preferable to eliminating us – from his perspective." She retrieved her dimensional shackles from within her pack.
"Good idea," Mostin said, as Shomei affixed the chains around Koilimilou’s wrists and ankles.
"I don’t know why you didn’t just kill her with the others," Shomei grumbled. "Are you becoming sentimental for a pretty face in your old age, Mostin?"
The Alienist sniffed. "She is not one of the Loquai, but a Cambion Sidhe. I thought that she might provide an interesting perspective on things if questioned."
"So you rendered her insane?"
"That is remediable."
"Not without cost," Shomei sighed. "Will you meet it?"
Mostin scowled. "I suppose I’ll have to." His eyes scanned their captive.
"You’re not very subtle," Ortwin jibed.
"I’m looking for magic, you dunce," Mostin snapped. He removed Koilimilou’s belt pouch, and unclasped a pendant from around her neck which bore a single, trapezoidal stone of greyish colour. In the pouch was a small box, perhaps three inches on a side, engraved with indecipherable glyphs.
Hmmm. Mostin thought.
Koilimilou’s eyes suddenly gained a fresh clarity, and she struggled vainly in her shackles and tried to bite Mostin, before lapsing into a stupor again.
"An all-too brief moment of lucidity," Nwm remarked drily.
Ortwin picked up his diamond coronet, blew dust – part of the desiccated remains of Shupthul – from the circlet, and set it jauntily on his head again. "Let’s send another message to Irknaan, and then go hunting."
Eadric screwed up his face, and wondered if Afqithan’s taint was having a detrimental effect on certain of his friends.
**
In her sanctum of unlight, nestled deep within Throile, Soneillon meditated briefly before conjuring an obsidian thought-span of profound delicacy, and passing into the region of dreams. The name of Shomei – revealed by the captured Erinyes – was still fresh in her mind. Further inquiries across several worlds had also yielded the names Titivilus and Ahma – amongst others – in association with the Infernalist: an interesting coincidence as, according to her spies, the Infernal Duke was currently present in Afqithan. Apparently the Breath of Oronthon kept acquaintances which were unusual for a holy warrior.
Eadric of Deorham, the Ahma. Who had already indirectly aided Soneillon in her struggle with Graz’zt – her spies had indicated that it was he who was responsible for the removal of at least two balors. He was the sworn enemy of her greatest enemy. Certainly a potential friend – at least by demonic standards. Soneillon idly wondered how he could be used to her advantage.
*Mostin’s attack consisted of a time stop, empowered and maximized by the magical trait of the plane to 6 rounds of virtual time, during which he cast haste, a chained flesh to stone, a chained phantasmal killer, two banishments directed at the demons and hell-hounds, disintegrations targeting Shupthul and the Succubus Iemazai, an insanity on Koilimilou, and various sonics. There were multiple redundancies in the spells – some of the Loquai were struck by both the flesh to stone and phantasmal killer. Shupthul avoided petrification but was disintegrated. Koilimilou succumbed to insanity. The save DCs were 25+ spell level because of Mostin’s augmented Intelligence, and even with the chained spells, most of the targets needed to roll 20s. Koilimilou initially attempted to counterspell the time stop with a greater dispelling she had readied, but failed.
Last edited by Cheiromancer; 25th February 2004 at 02:34 AM..
Shomei had elected to feeblemind the incoherent Koilimilou, in the event that one of her episodes of clarity returned: a glove stuffed into her mouth and a set of dimensional shackles might be proof against vocalized spells and interplanar escape, but did nothing to restrain the sidhe-cambion from using her arsenal of other powers and abilities.
Whilst watching approvingly, Ortwin idly considered where this creature stood in the grand cosmic scheme. The sidhe were capable of reaching near-godlike power. According to Nwm, in the past, wars had routinely been fought between feys – led by the sidhe and their kin – and various pantheons of minor nature deities with their attendant spirits. This one was less than a goddess, but the gap between her and the mortal race might be larger than that between her and divinity. Feys were strange creatures, seemingly capable of infinitely more variety of manifestation than men. Just so much more interesting, really, Ortwin thought.
His expression changed to one of disappointment when he considered what she had been reduced to. Ortwin wondered what her name was, how she ate, slept, sang, danced, laughed and fornicated. He wondered what her temperament was like – the apathy of the sidhe would be offset by a powerful demonic desire for satiation and experience. Probably a refined sense of the macabre. Intense eroticism. Had she resisted or rejected the umbral taint, or succumbed only to certain aspects of it?
For a perverse instant, Ortwin felt more of a connection with the Cambion than he did with anyone else present.
The party briefly discussed the implications of the sensor which had observed Mostin’s annihilation of Shupthul’s party – exactly what it would have witnessed before it vanished, and what the observer could have inferred from those that he could not directly see. As a precautionary measure, Shomei cast a nondetection upon Koilimilou – in the event that Irknaan attempted to later target her with another scrying. A mind blank would have been preferable, but neither the Infernalist nor Mostin were capable of casting the spell again that day, and Shomei was loath to draw on her bracelet’s power until she had further knowledge of Irknaan’s abilities.
After securing the most valuable items from the vanquished Loquai – including Shupthul’s armour and bow – Koilimilou was trussed across Mostin’s saddle. The delay in action – close to half an hour – would prove decisive.
**
Irknaan – still in a state of concealed shock at the obliteration of his envoy – paced within his dark chambers, waiting for Nhura to return with whatever information she had gleaned about Rhalid and his party.
The King had briefly contemplated an immediate retaliatory demonic assault with those forces still available to him, but quickly dismissed the possibility. Unsupported succubi would be no match for the interlopers if they were mind blanked, and he had no doubt that they would make short work of Nhura’s glabrezu cohorts – assuming that they chose to obey Irknaan at all. Their loyalty to him was, at best, questionable.
King Irknaan was, however, immensely powerful. If need drove him, and he had time to act, he could mobilize an impressive group of allies. When another summoned demon brought him an apologetic message regretting the misunderstanding, and hoping that the King could join Rhalid’s party for a future hunt, Irknaan squinted. If they meant him serious harm, surely they would have pressed on and attacked him in his fortress? What was their agenda? Obviously, they were overconfident, or stupid, or both. Did they think he was toothless? Irknaan snorted, and issued seven sendings in quick succession.
To King Samodoquol, Duke Ytryn and the Wyrm Crosod, he gave instructions not to fly to his demesne, but instead to pursue the rogue party of sidhe. Compacted demons, daemons, and demodands in the service of the other Loquai nobility were also to be sent to Irknaan’s fortress immediately. He recalled Lehurze from her diplomatic efforts with the Devils ensconced only a mile away. He instructed Nhura in straightforward terms to resolve her inquiries in Faerie as hastily as possible: Be quick. We hunt. He alerted Jetheeg – a lamia Sorceress of no mean ability – to the presence of the rival group and instructed her to track them down. He dispatched the ten succubi who remained to locate them, and sent dozens of umbral quicklings in pursuit – they were not to engage the enemy, but to bring back news if they were located. The demons were to coordinate their efforts and stay in contact every ten minutes. His last sending was directed towards Duke Murmuur and the Devils, asking if they would care to join Irknaan in a hunt in one hour.
The King descended into his summoning room, intent on calling yet more demons to aid him. It was utterly black within, and the odour of musty tomes and incense hung in the claustrophobic air. Irknaan lit a single tall taper which emitted a greyish radiance, and purposefully strode to retrieve a book of forbidden names from a gloomy alcove. Suddenly, he was aware of another presence within the chamber. It stretched and challenged his perception of the real, and evoked a mixed feeling of terror and awe: a consciousness that was dark, sinister, and worshipful. Soneillon, he thought. She was a void, who promised either power or annihilation.
"It would appear that my wards did not prohibit your entry," he said without emotion.
"Your insouciance is tedious, Irknaan," the Demoness responded, "and your comprehension of the current situation is feeble and ill-informed. Wheels turn, and you have no conception of them."
"Perhaps you would care to elucidate," the King replied laconically. "Who are these newcomers, and why are there Devils in my realm?"
"That information has a price." She stepped forwards, and the intangibility which surrounded her evaporated. Her assumed form was supple, and her skin was possessed of a dusky, silken quality.
"And what would that be?"
"Throw in your lot wholesale with Rhyxali. I can promise you aid and protection from Graz’zt in your efforts. Instruct your forces to follow my lead and apprehend the sidhe who threaten you, then turn them over to me."
Irknaan sneered. "You ask a great deal for a few tidbits of gossip. Since when did Soneillon act as a broker for Rhyxali? And what interest does this group hold for you?"
"They may be useful to me."
"Then deal with them yourself, if it is not beyond you!" Irknaan snapped. "I have no interest in your wider schemes: do not embroil me in them."
Soneillon smiled darkly. "It was you who contacted me, Irknaan. What did you expect? An exchange which cost you nothing?"
"Ten thousand souls is my offer."
The Demoness threw back her head and laughed – a disturbingly genuine and heartfelt display of mirth. "That is a trifling, Loquai, which I have no use for. Listen to me: Afqithan is less secure than you might think. You juggle two Abyssal magnates as your sponsors. Your subjects are recalcitrant and imperfectly subdued. And if Graz’zt discovers your duplicity, then you will find that the gate to Zelatar is no longer the boon that it has proven to be in the past."
"My grip is tight enough. And do not think to threaten me with passing news to Graz’zt – he despises you more than he mistrusts me. What does he care if, out of the five hundred worlds he lays claim to, the King of Afqithan entertains fiends who are not his own slaves? If you were to betray me to him, then I would willingly abase myself before him, for the chance to bring him your head on a spit. My offer stands – your aid would be welcomed, but only a fool would let this group fall into your hands without knowing more."
"I have no designs on your dismal little realm, Irknaan," Soneillon was becoming impatient, "but I recognize your potential as an ally. There is much that I can teach you. With my aid you could quickly beat down any resistance that remains to your regime. I can ensure the permanent destruction of the gate to Azzagrat. Even if Graz’zt were to translate here himself with his most powerful servants – which he would not – he would be hard pressed to assail you."
"I think you underestimate Ainhorr and his ilk."
Soneillon gave a wry smile. "And I think you are somewhat behind in events. Ainhorr’s sword is shivered. Choeth, Djorm, Uruum and Rurunoth are no more. Only Irzho remains – and he is hiding. Both from his peers’ assassins and, I suspect, from Graz’zt himself."
"This was not known to me."
"They are not facts about which Graz’zt encourages speculation. His position is the most insecure that it has been since his return. His efforts at consolidation have received a serious setback – and you must know that you were not the only one of his thralls to seek new patronage in his absence." Her last words hung in the air temptingly – it was not a fact that Irknaan had previously considered. The Loquai were insular, at best.
Sensing doubt, Soneillon pressed on. "I can contrive a spell which would alert you to any incursions into your realm, Irknaan. No gate could open, no translation could occur into Afqithan without your knowledge. There could be no quiet assembly of demons poised to exact revenge on you. And as to your compactees…"
Irknaan feigned disinterest.
"…I can ensure servants who are more powerful and more versatile than succubi – although I have enough of those to spare as well."
"I have no interest in Rhyxali’s shades," Irknaan answered, "if you are indeed acting as a go-between."
"I am not. But she and I are on favourable terms – our spheres of interest do not overlap. Not shadow demons. I have descended into the deepest abysm, Irknaan. There are things in the uncharted regions, whose names are long forgotten. They would be yours in blood and spirit. Even a balor would pause and take thought before it confronted one – or would shrink from it in fear."
Irknaan wavered.
"And you may keep Lehurze," Soneillon added. "She is mine to give."
The King scowled. From his perspective, at least, the succubus was already his. Still, a formal compact could do no harm.
Soneillon stepped forwards, and her very being seemed to flicker on the edge of consciousness, a dark vision, the existence of which Irknaan half doubted. "Irknaan, if Graz’zt falls, his wealth will be free to all comers. Ainhorr cannot hold Azzagrat, and neither can Kostchtchie."
"Now you lie, even if you did not before."
"No." Soneillon was emphatic. "I have perceived the burgeoning tendril of possibility. It must not be allowed to perish."
"I have no faith in your auguries," Irknaan said derisively. "Nonetheless, your argument deserves consideration. What aid would you give me? I do not speak of temporary allies. They must be compacted, and they must be mine."
"That is negotiable," Soneillon smiled, content that she had won a victory. "But it will be enough. First, we must secure the weapon. Command your minions to help me restrain the sidhe who currently vex you, and I will speak with them."
"They have knowledge of this weapon?"
"They are the weapon. They are not what they appear to be."
The King’s eyes narrowed. That much, he had already guessed. But now he also knew that Soneillon feared to deal with them alone – that they were very dangerous – and that Graz’zt had not sent them to deal with him. Inwardly, he breathed a sigh of relief.
"Give me a sign of your commitment," Irknaan said, "and I will consider your proposal."
Before she left him, the Demoness gave Irknaan a single name – a token of her good will, she claimed, and the first of many to follow. He conjured the creature to whom it belonged, and when the King ascended from his sanctum into his throne room, it accompanied him. Lehurze and an assortment of other monsters waited for him.
The Succubus saw what towered behind Irknaan and smiled quietly: she knew that Soneillon had come and gone. Nhura’s glabrezu cohorts were filled with doubt.
"Ready the hounds," Irknaan commanded.
**
The armour which Eadric wore was marvelously light – constructed of a Fae metal of unknown type. It barely inhibited his movement, and its smooth contours – at first glance a seamless, absorptive sable – were, in fact, graven with exquisite cunning and subtlety. When the dim light caught it, shades of indigo and vermillion almost appeared, as if his mind wanted to perceive them, but his eyes would not cooperate. The casque which complemented the breastplate bore a crest which resembled some primordial bird, and a half-visor, covering the eyes and upper face, was formed by the creature’s cradled wings.
Ortwin, flying next to the Paladin, eyed the armour jealously.
"You can have it, if you want," Eadric said openly.
"It is too restrictive," Ortwin grumbled.
"Not at all," Eadric replied.
"For me it would be too restrictive," Ortwin sighed. The Bard fell back and hovered alongside Nwm, who sat awkwardly upon his ecalypse – the umbral steed moved with a disconcertingly smooth gait through the air.
"Haven’t you found anything yet?" Ortwin asked excitedly.
"No."
"There must be something out there."
"I’m sure there probably is," Nwm said irritably. "Can’t you be patient for once?"
"No," Ortwin replied. "Aren’t there more chimerae? Manticores, maybe?"
"If you think that a single Redcap is worthy of your attention, then I can direct you to it. We are in a sparsely populated area. Frankly, Ortwin, I find your enthusiasm for hunting sentients – of whatever persuasion – rather distasteful. I have no particular moral compunctions, and I appreciate the need for the ruse to appear genuine, but do you really have to enjoy it quite so much?"
"Hunting is an agreeable pastime," the Bard retorted.
"Hunting deer is an agreeable pastime, Ortwin. Hunting umbral fiendish whatever-they-ares is tricky and – as we have already discovered – potentially lethal."
"Pah! This time, we’re prepared. I’ve got more wards on me than I can count. And…."
Nwm closed his ears to the Bard’s ramblings and focussed on his torc again, his perception stretching outwards, and sifting through the vast quantities of information which flooded his consciousness. Ten minutes passed. The Druid gave a quizzical look.
"…despite the fact that she was naked," Ortwin concluded. "What do you think, Nwm?"
"I think you did the right thing," Nwm replied. "By the way, there is a dragon around eight miles behind us. It is following us. It has probably caught our scent. It is heavily tainted – I suspect it is the wyrm that Nufrut mentioned."
"Crosod," Mostin said. "Is he closing?"
"Oh, yes. He will reach us," Nwm made a quick calculation, and his jaw dropped, "in a little over four minutes."
"Is he wind-walking?" Ortwin asked.
"I don’t think so," the Druid answered, somewhat amazed. "He is just flying…very fast. There is another…"
[Execration. Abomination. Anathema.]
Nwm shook, and resisted the urge to vomit. "There is something terrible with him."
"Should we turn and engage him?" Eadric asked. "Or try to flee? If Iua…"
"I cannot summon a wind to move us that fast," the Duelist replied.
But the blood drained from Nwm’s face as his inner vision perceived demons manifesting ahead of them and around them – they blinked in and out of his sight, successively teleporting to effortlessly pace the party, and remaining out of the reach of even their furthest-reaching spells.
"There is more bad news," Nwm said, and explained. "They are medium-order: probably succubi or vrocks."
Eadric immediately invoked a zone of revelation, and realities overlapped around them. To his partial relief, nothing was stalking them through the coexistent Shadow. At least, not yet.
"I don’t like this at all," Mostin mumbled. "We should be ready to flee back to the Prime if necessary."
Shomei cast a mass haste and transformed herself into an erinyes devil, causing Eadric to splutter and Ortwin to grin eagerly.
Nwm scowled. "Crosod is still closing."
Gheim squawked irritably. "How high up is he?"
"Only three hundred feet." Nwm answered.
"Well, I can’t see him," the eagle muttered.
"Nor I," Sem added. "He must be invisible"
"This is a trap," Eadric groaned. "They are probably waiting for reinforcements."
"They are coming," Nwm said. "Goddess. What is happening out there?" Powerful extraplanar entities were manifesting across his psychic landscape.
"I suspect that they do not know that we know of their presence," Shomei said. "We may still have something of an advantage. I will deal with the Dragon – it will even the odds somewhat. Mostin, for what I am about to do, I sincerely apologize."
Drawing upon the power of the arcane bracelet that Jovol had bequeathed her, Shomei quickly opened two gates. Eadric clenched his teeth in trepidation.
Light flooded through. Two Solars appeared.
Mostin screamed at her. "No! Not again! Not you as well!"
"Do you know who I am?" Shomei asked the celestials.
"You are a devil," one of them replied. "Why have you called us?"
"I am Shomei the Infernal. You cannot perceive my form because I am mind blanked. The sidhe with the winged helmet is Eadric of Deorham, the Ahma. Do you believe me?"
But Eadric had already reached out with his mind and reassured them.
"Do whatever he tells you to do," Shomei instructed the celestials. She turned to the Alienist. "Be very sure that you know what you are doing if you open another gate Mostin. You know what I’m speaking of."
Mostin gurgled incoherently.
"How far back is the Dragon, Nwm?" Shomei asked.
"Twelve thousand feet or so."
She tested the direction of the wind and vanished, leaving her steed riderless.
A look of amazement still sat upon Eadric’s face at the Infernalist’s choice of allies. Catching it, and regaining his composure a little, Mostin spoke shakily.
"They are tools to her, Eadric. Nothing else."
**
Crosod and Threxu, upon receiving Irknaan’s sending, had sped their way to the scene of Shupthul’s disintegration and Koilimilou’s capture. The Dragon had launched into a furious pursuit of ‘Rhalid’ and his party – his speed augmented by a spell, and rendered invulnerable to death magic and any elemental assault by the Wasted Nymph’s power.
Crosod had issued a sending of his own to Irknaan upon catching the party’s scent, and sneered in contempt when he received the return message:
Do not attack. I want them alive. Coordinate fully with the demons.
What game was the fool playing now? A sensor appeared nearby, and the Wyrm’s lidless eyes glistened with anger. As much as he resented the Loquai King, he was wise enough not to defy him. Within a matter of seconds, ten succubi appeared in the air nearby. Lehurze was with them.
"Where is he?" Crosod growled.
"He is on his way," Lehurze replied. "I have instructions for you."
Resentfully, the dragon formed a series of mental bonds with all of those present and rendered them invisible. They teleported away and, within five minutes, visual contact had been made with the intruders. The succubi and the dragon – now in common telepathic rapport – acted with a frightening focus and purpose.*
Meanwhile, Irknaan cursed. Events were moving faster than he had anticipated: Nhura and the remaining succubus, returning to Afqithan, had appeared over a hundred miles distant from his own palace and eighty miles from where Crosod now tracked Rhalid’s party. It would take her nearly two hours to reach the area where events were unfolding, even if she magically sped her passage.
The king gritted his teeth. He needed her there, and the only way to accomplish it was to draw heavily on his own reservoir of power. He instructed the forty Loquai who accompanied him to return to the fortress: at their speed, they had no hope of intercepting the intruders now. Irknaan lamented the loss of Koilimilou and her box of shadows – now it would have proven most useful. Reality bent around him as he cast two powerful spells, and made his way first to Nhura and then returned with her to where the other fiends were assembling.**
When he arrived, as instructed, the creature that he had compacted less than an hour before was waiting for him.
Irknaan issued yet another sending: this time to Soneillon.
**
The erinyes appeared three hundred yards behind Crosod, down-wind of him, invisible, and out of the range of his blindsight.
Unfortunately, the dragon was also hidden from her mundane vision, and out of the range of her perception – save for the gale and reek created by his passing.
Shomei opened another gate, exhausting her bracelet’s power. She waited nervously – somewhat longer than she was accustomed to. Finally, after what seemed an age – although it was less than five seconds – another solar appeared.
"I am Zhorion," the Cherub announced.
"I am not interested in your name, celestial," Shomei said irascibly. "I have a task for you."
The Solar ignored her. "Oronthon is curious why Shomei the Infernal has elected to open three gates to the Divine Sphere in less than a minute."
Shomei gaped.
"And do not think to use your association with the Ahma as an excuse for your actions. Reciprocity is required."
Shomei was flabbergasted. "I have no time for this," she snapped. "You are under compulsion by both magical law and divine mandate!"
"When you return to Morne," Zhorion continued, "you will seek out the Sela. He will instruct you in the correct application of the dialectic."
"How can there be a ‘correct…’" She began. "Oh, forget it. I probably understand saizhan better than you ever will. Alright. Whatever. Just help me kill the damn dragon."
Shomei sighed. Meaningful philosophical discourse with most solars was impossible. They were stubborn, unyielding and – ultimately – intellectually incapable.
She teleported two thousand feet ahead of where she suspected the dragon to be, and invoked an effulgent epuration – the silvery motes which hovered around her instantly betraying her location to Crosod’s remarkable eyesight. Shomei felt as though a gale was approaching as, invisible, he powered his way towards her at uncanny speed, and banked away before coming within range of her own magical sight. As his head turned and he finally became visible, he discharged an immense gout of corrupted acid and struck her with a horrid wilting. Simultaneously, from the slender shadow perched on his foreleg, yet another wilting struck her, and in the air palrethee demons began manifesting, summoned by both the Nymph and the Dragon. Evidently, Crosod was taking no chances. An effulgent epuration meant a very powerful spellcaster. He called mentally to the ten succubi with whom he was telepathically bonded.
Sh*t, Shomei thought. The acid burned her despite her diabolic resistance, and most of her epuration had already been denuded in the initial assault. She wondered wrily if she had bitten off more than she could chew. She flew rapidly forwards, gripped her rod, and struck Crosod with a potent enervation: twice empowered, magnified through her rod, and then twisted and amplified yet further by Afqithan’s magical trait. He reeled under the assault, but still survived the disintegration which followed.
Succubi were beginning to manifest all around Shomei as Zhorion descended and engaged with Crosod – a bright speck in the sky, dwarfed by the Dragon’s dark, titanic form, his slender brand flashing rapidly in his hands. Crosod screamed as the blade bit into him, and ichor poured from the wounds that the Solar delivered to his neck.
The Wyrm’s head stayed firmly attached to his body, however, and he gave a hideous grin. He said nothing, but brought his terrible will to bear upon the celestial.
A look of horrified fascination crossed Shomei’s face as, despite the palrethees who were now around her and hacking with their flaming swords, she watched black fire first kindle, and then cascade over Zhorion.
The Solar, dignified by Oronthon’s grace since before time began, perished in an unholy nimbus which consumed all trace of his existence. For the merest moment, the skies of Afqithan seemed to darken yet further, and swag with agony and wrath. Pain exploded over Shomei as Crosod thundered back towards her, calling forth an acid storm, heedless of his own summoned minions. Two flame strikes, evoked by Threxu, struck the Infernalist in series.
Before the succubi could descend upon her and tear her to pieces, Shomei teleported away.
She reappeared, burned and blasted, at the spot where she had left the others, only to find that the real battle was about to begin.
* Crosod used three castings of Rary’s telepathic bond with the succubi, acting as ‘anchor-man’ in their efforts to pinpoint Ortwin and the others. The succubi made multiple teleportations until one located the party, the news was passed to Crosod, and the Dragon related it to the rest of the demonesses. One of them teleported back to Irknaan’s fortress to inform the king of their exact whereabouts.
**Irknaan used two limited wishes: one to teleport to Nhura’s location, and another to bring them both to the vicinity of Crosod. Neither Irknaan nor Nhura were capable of instantaneous transport using more ‘conventional’ means. Six more succubi, a palrethee, two vrocks and a shator – compactees of the other Loquai nobility – had also now joined the pursuit. The shator – Ghuluk – was King Samodoquol’s majordomo.
**This was another nasty combo. The enervation – quadruply empowered and maximized – resulted in nine negative levels for Crosod. Luckily (from his perspective) he made the subsequent saving throw against the triply heightened disintegrate.
"Have you determined where the leader is?" Eadric asked Nwm. The party were descending towards the ground.
The Druid nodded. "There is a clutch of extraplanars half a mile ahead of us. Some are very powerful, Ed. We might be well advised to retreat."
The Paladin gritted his teeth. They had come a long way, in order to merely run away at the first sign of serious resistance. He glanced briefly at the two solars who flanked him. Surely, nothing could overcome them. They were safe, as long as the celestials were present.
As if in response, something dreadful flickered across Eadric’s perception, and reality darkened for a moment. The celestial to his left, the solar Taruz, communed briefly, and then spoke directly into his mind.
Immeasurable grief. Zhorion destroyed.
Zhorion?
A third solar, conjured by Shomei
Eadric gaped. "Shomei. Is the dragon gone?"
"No," Nwm replied, pointing backwards.
Far behind, but closing rapidly, Crosod’s vast and now-visible form thundered through the air.
Shomei reappeared. "Not good," she said. "He’s too fast. Mostin, if you get a chance, hit him with a disintegrate. You might be luckier than I."
"I have no intention of staying around," Mostin answered. "I’m going to open a gate back to the Prime…"
‘Wait," Eadric interrupted. He gave a quizzical look as he received a sending.
One down, two to go. How many cherubs can the Ahma kill in one day? If you require arbitration, I am available. Titivilus.
"Titivilus just issued a sending to me."
"Screw that," Mostin said. "Are you ready?"
And everything became dark.
**
It was an impenetrable, cloying blackness of an altogether unnatural kind, stagnant and suffocating. Everything seemed to drift listlessly, and sounds were muffled.
The greater dispelling, which then struck the party from an unknown source had a devastating effect. The mind blanks which sat upon Iua, Eadric, Shomei and Nwm evaporated, the glamour upon Ortwin disappeared, and Mostin suddenly found himself vulnerable to death magic. A green ray struck him, anchoring him and then another, targeting Shomei, also found its mark.
"Sh*t," Mostin exclaimed.
"Nwm, do something," Ortwin groaned, "I can’t see anything."
"I see them," Shomei announced. "There are two of them. Eighty yards. Two o’clock to you, Mostin."
The darkness vanished abruptly as Taruz broke the spell which caused it. Mostin gasped as his vision returned and his magical sight rested on its source – a succubus, and a something, which seemed to flicker on the edge of reality. Something which, partially at least, was not.
Mostin’s mind reeled as he tried to absorb the paradox. Ortwin discharged a rapid volley of enervating magical arrows at the succubus, who lurched in the air.
The second solar, Pharanthe, was incanting under his breath, as Eadric turned his head to see a Loquai of unusual beauty flying towards him upon an umbral griffon of prodigious size. He was accompanied by a sinuous winged shadow which flew gracefully through the air – Irknaan and Nhura, no doubt, Eadric mused.
Shomei screamed and desiccated into a wrinkled corpse as the party were overwhelmed by two powerful horrid wiltings. Nightmares and ecalypses perished – through foresight, this time, the group were protected by magical flight. More wards collapsed as another greater dispelling ripped across them all and Ortwin – still fortunately mind blanked – shrugged off a feeblemind spell which would have otherwise utterly overwhelmed him. All around, succubi, palrethees, daemons and demodands were manifesting – and there was another something which was partially non-existent. Drawing Shupthul’s bow, the Paladin shot five arrows which burst into flame, thudding into the flank of the umbral lillend. She reeled in pain.
Mostin swore profusely, quickly erected a wall of force around them all, and opened a gate. "Everybody get through," he screeched. "Nwm, you have to get this damned anchor off of me!"
The Druid glanced briefly at Shomei’s body, and nodded. She could wait – they needed to get out of there, and quickly. "Get the rod and bracelet," he instructed Sem and Gheim. He quickly incanted a greater dispelling upon Mostin, but the dimensional anchor remained firmly in place.
Mostin swore. "Go!" He commanded. Nwm and Iua dashed through the gate, followed by the two eagles.
Inside of the protected area, another gate opened, conjured by the solar Pharanthe. A third solar stepped through. Mostin screamed again.
The wall of force shuddered briefly as a magical assault was absorbed, and several demons teleported within its confines. Mostin raised an eyebrow as the barrier quickly dissipated when a subsequent disintegrate struck it. It was followed by a violated storm of sound which tore at the flesh of those present, and another disintegrate, which reduced Ortwin to his component atoms.
Iua screamed.
From within her protective void, Soneillon hissed. Lehurze was going too far. She would have strong words with her after this. If she had killed the Ahma by accident…*
Taruz shot a barrage of fey slaying arrows at Irknaan, who was closing rapidly on their position. Several found their mark, but the Sidhe-King shook off their death magic, used a limited wish to shut the gate and pronounced a quick dismissal.
Two of the solars abruptly vanished.
Nhura’s will rested upon Eadric and Mostin in succession, attempting to immobilize them both, but failing to effect either. Palrethees hewed at both the Paladin and the Alienist as Mostin squawked at Eadric.
"Sh*t. Get close."
Shooting yet more darts at the Loquai king, Eadric moved towards Mostin, who shook his head, plane shifted Eadric, and invoked a prismatic sphere, encapsulating himself.
The protective bubble, scintillating with colour and power, hung motionless in the skies of Afqithan, thirty feet above the umbral canopy of its dense forest.
The remaining solar, Taruz, beset by demons, and upon the escape of Eadric, promptly vanished.
"Great." Mostin said.
Through the shifting colours of the sphere, demons could be seen moving outside. The wizard sighed, and wondered whether if, jointly, his enemies had the wherewithal to penetrate his defenses.
**
The gate opened in the courtyard of Kyrtill’s Burh, at the base of the ivy-covered Steeple. Iua was shaking.
Nwm turned back to the portal, to see if anything else was coming through, but it abruptly dissolved.
"Ortwin…" Iua began.
"Will be fine," Nwm said. "He is merely experiencing a temporary disembodiment."
"When can you…"
"Tomorrow," Nwm answered. He scowled – around them, the devas appointed to guard the castle were gently alighting and manifesting. Their swords, rippling with flames, were already drawn.
"This is holy ground," one of them declared. "You should not be here."
Iua closed her eyes and clenched her jaw, and then breathed deeply for several seconds.
"Do not piss me off," she said.
*
Eadric appeared beneath an ancient beech-tree, the branches of which hung over a small stream which chattered over smooth pebbles. Around him, a forest, with its late summer colours enhanced by the dusk, was visible in all directions. He hardly felt as if he had moved.
The Paladin wondered where he was. Somewhere in Wyre, presumably. Hopefully.
He briefly contemplated the likely inaccuracy of Mostin’s plane shift, and decided that, wherever he was, Nwm would find him before he himself could do anything positive about finding Nwm.
Eadric set down his shield, removed his arms, took off his helm, and, laying his sword across his knees, meditated.
*
Irknaan glowered in disgust as he flew his griffon around the prismatic sphere before descending to the forest floor. Several summoned fiends were vanishing back to their respective glooms, although the compactees – of whom there were nearly a score – remained hovering in the skies nearby.
Soneillon approached, and assumed a stable form. Nhura eyed her suspiciously.
"Can you penetrate it?" Irknaan asked.
"Not without more preparation," the Demoness answered.
The king of the Loquai briefly considered his cloak – it might offer sufficient protection to enter. There again, it might not. And Irknaan was too old and cautious to test its powers to that extent.
"Then we have an impasse," Irknaan observed. "The dimensional anchor will fail before the sphere does. Who do you suppose the kelvezu is?"
"Either Mostin the Metagnostic or Shomei the Infernal," Soneillon answered. "I presume the former – I suspect that Shomei is dead."
"And the Weapon?"
"It would seem that the Weapon has eluded us," Soneillon remarked drily. Two of the palrethees approached with armfuls of items garnered from the treetops and forest floor – Ortwin’s cloak, scimitar, bow and leather jerkin; and Shomei’s pack, which contained a variety of fabulous items. Nhura inspected them, and drew the scimitar from its scabbard.
"This is Githla," she said. "The Azer Jodrumu forged it. It has a long history."
"Even all of these items do not suffice as a weregild for Shupthul and the others," Irknaan snapped.
"There is also a half-sidhe, strapped to a dead nightmare," the Palrethee reported. "She still lives."
Koilimilou, Irknaan smiled to himself.
"The celestials almost succeeded in a cascade**," Nhura remarked. "More than three would have been a problem. This must not be allowed to happen again. Why is the Ahma in Afqithan, and why is my spouse and King consorting with Soneillon?" Nhura’s quick mind and knowledge of obscure lore was rapidly piecing things together.
"It is a complex matter," Soneillon purred.
"Then explain it, demoness," Nhura hissed.
"The Ahma is in Afqithan in order to vex Graz’zt. He perceives Irknaan as a loyal subject of the Prince. He may be beginning to understand that things are somewhat more convoluted than that."
Nhura’s eyes quickly scanned all of those present as she spoke again. In her peripheral vision, the shadow of the wyrm was moving rapidly. Her mind raced, and she elected to take an enormous risk.
"Lady Soneillon, you would find me more tractable than my husband," the Lillend said.
"Silence, bitch!" Irknaan screeched, as the full weight of his Will descended upon Nhura. Blood began to pour from her mouth, nostrils and ears, and the flesh began to peel from her.
Perceiving the truth of Nhura’s words, and without hesitation, Soneillon spoke two dreadful words which echoed across Afqithan. The outer shell of the prismatic sphere quivered in sympathetic vibration, as the magical lattice of the demiplane was stretched closer to its dilational limit.
Irknaan wailed as his cloak’s wards failed him. He burned rapidly into a black vapour, which was carried away on a frigid wind.
The Demoness bent down, slowly picked up the dark mantle, threw it over Nhura, and fastened its clasp about her neck.
"What will you do now, your Majesty?" Soneillon asked, half-amused.
"I think I will take a hunt to the Prime," Nhura replied.
"For what purpose?" Soneillon asked.
"If you have concerns that the Ahma might be dead," Nhura said, "you should put them aside. The sidhe who was disintegrated was not him – the sword of Eadric of Deorham is Lukarn, not Githla. I can deliver him to you. Demons are forbidden by the Interdict, but the Loquai are not. And neither is he," she pointed.
Crosod circled suspiciously at a distance of a thousand yards.
*
Mostin fidgeted uncomfortably within the prismatic sphere, unaware of the events which transpired beyond the rainbow which surrounded him. Apparently, his enemies lacked a disjunction or the correct combination of spells to bring the ward down.
After forty minutes, the dimensional anchor which had barred his own passage from Afqithan failed. Mostin smiled ironically. He lacked sufficient remaining power to safely exit the demiplane. Gingerly, the Alienist thrust his head through the prismatic sphere before quickly retreating it back inside.
Demons. Lots of demons. Most were succubi, but some were very big, and dangerous. There were also a Shator, and two Nycadaemons. And a huge dragon.
Mostin swallowed. The sphere would last six more hours. Nearly two days in Prime Material reckoning. He wondered nervously if his friends could organize a rescue in that time.
He fidgeted again. Not good. Not good.
The Alienist briefly considered using his Mirror to escape, but the thought of leaving it in Afqithan while he fled was too painful.
He gritted his teeth, hasted himself again, floated through the sphere, and teleported to a location one thousand miles to the west, where he appeared in a dark and very remote corner of the shadowy realm.
Mostin’s heart pounded in his chest, and his eyes flitted around as he waited to see if a sensor would follow him.
He uttered a profanity. There it was. He had to go. There was no other way, or they would be on to him.
Space buckled around him, as Mostin invoked a reality maelstrom and was sucked through into another dimension.
It didn’t matter which one, he idly considered, as long as it wasn’t Afqithan.
*
Iua paced ceaselessly near Nwm’s glade, as the Druid, who had resumed a form similar to his natural one, sat in silent reverie with the Green.
He was infuriating in the level of nonchalance that he was exhibiting.
"Get some sleep. Eat something." He had instructed. "There is nothing that I can do until dawn."
Dawn was ten hours away. Iua had scowled, and resumed her pacing. The sun set, the moon rose, midnight passed her by, and in the small hours of the morning, the duelist was gripped by terrible fear.
Nwm remained sitting. Erect, composed, and absurdly serene – as mice scurried over him and investigated his beard and hair.
As the first rays of the sun struck him, he mumbled for ten seconds, smiled and stood up.
"Well?" Iua asked.
"Eadric is in the forest of Nizkur. Mostin is southeast of here, over the ocean." Nwm seemed somewhat surprised by his own words.
Iua gave a hopeful smile.
"Alright," he sighed. He wondered if she would ever understand how much it would cost him.
Ortwin returned as a satyr – although not the same satyr. His hair was ruddier, and he seemed wilder and more unkempt. His grin was unmistakable, however.
"How was death?" Nwm asked.
"The same as last time," Ortwin said easily. "Do you have a mirror?"
"Your weapons and equipment are lost," Nwm remarked. "I think that you’d better try and adjust."
Ortwin opened his mouth in horror.
*
When Shomei awoke, she screamed uncontrollably. Her form – although human and female – was unfamiliar. Nwm waited until the episode had passed before he spoke to her.
"I take it that death was an unpleasant experience?" The Druid asked.
She said nothing, but her face conveyed pain and trauma. She spent a moment inspecting the structure of her mind, noting the disposition of her higher valences.
"Nwm…" She began.
"You owe me," he said.***
She nodded.
From under his cloak, the Druid produced her rod and bracelet.
"You really owe me," he added.
Ortwin scowled. "I should have died first. Your birds might have grabbed my cloak and Githla. What happens now?"
"We find Ed and Mostin," Nwm replied. "I know where they are. We simply have to retrieve them." The Druid turned to Shomei. "Can you get them here?" He asked.
"Not yet," she answered. "I have a duplicate set of books at my home. I need to consult them. But I’m sure that Mostin is quite safe. He is very inventive."
Nwm looked dubious.
**
Mostin found himself in a churning whirlpool as the reality maelstrom deposited him in the Plane of Elemental Water. He groped around blindly for a moment, flapped his arms in an attempt to escape the vortex, and eventually retrieved an Ioun stone from his belt and set it spinning around his head.
His look of smug satisfaction was replaced by one of horror, as he glanced over his shoulder to observe three succubi, who had followed him through the maelstrom.
These demons are crazy, Mostin thought. Wearily, he disintegrated one of the demonesses and struck another with his last sonic orb – the latter spell was wholly unimpressive after the spectacular magical effects which Afqithan had bestowed.
Both remaining succubi attempted to charm him, and although he shrugged off their efforts, Mostin swallowed nervously. It was only a matter of time before his luck ran out.
The Alienist observed in fascination, as the reality maelstrom continued to suck random matter from Afqithan into the water around him: branches, stones and dirt drifted by.
Another succubus rode through the planar rift and appeared ten yards away. It was the one who had disintegrated his previous wall of force.
Mostin cursed. He summoned three pseudomarids and instructed two of them to attack his assailants. The third, he ordered to plane shift him back to the Prime.
Lehurze spoke, and the waters seemed to warp as a power word, stun overcame Mostin, rendering him insensible. The demoness activated her cubic gate, and Mostin’s eyes widened in terror as a portal to Afqithan appeared. The two other succubi closed and attempted to grapple with him as he floated impotently, whilst the summoned pseudoelementals struck at the demonesses.
Abruptly, the scene changed as the Alienist, together with the third pseudonatural genie, plane shifted. Half of the world seemed to become salt water above him, and half of it was air below him. Mostin bobbed upside-down in the water, stricken, at the interface of the two realms.
A minute passed, and the effects of Lehurze’s powerful attack subsided. Gingerly, Mostin arose from out of the water and hovered above it. He dried himself with a prestidigitation and glanced around.
The ocean extended as far as he could see, in every direction.
Mostin quickly calculated the time differential between Afqithan and the Material Plane, and knew that it should be night-time in Wyre. He looked at the sun. It was mid morning. Apparently, he was over the Eastern Ocean, and Wyre was at least five thousand miles away.
Mostin sighed, and began to fly west.
*
Eadric was drawn from his trance abruptly as a mote of light dashed across his field of vision. He glanced up, to notice the waxing moon riding high in the sky above him.
He scowled, and calling upon the Eye of Palamabron which hung around his neck, his vision penetrated the shadows which lay about. Nearly a hundred grigs, pixies, buckawns, sprites and other diminutive feys – either of obscure or unique type – were arranged in a wide circle around him. They watched him suspiciously.
Eadric smiled. He was, of course, a sidhe – at least to casual inspection. His observers seemed nervous of that fact: to say that the coolest and most civilized of feys were infrequent visitors to the World of Men would have been a laughable understatement.
The Paladin cleared his throat, and called out. "I am no sidhe," he assured them. "I am a mortal. My name is Eadric of Deorham."
For several seconds, there was no response. Then a shrill voice piped forth. "Naheen nehaar eleel chellaath?"
"I regret that I cannot understand you," Eadric admitted.
Noisy chattering followed for several minutes. Finally, a fat and singularly pompous-looking pixie fluttered forwards, attended by numerous moths of large size. When he spoke, his words ran together in an almost unintelligible stream, which Eadric found difficulty in understanding.
Eadric scowled, and wondered who had ‘intervenedonhisbehalf.’
The pixie raised his arm, and from somewhere behind him a tiny trumpet, more akin to a whistle than any other instrument, sounded forth.
A lone figure walked towards him from beneath the trees. His hair and beard were shaggy, and he wore a simple grey smock, drawn in loosely around his waist by a thin hemp rope.
Eadric gaped, and pressed his forehead to the earth.
Tramst, the Sela, touched him lightly on the shoulder, and the glamour which still sat upon the Paladin, hiding his true form, dissolved.
"And how are things with you, Eadric?" Tramst asked, smiling.
The Ahma, experiencing an upwelling of confusion, grief, and a sense of profound failure - mixed in unlikely measure with a feeling of complete safety in the presence of Oronthon’s proxy - wept cathartically.
NOTES
*It seemed a reasonable tactic to use hit-point attrition – Eadric would probably be the last person standing, and the mages would get taken out first. Lehurze was still geased by Irknaan, and wasn’t operating to Soneillon’s complete satisfaction.
**A cascade occurs when a wizard or cleric gates a solar to a plane (usually the Prime), and it, in turn, opens more gates. The new arrivals open further gates etc. An uninterrupted cascade can be very quick and effective – there were more than three hundred celestials present at Khu within a minute of the initial gate. Half were Solars and Planetars.
‘Cascade’ is a technical term used by arcanists – most of whom view celestial descents as unwanted extraplanar meddling, in stark contrast to the ‘wondrous miracle’ that the pious experience.
***Nwm used a true reincarnation on both Ortwin and Shomei – there was no level loss associated with their deaths. Note that with the 9th level spell I simply allow the caster to choose the form that the new incarnation takes – fortunately, Nwm’s player, Dave, is not prone to exploiting this power.
The spell spoken by Soneillon was Be Not!, an Epic Spell of her own contrivance:
Be Not!
Transmutation
Spellcraft DC: 36
Components: V
Casting Time: 1 action
Range: 300 feet
Target: One living creature
Duration: Instantaneous
Saving Throw: Fortitude partial
Spell Resistance: Yes
To Develop: Seeds: slay (DC 25); destroy (DC 29). Factors: decrease casting time to 1 action (+20 DC); increase spell’s save DC by +20 (+40 DC); no somatic component (+2 DC); gain +20 bonus on caster level check to overcome target’s spell resistance (+40 DC). Mitigating factor: burn 10000 xp (-100 DC), 20d6 backlash (-20 DC).
The caster utters a single, terrible phrase, destroying the target utterly and removing all traces of it from existence unless it succeeds at a fortitude saving throw (DC 40 + relevant ability modifier.) If the target saving throw succeeds or it has more than 80 levels / hit dice, then it instead sustains 13d6 +20 points of damage. Note that even if the save is successful but the target is reduced to –10 or fewer hit points, its existence is similarly erased.
Other Notes:
1. It’s worth mentioning that I knew that the party was heavily outmatched, and they should have guessed as much. They ought to have fled immediately, but they dithered.
2. I ruled that although Mostin was dimensionally anchored he could still cast spells which allowed interplanar travel – he simply couldn’t travel that way himself.
3. The idea to use summoned creatures to plane shift came a little late for Mostin. He would have saved himself grief if he’d thought of it earlier. Hats off for inventiveness, though.
4. Soneillon’s spell Be Not! is an example of exactly why she is so dangerous – and why Graz’zt fears her so much. Chthonic demons pay no XP cost for spells which normally require it – in Mostin’s terms, her ‘reservoir is limitless’. The 10,000XP burn becomes a standard mitigating factor. C.f.
Shattersoul
Transmutation
Spellcraft DC: 38
Components: V, S
Casting Time: 1 action
Range: 300 ft.
Target: One creature
Duration: Instantaneous
Saving Throw: Fortitude negates
Spell Resistance: Yes
To Develop: Seeds: Transform (DC 21), Transport (DC 27), Ward (DC 14). Factors: transform into inanimate object (+10 DC); transform into seven components (ad hoc +30 DC); transport to extraplanar location (+2 DC); decrease casting time to 1 action (+20 DC); protect against discern location (+14 DC); increase saving throw DC by +10 (+20 DC). Mitigating Factors: burn 10,000 XP (-100 DC); 20d6 backlash (-20 DC).
Shattersoul instantly transforms a single creature into seven identical stone spheres of diminutive size unless it succeeds at a Fortitude saving throw (DC 30+ relevant modifier). The spheres are approximately six inches in diameter.
Each stone is sent to a random planar destination, where it remains until recovered. Only upon recovery of all of the stones is any kind of restoration possible for the victim of a shattersoul spell. A wish or miracle, or an appropriate epic spell which uses the transform seed may then be used to restore the target of the shattersoul.
All of the seven spheres are protected by a ward which renders them impervious to efforts to discover their whereabouts by means of the discern location spell. Epic spells which use the reveal seed must succeed at an opposed caster level check in order to determine the location of each of the stone spheres.
Shattersoul bends the rules close to breaking point but, hey, I'm the DM
The Sela and the Ahma sat beneath the beech-tree Nadholuridin deep within the Forest of Nizkur. Moonlight illuminated them both.
"Will you return?" Tramst asked. His question was simple and direct, and conveyed no sense of judgment.
"I don’t know," Eadric replied.
"If you had died, would you have allowed Nwm the Preceptor to recall you?" The Sela’s question cut to the quick of another concern which had been nagging the Paladin. He had no doubt that Nwm would have reincarnated both Ortwin and Shomei: an act which – according to Orthodoxy, at least – verged on necromancy of the most dubious kind.
"I don’t know," Eadric replied honestly. "I am tired of continually weighing the means against the ends, and guessing which is the greater good, or the lesser evil."
"Such is the weight of responsibility," Tramst smiled.
"Before the assault, Titivilus issued me a sending. What was its purpose?"
"Devils seldom have uncomplicated reasons for their actions," the Sela said cryptically.
"He offered to act as an arbiter – although for what dispute, I cannot guess."
Tramst said nothing.
Eadric considered for a moment, before asking a different question altogether. "I am curious as to your actions regarding the feys here. They seemed to regard you in a favourable light."
"I gave them honey-cake, and firewine, and a mechanical clock," Tramst explained. "I also asked their permission to visit you here."
"But that was not necessary. You are the Sela."
"It was, nonetheless, polite," Tramst replied.
"But had you said nothing, and merely appeared to me, they would never have known of your presence – or mine."
"That is likely," the Sela nodded.
Eadric scowled. There was a paradox there somewhere, and a lesson to be learned from it.
"May I ask a philosophical question?" The Paladin ventured.
The Sela’s eyes twinkled. "If you really must," he answered.
"Titivilus comprehends the dialectic which underpins the transmetaphysic of saizhan. Can he be said to possess insight? Or is compassion a necessary precursor to actualizing saizhan?"
"Your question is flawed, as it presupposes a difference between insight and compassion."
"They are identical?"
"I will answer that with the standard fourfold negation.*"
Eadric laughed loudly – a sound that he realized had passed his lips too infrequently of late.
"Something is amusing?" Tramst asked.
"Forgive me, Sela, but getting a straight answer from you is harder than pulling teeth from a horse."
"This has been pointed out to me," Tramst nodded.
Eadric was silent for a moment, before asking another question. "Was there a specific reason that you chose to meet me now?"
"Merely to inform you that your actions have had consequences which you did not foresee. You do not exist in a vacuum."
"Is that a warning?"
"In a manner of speaking." Tramst replied. "Have you determined yet the purpose of your visit to Afqithan?"
"Not entirely," Eadric confessed. "But without other positive options, it seemed the obvious thing to do. What consequences do you refer to, Sela?"
"The challenging of Graz’zt’s hegemony in the realm."
"I do not understand."
"Irknaan is dead, Eadric. And even before he died, he wavered. There will be much uncertainty as a new Queen asserts her dominion."
The Paladin looked astonished. "Did Mostin kill him?"
"No. Irknaan was slain by the demoness Soneillon, around two hours ago."
The void, Eadric immediately knew. "She was Graz’zt’s concubine. We had considered Throile as a possible target. And she is now Queen there?"
"No. Soneillon has no interest in Afqithan – other than as a stick with which to taunt Graz’zt. She has a great interest in you, however. She perceives you as a vehicle through which Graz’zt’s downfall may be accomplished."
Eadric shifted uncomfortably.
"If you were to ally yourself to her," Tramst continued, "then no doubt it could be accomplished."
"Are you recommending this course of action, Sela?" Eadric inquired uneasily.
"By no means," Tramst answered. "I am merely informing you of things as they are. You have condemned Graz’zt to death. You have vowed to release Nehael. You are dispensing Oronthon’s justice – my justice, if you will – as you have determined appropriate and necessary. You may have to confront this choice."
The Paladin clenched his jaw in frustration.
"Do you resent the lack of direction that I offer you, Eadric?" The Sela asked.
Eadric hesitated.
Tramst struck him soundly in the face. "You cannot offend me with what you feel, Ahma."
"I apologize," Eadric said, nodding. His lip bled freely.
After a period of silence, the Paladin spoke again. "The Queen of whom you spoke – is it Nhura, or one of Soneillon’s puppets?"
"I think that is not yet settled," Tramst responded. "There are several candidates. Nhura bears the title for the meantime." He stretched, and abruptly changed the topic. "You are not the only reason I am here, Eadric. Another is due to arrive in a few hours. Which leaves us time to make some corrections."
Eadric looked quizzical.
"Ahma, your meditation posture is terrible."
"Ahh," Eadric said.
**
Mostin sat wrapped in his robe of eyes by a small fire near Nwm’s glade in the warm sunlight. He sneezed.
By the time that Shomei and the Druid had wind walked to her mansion, and the Infernalist had consulted her books and teleported to the Alienist’s location, Mostin’s fly spell had long since expired. He had been floating in the water, disconsolate, and drained of magic to an extent that he hadn’t experienced in years.
"You should’ve asked the Marid to deposit you in a less inconvenient place," Ortwin observed whilst toasting a thick slice of bread.
"It was not the first thing on my mind," Mostin grumbled. "And I think you should put some clothes on. Your naked caprine form is less than agreeable to my current sensibilities. At least throw a cloak over yourself."
Ortwin’s hand suffered a brief spasm, and he dropped his toast into the fire.
"I have to get my gear back," the Satyr wailed.
"That could prove difficult," Nwm said dryly. "As without your gear, it will not be easy to retrieve your gear, so to speak."
"And my dowry," Ortwin whined.
"Our dowry," Iua sighed. "Mostin, we have Shupthul’s weapon – can you transform it into a scimitar?"
"I suppose so," the Alienist replied. "If we go back, we need to carefully consider our tactics, however. They were less than successful. I would guess that we are outmatched by two to one at least in spellpower. There isn’t even any opportunity to close and engage with them in combat. But we can do this – given the chance to prepare. I am thinking that the strategic use of antimagic may be the answer. In which case, no weapon which is dweomered would be useful – and a polymorphed weapon would be worse than useless."
"To willingly have my spellcasting stymied thus is a daunting prospect," Nwm said sceptically. "I’m hardly an expert combatant."
"I am talking of the skillful use of antimagic, not a wholesale or blanket application," Mostin chided. "And I think that you would be better off unhindered. I had much time to consider this during my sojourn in the Eastern Ocean – watching fish becomes rather tedious after a while. One of us – either Shomei or I – would effectively act as a mobile protection device. We would be vulnerable to physical assault – all wards would be nonfunctioning. But this is somehow preferable to multiple greater dispellings, horrid wiltings, destructions and power words. Nwm and the other mage would remain outside of the field – and warded to a truly absurd degree – bear in mind that whoever was acting as the antimagic focus would have plenty of protective spells to lavish on those outside of the field."
"We have yet to witness the Loquai in physical combat," Nwm pointed out. "How effective are they likely to be?"
"If they are like the sidhe in general, then probably very adept. Also, probably no match for Eadric, Ortwin or I," Iua grinned. "I like this plan, Mostin."
"I advocate a full assault," the Alienist announced. Buoyed by Iua’s support, he was beginning to get carried away. "We scry Irknaan’s castle, summon, bind and gate a veritable army of extraplanar help. We use the Mirror to access a point outside of the stronghold. I blow a hole in the wall with a great shout, send in the footsoldiers, and erect an antimagic field. We charge in, kill everything inside, and it’s all over with."
Ortwin turned to look at Nwm, and raised his eyebrows.
The Druid shrugged. "Why not? Hell, we’ve tried subtlety and guile. We’ve tried a magical confrontation. What’s left?"
**
It was mid morning. Tramst clicked his fingers and pointed at the sensor.
"I do not see it," Eadric sighed.
"It requires considerable practice. It is there, however."
Seconds later, there was a displacement of air, and a single figure arrived. Eadric’s mind suffered a cognitive dissonance as Shomei manifested. The Eye of Palamabron showed her true body – a youthful and fair-skinned woman – whereas his own eyesight revealed the figure that he was familiar with. As always, she bore her rod.
Suspiciously, the Infernalist looked at Tramst and readied a spell. "Who are you? Why did I not perceive you?" Shomei’s arcane sight began to scrutinize the Sela’s form.
Eadric was about to say something, but Tramst raised his hand in a gesture which said let her continue.
"You are Oronthon’s Proxy," Shomei said presently. Her head was spinning, and her heart was pounding hard within her chest. Her calm façade seemed stretched and shaky. She erected a mind blank almost instinctively.
"You are correct," Tramst smiled.
"Your form is disarmingly unprepossessing," Shomei continued, regaining her composure somewhat.
"Would you prefer my ahmasaljan**?" The Sela inquired.
"NO!" Shomei said unequivocally.
"You fear me."
"I mistrust what you represent," the Infernalist replied.
"I think you misunderstand what I represent," Tramst countered.
"I do not seek redemption, whether you dress it in dialectic clothes or no."
"I do not offer it," the Sela said easily. "You are an Infernalist. I attach no moral significance to your chosen path. I can help you perfect your technique. Hone your spirit. Discipline your Will."
"Your attempt at expediency does not move me."
"Shomei," Tramst smiled, "if I were to be truly expedient with you, do you think you would know it?"***
"I don’t know. Would you know it?" Shomei replied wrily.
"Saizho," the Sela said, bowing.
"You bastard," Shomei sighed, as reality shifted.
"Your contract with Zhorion is fulfilled," Tramst pointed out.
Shomei cocked her head. "I neither sought you out, nor have I received instruction."
"You have demonstrated the Truth to yourself. What else can I teach you?"
The Infernalist gaped. "That is absurd. Nothing is that easy."
Tramst smiled sadly. "Yes, Shomei. It is that easy. Have you already forgotten, although it was only seconds ago? It will elude you as you reach out to grasp it again. And therein lies the tragedy."
Shomei swallowed, and scowled.
Tramst reached down, and picked a buttercup from near the base of the beech-tree. He pressed it into the palm of her hand.
Her world shattered into a billion fragments and reformed in an instant.
"You are not what I expected," she said.
Eadric wondered why it was that, for him, the Sela had made things so difficult, but for Shomei – who consorted with the unholiest of creatures – he had freely offered bliss and a vision of the Absolute.
He experienced a moment of impossible irony.
**
Nufrut’s disembodied face squinted at Eadric and Mostin from inside her transparent adamantine prison. The Eye of Palamabron illuminated her.
"I require information regarding the demoness Soneillon," Eadric stated.
"Mendacity would be pointless," Mostin added smugly.
"What do you wish to know?" Nufrut sighed.
"Her power relative to the Prince of Azzagrat," Mostin began, "both personal, and with regard to their respective subjects and thralls. The disposition of her servants in Throile. Her modi operandorum. Her motivations – beyond merely irking her former consort. Possible weaknesses which may be exploited. And her ontological status, which is a matter of some interest to me personally – from a purely academic perspective."
"This may take some while," Nufrut grumbled.
"Be as swift as you may," Eadric said acidly.
"Power is a difficult thing to measure when one speaks of Abyssal dignitaries," Nufrut replied. "Absolutes are impossible to determine."
"Is she always this forthcoming?" Eadric asked Mostin, drily.
"Invariably," Mostin nodded.
"Perhaps we should make a translation to the vestibule of Oronthon’s Heaven," Eadric suggested. "The Archons might have an easier time of persuading her to talk."
Mostin shook his head. "That is a journey I would prefer not to undertake. I can easily open a gate to allow you access, however."
"That will not be necessary," Nufrut interrupted. "I will try to formulate answers which are meaningful to your limited mortal perspectives."
"That is all we require," Eadric smiled. "Proceed."
"Soneillon’s sorcerous power is, in some regards, greater than that of Graz’zt," Nufrut reluctantly admitted.
Mostin inhaled sharply. "I think that statement requires some explanation."
"She is touched by infinite nothingness," Nufrut snapped. The subject was one which evidently disturbed even her. "She is Demogorgon’s spawn. A scion of Cheshne. She has entered oblivion, and returned from it."
Eadric blanched. The name of the Ancient was anathema. A taboo which none violated.
"I am speaking figuratively, of course," Nufrut added. "The wellspring of her power has no bounds – it is limited only by her own capacity to understand it."
"That is impossible," Mostin grunted.
"As you wish," Nufrut replied.
"Do not patronize me, Nufrut. Certain laws are inviolable within the bounded cosmos."
"If so, then this is not one of them," Nufrut said caustically.
"She does not lie," Eadric sighed.
"And it is borne out by your suspicions regarding her partial nonexistence," Nufrut continued. "I assume that was the reason for your inquiry about her ontic status?"
Mostin nodded wrily.
"I am somewhat confused," Eadric admitted.
"Soneillon has been to the bottom of the Abyss, and returned," Mostin explained. "She has tasted unbeing."
"The Abyss has no bottom, Mostin."
"My point exactly," Mostin replied.
"Hmph!" Eadric turned his attention back to the Demoness. "Please continue, Nufrut."
"Soneillon maintains few servants of any power – most of her closest attendants are succubi, and a handful of these are favoured and have learned sorcery from her."
"Such as the other who assailed us?" Mostin asked.
"As I was secure within your portable hole, I cannot answer this question with certainty."
"Names," Mostin demanded.
"Adyell, Helitihai, Orychne, Chaya," Nufrut replied. "Others of less note. No doubt also others, who are wholly unknown."
"I was struck by a power word, stun and a violated sonic acid storm," Mostin explained. "Who might that be?"
"Probably none of those four," Nufrut smiled wickedly.
"You are most vexatious," Mostin said irritably. "Would you care to speculate who might have access to such spells?"
"Many of Soneillon’s former protegés have found positions in the courts of other demonic nobles. Many have also managed to keep their tutelage under her secret. It is hard to say."
"There was another demon who, like her, existed on the threshold on nonbeing. Who was that?"
"I do not know," Nufrut scowled. "There are others who have descended, and returned, but most of their names are not known to me."
"But some are," Mostin pointed out. "Be so kind as to share those you do know."
"I am loath to speak their names," Nufrut groaned.
"And I am anxious to hear them!" Mostin retorted. "And a brief description, if you please."
"Seven only are known to me."
"Speak!" The Alienist demanded.
So Nufrut spat their names out: Saduch and Tavael – shadow demons; Xanoriz – a glabrezu; Tiqa – a succubus, like Soneillon herself, but of less power than the Mistress of Throile; Iarathym – a babau; Arhuz – a nalfeshnee of tremendous power, who dwelt five hundred circles from Azzagrat in a palace of slime; and Carasch.
"Carasch?" Mostin inquired.
"A balor. Once. Perhaps a deva before that? Who can remember that far back anymore?" There was a hint of melancholy in her voice.
"Could it be him?" The Alienist asked nervously.
Nufrut laughed harshly. "You fool! Carasch, subordinate himself to any other? How little you know, Mostin. Graz’zt and all his minions would flee before him. Yea, Ahma, maybe even Enitharmon himself would think twice before challenging him. No, Mostin, it was not Carasch – or you would all be dead, and Afqithan itself might be no more."
Mostin sniffed. "I find it hard to believe that an entity of such power exists and I have never heard of him."
"You know nothing," Nufrut sneered. "And I know but little in comparison to others," she added wrily. "Soneillon herself is well versed in the nature and disposition of more exotic Abyssal denizens. Pazuzu knows more than any other…"
"Return to the topic at hand if you would," Eadric interjected. "We do not have time for your random musings, Nufrut, although no doubt they are interesting."
"Soneillon is a dreamer, and a seductress without peer," the Demoness continued. "Her schemes and motivations are as impenetrable as the darkness which surrounds her when she wills it – no, Mostin, I do not dissemble. She is most enigmatic."
"And weaknesses?" Eadric inquired.
"None that I know of," Nufrut answered. "But if she has marked you, Ahma, then your life is about to become very complicated."
Eadric sighed. As if it wasn’t already.
*i.e. insight and compassion are neither identical, nor different, nor both identical and different, nor neither identical nor different.
** ‘Spiritual essence,’ ‘indwelling spirit’ or ‘perfect body.’ Normally perceivable only through the divine version of true seeing or similar magic.
***I think I may have touched on this before, but it is quite normal for Ascended Masters – and by extension the Sela – to dispense wisdom according to the understanding of those who hear it. Less enlightened souls might misconstrue this as an economy of truth, or even outright lies.
It is important to clarify exactly what happened in the exchange between Tramst and Shomei, as it is easily misunderstood:
Saizho means ‘I see’ (not ‘you see’ which is saizha – and may be either present tense or imperative). Tramst is in no way ‘bestowing’ or ‘forcing’ a moment of insight or enlightenment upon Shomei.
Shomei’s question ‘Would you know it?’ (i.e. would the teacher know if he were being expedient) stimulates an insight in the Sela. According to Saizhan, ultimately there is no ‘you’ that knows, and there is no knowing – there is only direct, unmediated experience of the Truth. True expediency cannot be conscious or premeditated, it must arise spontaneously and instinctively.
It is typical of the Sela’s teaching style that he will gracefully acknowledge an insight provided by someone else – usually a student – also implying that he, himself still has much to learn in the process. This is, however, a spiritual lesson in itself – doubly so in the case of Shomei: the ‘Adversarial’ philosophy endorsed by Shomei (and Mostin, although in a different way) is based on infinite becoming and perpetual self-transcendence. By accepting an insight provided by Shomei, the Sela implicitly endorses the validity of the Infernalist’s philosophy and pays homage to her holiness and perfection, but at the same time asserts his own spiritual authority.
The paradox which results is a perfect expression of the dialectic of Saizhan: Shomei’s mind no longer has anything tangible upon which it can find purchase. Inevitably, she experiences Saizhan, but brought about by her own words, not by those of Tramst.
When Shomei realizes this, she says ‘You bastard.’ It would seem that Shomei has somehow maneuvered herself into a glimpse of the Truth. Thus, Tramst has been expedient, because he has been effective. Moreover, he has done so spontaneously, instinctively and without effort.
After Mostin and Eadric had quizzed Nufrut, the Paladin related the news conveyed to him by Tramst in full. A bitter argument ensued.
"There is no need for us to return," Nwm sighed. "It would serve no purpose. We have – in a roundabout way – succeeded in what we set out to do. Irknaan is dead. The Demon’s precarious hold on the demiplane is compromised. We have vexed him. When we initially spoke of this, the plan was to assail him on as many fronts as we could. We should change tack accordingly now."
"My gear remains in Afqithan," Ortwin snapped.
"Forget your gear," Nwm replied unsympathetically. "Live with it – you are alive, if you would notice. Goddess, you’re a selfish bastard, Ortwin."
"But we have already formulated a plan," the Satyr continued, ignoring the insult. "We can do this. It will work."
"It would be an unnecessary waste of time and effort," Nwm retorted. "What would we gain? Eadric?"
"I don’t know," Eadric admitted.
"Pah!" Nwm snorted. "This is absurd. Why Afqithan? What’s the point?"
"It is some kind of key," Eadric replied.
Nwm looked exasperated. "Why? Have you had some kind of revelation?"
"No."
The Druid closed his eyes, and clenched his fists. "I have humoured you thus far, Eadric, but you need to seriously reappraise. Genuine visions I can accept, but some vague feeling is not sufficient."
"I trust vague feelings more than divinely inspired visions," Mostin said unhelpfully.
"I’m not suggesting that is the key," Eadric said. "But perhaps it is a key. Or perhaps we can turn it into one. There is the gate to Azzagrat…"
"Which opens both ways, I might remind you. And it is periodic – who knows what else has walked through it since we were last there."
"Soneillon." Eadric said again. "She is pivotal – or could be, if we allowed her to be. She lusts after the fall of the Lord of Azzagrat more than anything else."
"Do not presume to understand the motives of demons," Shomei warned. "Especially one such as her. If you use her as a tool – if you use each other I should say – then she will exact a price which may surprise you at a later time."
"Do you then intend to strike a bargain with Soneillon?" Ortwin asked.
"I don’t know. Titivilus offered to act as an arbiter – maybe for this purpose. Perhaps opening some kind of dialogue…"
"For me to regard something as questionable means that it must be very questionable," Ortwin said sardonically. "But I suspect that this is one barrel of maggots that you do not want to open."
Overcome by a sudden wave of irony, Nwm guffawed. "Eadric of Deorham purposes to compact with a Demon Queen? Ah, the world has changed. And maybe not for the better."
"There is opportunity, here," Eadric replied patiently. "And I am in the unfortunate position of having to decide the least evil."
"Do you have that authority?" Nwm countered. "Or sufficient information?"
"Yes, and no," the Paladin answered with a wry smile. "That is my lot. I am resigned to it. Things will unfold according to Oronthon’s will, irrespective of my actions."
"That is a depressing fatalism," Nwm groaned.
"Not so," Shomei unexpectedly came to Eadric’s defense. "To exert individual will and to submit to destiny need not be mutually exclusive perspectives. This is well established."
"Shomei, your philosophical sophistry is irrelevant to me," Nwm replied. "Your world-view is under assault. You are confused, and your intellect is trying to grasp at dialectical straws."
The Infernalist looked mildly offended, opened her mouth to say something, thought better of it, and clamped it shut again.
"Through sustained application of Will, we can force a confluence of events to occur in Afqithan," Mostin nodded. "We cannot control it, however. It may backfire. There are too many variables. We lack Jovol’s prescience."
Shomei raised her eyebrows. "Your euphemism is transparent, Mostin. You are too anxious to unleash the Pseudonatural Horror."
"I am not that anxious," Mostin said. "Or I would have done so already."
"I still do not understand what this thing is, of which you speak," Eadric sighed.
"It is the creature which slew Vhorzhe – in all likelihood." Shomei answered. "And probably other adepts who thought they could control it."
"The Horror," Mostin nodded eagerly. "The gate. Titivilus. Soneillon. The Prince. The Spell – which I am close to capable of casting."
"Although not alone," Shomei pointed out. "And enlisting a cabal will be far harder than speaking the incantation."
Mostin shrugged. "We are going in circles. I have some possible solutions, if any of you have the stomach to hear them: bear with me before you shoot me down. First, Soneillon: I can bind her, although I doubt I can hold her for long. Second, the gate: we can use it, or seal it with a disjunction. Third, Mulissu: it may be that she has made progress in interpreting Jovol’s web of motes – it may give us an idea on how to proceed which we have not previously considered. Fourth, the Pseudonatural: I can likewise bind it, and probably not hold it. Fifth, and I am loath to even suggest it: Shomei – or even I, for that matter – could enlist celestial support."
"There will be no cascade in Afqithan," Shomei said simply. "Tramst made that clear to me before I left him – this is no concern of the Host. And I have worries on that count which I haven’t yet voiced: there is no doubt that – irrespective of Nhura’s current inclinations – news of a celestial presence in the demiplane has already been reported to Graz’zt. Information such as that has a habit of spreading quickly."
"But would he have suspected who caused it?" Eadric asked.
"Perhaps not," Shomei conceded, "but the Prince is supremely paranoid, as I have said before. News of Irknaan’s death has probably reached him already. Who can guess the loyalty of the other Loquai?"
"We need information," Nwm sighed. "And we need it badly. Things are finely balanced. Factions are forming faster than we can apprehend them. They change before we have a chance to begin to understand them. There is too much flux."
"We are dealing with demons and their allies," Mostin said. "What do you expect? Our own presence has skewed events rapidly."
"Everything in Afqithan seemed relatively stable before we arrived," Nwm said laconically.
"Chaos and inertia have a great deal in common," Shomei smiled.
"Then we should take one more day," Eadric said grimly. "One more day, before we decide to act – and then ten hours or so will have passed in Afqithan since our flight. As Nwm says, we need information – to garner as much as we can. And when we do act, it needs to be decisive. No more vacillation. Mostin, you are the Diviner – the onus lies on you. Can you contact Mulissu?"
The Alienist nodded. "I have yet to prepare my spells. But I had determined to make a metagnostic inquiry before anything else. This will involve a translation."
"How long will it take?" The Paladin asked.
"Exactly no time at all," Mostin replied. "I will go to the Far Realm."
**
Beyond the glooms created by an uncounted number of fears – the terrors which lurked in the recesses of human souls, the darkest imaginings of demonic lust, and the nightmares of creatures which bore no shape or name – Soneillon dreamed a dream.
Annihilation, the threat of unbeing, the primeval void in which all meaning ceased, held no mystery for her. She was it, and it was she. From the blank tablet of unmanifest reality, the succubus drew forth a tendril of possibility. Fashioned by her dark spirit – which had, by the dubious virtue of sheer force of will, survived or transcended the insurmountable necessity of ontological cohesion – a shadowy phantasy began to coalesce.
She strove to give it form and meaning, to imbue it with qualities which marked it as real. Madness and meaninglessness flowed away. The numinous slowly subsided, and became the phenomenal. A vision of trees, of sky, of streams, animals, birds and men assumed tangibility. A small castle, with whitewashed walls, ivy-clad and perched upon a rocky knoll.
Paradox rapidly spiralled into infinity, and potentiality shrank to a single point in space and time. The interstices snapped, and unbeing retreated.
Soneillon stood in dappled sunlight, clad in flesh and blood. Nearby, an ancient oak-tree stood. The demoness glanced at Kyrtill’s Burh, erected a ward around herself, and assumed a pleasing form.
Soneillon smiled. She smiled at the hopeless lot of mortals, like pigs who were destined for slaughter. She smiled at the pathos which she perceived in Graz’zt: his interminable wheedling and plotting and conniving for the slightest of transient gains. She smiled at Wyre, and its magical Law, embodied in the Claviger and its servant Gihaahia – in the full knowledge that she herself needed no agent to bring here there and, thus, no infraction had occurred. And she smiled at Oronthon, and the Celestial Host, and their Interdict against the millions that had rebelled before time began.
Once, she had been one of them. But no longer. Her paradigm had shifted. Unreality was hers, and she made her own laws now.
**
The creature interrogated by Mostin was a writhing mass of matter which would have defied all attempts at classification, had the Alienist been inclined to attempt to categorize it. Two things only concerned him: it was of the lower order, and thus unlikely to resist his compulsion, and it was of reasonable intelligence – the latter inferred by Mostin who, invisible and mind blanked, had watched it interact with numerous other creatures of less stature than itself.
Transfixed, it swayed eerily beneath the Wizard’s gaze, its pseudopodia stretching and rippling simultaneously through several overlapping dimensions.
Mostin’s question was generic. He sought guidance, not definitive answers.
Can you enlighten me with regard to the events and possibilities which currently preoccupy me?
The creature’s consciousness was catapulted into the deepest reaches of madness and euphoria, and a barrage of scenes and feelings flooded into Mostin’s mind as it filtered them to him.
[image] Graz’zt + [image] a black tower + [image] a satyr (or was it Titivilus?) + [Fear] Nothingness + [image] peasant girl + [image] a huge bird + [Incomprehensible] void + [image] Steeple + [image] dragon + [image] a dreamscape: the Claviger; Jovol; Soneillon. [image] the forest perishing + [Smell] acid + [image] Lukarn + [image] a million tiny stars + [image] the Horror + [Fear] the Horror + [Terror] the Horror + [image] a hundred souls, confined, deranged, screaming and gibbering + [image] Vhorzhe + [Voice] saizha, Mostin?
Mostin quailed, and fled back to the bounded cosmos.
*
"I think that a slightly more structured question may have been in order," Mulissu said sarcastically, as she poured a smoking liquid into a tall, blue flute, and handed it to Mostin. "You might as well have asked ‘Can you please reveal all of my deepest fears to me?’"
The pair sat beneath the pomegranate tree in Mulissu’s courtyard, as several mephits capered nearby. The dome of the sky was, as usual, a perfect, unbroken cyan.
"It is within my nature to risk frequent assault upon my psyche," Mostin replied shakily. "You may have a point, however."
"Did you uncover anything worthwhile?"
"That remains to be seen," Mostin downed his drink rapidly and held out his glass for another draught, "but I think so. Interpretation is always the hardest part. This is a fine beverage. What is it?"
Mulissu shrugged, and poured again. "I don’t think it has a name. I acquired it from a passing Djinn. The pseudonatural entity seems foremost in your mind. Have you made an effort to contact it?"
"Not yet. I have not judged the time to be ripe. It soon will be, however."
"And you plan to gate it into this ‘Afqithan?’"
"Perhaps. Or I may loose it against the Prince, if we ever have the misfortune to meet. Mulissu, I need guidance."
The Witch groaned. "I prefer not to dispense advice, where possible."
"Jovol’s web of motes," Mostin persisted. "Have you made headway in understanding it?"
Mulissu sighed. "I have thought of little else. It continually distracts me from my work."
"But do you understand it?"
"No," she replied. "Or, I should say, I understand its principles and its function, but not how to read it – as you said, interpretation is always the hardest part. Would you like a demonstration?"
Mostin nodded. "Of course."
"Then we should go inside – it is best if we see it in relative darkness."
"I will bring the bottle," Mostin said. His mood was improving rapidly.
Mulissu had dedicated the space within the largest of the five minarets of her mansion-cum-castle to Jovol’s device. When she activated it – a flat metal plate some twelve inches square – by merely passing her hand over it, Mostin’s jaw dropped.
The darkness around them was suddenly illuminated by a hundred thousand points of light which coruscated in every colour imaginable. Some pulsed, and hummed, and seemed to move on unpredictable trajectories. Some quivered, some darted here and there, others stayed fixed, or orbited fathomless loci which could not be identified. Almost imperceptibly, slender threads wove them together, joining them for brief periods before they separated, or binding them tightly into pairs, triplets or larger clusters.
"Every mote represents a packet of consciousness – an individual entity, or a single perspective. They are shown in relation to one another."
Mulissu looked around briefly, before locating a bluish mote which blazed more brightly than those around it. She touched it with an outstretched finger, and it grew noticeably. Thousands of other motes winked out, but new ones came into being in their place. A puzzled look crossed her face.
"You seem perplexed," Mostin observed.
"The mote which I selected represents myself," Mulissu said. "That much, at least, I have determined. Notice the bright mote which winks nearby. Its pattern seems random and insubstantial: I suspect that this is you, although I cannot read the significance of its behaviour."
"I am mind blanked. This may be reflected in the web’s powers of scrutiny. How did you isolate the mote which represents you?"
"I just knew," the Witch answered. "Do not ask me to explain – I cannot."
"Eadric said that Jovol could infer certain things," Mostin speculated, "even when he could not accurately determine them. It may be possible to locate anyone or anything at any time, past, present or future – given a user with sufficient ability. Beyond even Jovol’s powers, I suspect.
"Indeed," Mulissu raised an eyebrow. "Or mine. It may also be possible to advance or regress the whole web – currently, I believe it shows things as they are. It should be able to reveal things as they were or even as they will be. This is beyond me. Nor can I determine the spatial coordinates of any of the motes – that is to say where in any reality the individual to whom the mote belongs is located. Observe this."
The witch traced a thin tendril from her own mote with her finger. Around them both, lights flashed rapidly, as the thread twisted and gyred. Slowly, in the centre of the chamber, a deep, purplish radiance grew. It seemed somehow serene. Perfect in its shape and form.
From it, a thousand strings, gossamer-thin, radiated outwards, connecting it to a myriad of other motes – including, somewhat detached, the bright blue light which was Mulissu herself. Around the central radiance, slowly orbiting on its periphery, was a single spark of deepest red, filled with malevolence and conveying a sense of foreboding.
"Behold the Claviger," Mulissu smiled, "and the Enforcer. At the end of every tendril, there is a Wizard, Mostin. We are all bound together, and there is nothing we can do about it."
"But which is whom?" Mostin asked in awe.
Mulissu sighed. "That is the question."
The Alienist paused in thought for a moment, before reaching out to touch Gihaahia’s mote, eliciting a doubtful expression from Mulissu.
"Mostin…" She began.
"Sshh!"
The Enforcer’s mote grew, and that of the Claviger retreated, until the red ellipsoid outshone all others. A feeling of subservience – tinged with an ancient, ineffable anger – emanated from it.
"Remarkable," Mostin said. As the radicles which anchored it to other luminous points came in to view, its connection to the Claviger assumed a different shape – appearing as a long, tense cord, which glowered with coercive power.
Many of the motes were now black, or deep scarlet, or midnight blue in hue. From all, violence, and lust, and pain, and fear flowed forth – stifling and suffocating. Many flickered and seemed to jump unpredictably.
"Are we seeing reality from Gihaahia’s perspective, now?" Mostin asked.
"I think these motes around her represent the contacts which she has made. The significant entities which have shaped – and maybe continue to shape – her reality."
Mostin’s eyes darted about rapidly, following the tendrils which sprang from the Enforcer. Where is the connection? It must be here. Is it this?
A fuliginous mote, but somehow vague and indistinct came into view. He touched it. It grew, threatening to consume all else. Beyond it, past incomprehensible connections which spanned realities and stretched the bounds of apprehension, was a yet deeper void.
Mulissu touched him gently on the shoulder. "Stop, Mostin. It will not avail you, and madness lies that way. You do not have the understanding. Sometimes you need to accept your limits."
They sat outside again. At Mulissu’s command, a cool breeze had arisen.
"The dark mote that you evoked – what was it?"
"Cheshne, or her echo," Mostin answered. "At least, I think it was. Nothingness has been weighing on my mind recently. Tell me, Mulissu: is it possible for a demon to survive annihilation?"
Mulissu shrugged. "The ontological paradox holds no interest for me. Speculating about such things is pointless."
"Did you see the void beyond the void?" Mostin asked.
"Yes, Mostin, I did – and I am superstitious enough to say ‘do not speak its name in my house.’ Why does it interest you?"
"It is the key to understanding the demoness Soneillon. If I can locate the mote which represents her, and then the mote which represents Eadric, Tramst, the Prince of Azzagrat…"
"It is an exceedingly long and arduous task," Mulissu sighed, and stretched. "I have attempted the process of cross-referencing, but there are hundreds of variables, and isolating many of them is near to impossible."
"Cosmic entities are easy enough to locate, if you can find one they lead from each to the next – the Enforcer is an excellent place to begin."
Mulissu shook her head. "And if you locate Cheshne, or Astaroth, what then? Can you tell which of Shûth’s accursed gods is which, or which Arch-fiend is Belial and which Amaimon? They flicker and shift."
"How did Jovol interpret it? Did he use a spell?"
"Perhaps. Or perhaps his insight was simply far greater than either of us."
The bracelet, Mostin thought at once, and struck his forehead with his hand.
Mulissu looked quizzical.
"I am an idiot," Mostin explained.
*
Shomei eyed the mephits with an expression of weary tedium on her face.
"How can you tolerate their continual antics?" She asked Mulissu.
"They are acting according to their nature," the Elementalist replied.
"They are fractious and ill-disciplined. I would choose retainers who are more reliable."
"And no doubt far duller and more serious. Mostin says that the bracelet that Jovol bequeathed to you enhances perception in certain areas."
Shomei raised an eyebrow. "Evidently he has studied it more than I gave him credit for. Or his speculation is, for once, accurate. He is correct."
"I wish to borrow it for a short while," Mulissu said impassively – a statement which verged upon a command, or at least an expectation that she would not be denied.
"In order to better interpret Jovol’s web of motes," Shomei nodded. "I, too, would like the opportunity to further realize my bracelet’s potential."
Mostin sighed. He saw where this argument was leading. "It seems plain to me that your respective egos – colossal and yet simultaneously fragile as they both are – would require each of you to assert your right to first use the bracelet and web in conjunction. I can offer a solution to this impasse by volunteering my services – humbly, of course – thereby sparing each of you further embarrassment. I would also like to point out that I am, by native disposition and years of rigorous training, a Diviner. The web is likely to respond favorably to my benign aura."
"That is utterly spurious," Mulissu moaned. "and I will not even deign to refute it formally. Shomei, follow me – the honour is yours. Forgive my presumption."
Mostin squinted, and traipsed behind the two witches into the dome.
Mulissu floated three inches above the marble floor, arms folded across her chest, whilst Mostin half-sulked and half-scrutinized Shomei, who stood at the centre of the web of motes.
Points of light wheeled around her at incredible speed. She reached out, touched motes which arose, grew, merged, separated, shifted and winked out.
"What do you see?" Mostin asked.
"Wait," the Infernalist replied. "There are more potential viewpoints than I had anticipated." She touched a mote, and it blossomed.
"Well?" Mostin grumbled impatiently.
"There are numerous space-times represented by intersecting parabolae," Shomei answered. "All cosmoi are represented here. And the sum of all possibility."
Mostin looked dubious. "Can you find any mote? Find Nwm’s mote."
Shomei glanced around, and interlocking systems rapidly flashed past. She touched another mote, and it assumed a central position and seemed to glow more brightly. The Infernalist laughed – predictably, it was green.
"Are you sure that’s him?" Mostin asked.
"Oh yes," she replied.
"Where is he?"
"As I already know where Nwm is – at his glade near Deorham – that would hardly be a fair trial of the web’s power."
"Let me try," Mostin said.
"I’m next," Mulissu smiled.
Mostin scowled.
After several frustrating hours, he finally got to play.
When the Alienist engaged with the web for the second time, he drew in his breath sharply in wonder.
New levels of complexity were revealed, and others suggested or hinted at. Nuances which had eluded him entirely during his first encounter were suddenly plainly visible: possibilities, probabilities, connections on levels which he did not comprehend. Visions shared, perspectives held in common, affinities with concepts or geographical locations. Space, time and consciousness locked together in a latticework of impossible subtlety and intricacy. The web of motes was a true microcosm. A mirror of reality – or of many realities.
What can this device not do? Mostin wondered to himself. Who – or what – constructed it? When? How?
Quickly, he isolated the mote which he knew represented himself and examined it. Hundreds of connections emanated from it to other points of light: Eadric, Nwm, Shomei, Mulissu, Orolde, the Pseudonatural which he had only recently quizzed, the Horror and uncounted others.
Mostin concentrated, and the web receded. Motes flashed as time regressed, but larger patterns remained constant for long periods, as though some overriding principle – an organizing factor – was in play. When they changed, they seemed to do so sometimes slowly and deliberately, sometimes wholesale – imposing a new set of guiding rules and paradigms upon the interwoven gestalt.
Mostin observed Khu: realities collided where gates blazed open and celestials descended in legions. A maze of motes and taut connections which formed a huge knot with many facets. A nodality.
Mostin studied it for three hours, familiarizing himself with its patterns and undercurrents. A variety of hypothetical scenarios which had never been actualized overlapped with events as he remembered them: the death of Ainhorr, the death of himself, the successful flight of Feezuu, the failure of Mulissu to initiate the cascade. The reflection of Graz’zt – the demon’s simulacrum – surviving the assault. Mostin selected an unrealized past future where Eadric had been slain, and gingerly advanced the web into chaos.
Feezuu carving out an empire. Tens of thousands of motes in bondage or annihilated. Her lichdom – which had been so narrowly avoided. Rapid bifurcation, and incomprehensibility.
Mostin sighed, and returned to the Now. He selected Graz’zt’s mote and scrutinized it briefly – it seemed absurdly complex in its connections. It resonated closely with Eadric, with Soneillon – the demoness was now plainly visible to the Alienist – and with hundreds of fiends and powerful servitors or thralls. Another mote, which was burdened with suffering beyond the ability of any mortal flesh to endure, was tightly enmeshed with the others.
Mostin swallowed, and touched Nehael.
A plethora of cosmoi wheeled in a pattern which bore an uncanny symmetry. Like a chiaroscuro in perfect balance, Nehael’s picture revealed Rintrah, Eadric, Graz’zt, Soneillon, Nwm, Titivilus and even Mostin himself in orbit around her. She was the lynchpin, the focus of all activity, and the calm centre around whom infinities – Oronthon, the Far Realm, Unbeing, Dream, the Green, the Adversary – seemed poised through their representatives to assert their claims to reality. Her resonance with Tramst was extraordinary – like Oronthon’s proxy, her role was to reveal all accepted truths as empty. Mostin tried to advance the web, but it immediately fractured into trillions of possibilities.
"Ngaarh!" He yelled in frustration.
Mulissu stood smiling, looking at him. "It is late, Mostin. I am hungry. Will you stay for dinner?"
Dumbly, Mostin nodded.
*
The Alienist, Elementalist and Infernalist sat around a small hexagonal table within an airy refectory, dining on a sumptuous meal of delicacies prepared by the mephit Shrix – who, apparently possessed a degree of culinary expertise normally eclipsed by his perverse sense of humour as Mulissu’s door-ward.
"This has been most productive," Mostin said through a mouthful of exquisite pastries stuffed with figs, almonds and pistachios. "We should meet more regularly."
Mulissu looked suspicious – her intolerance for frequent interruption was well known.
"Did you determine Soneillon’s location?" Shomei asked Mostin.
The Alienist shook his head. "I became somewhat preoccupied by other matters. Why?"
"She is on the Prime," Shomei replied.
Mostin coughed. "This information would have been better shared earlier."
"I had assumed that she would be first to fall under your scrutiny," the Infernalist jibed. "I merely noticed it in passing – my attention was directed towards the Infernal realms. Incidentally, Titivilus is in Afqithan, along with Furcas and Murmur – although I didn’t pursue that line of inquiry either."
Mostin almost choked.
"What did you look at, Mostin?" Mulissu asked. "I spent an hour minutely inspecting the Claviger and its connections and then proceeded to examine Ha’uh – a primal elemental with whom I should like to make peaceable contact, if possible."
Mostin raised an eyebrow. "The meta-structure of nodalities is fascinating. If I were to direct my energies in any one direction with regard to the web, then it would be here."
Mulissu sighed. "I think the dangers here are apparent – to be drawn in, and spend the rest of one’s life observing or contemplating cosmic plans, patterns and connections. Was it productive?"
"Yes and no," Mostin replied. "I found that advancing the web beyond its current reflection of the Now to be unsatisfying. I could not project it into the future with any degree of certainty."
"Nor could I," Mulissu nodded.
"Nor I," Shomei agreed. "It may be that Jovol’s bracelet is incapable of augmenting our faculties to this extent – his own native ability must have borne the brunt of his endeavours. It might behoove one of us to develop a spell for the express purpose of interpreting the web."
"I will do so," Mostin said, "when I have time."
"If it is ritualized I could easily perfect a formula in a matter of days," Mulissu said. "And with the minimum of fuss."
"My reservoir must stay unmolested," Mostin said sourly. "I want no repeat of Gihaahia’s binding – it set me back by a month at least."
"Noted," Mulissu nodded.
"Splendid," Shomei smiled. "Then I say that we reconvene in one week to discuss our options – assuming that Mostin and I are still alive. And every month thereafter."
Mulissu scowled. "Every year would suit me better."
"Then I would suggest every quarter, as a compromise," Mostin said. "We three would form a potent triad. We are peers, and few others compare to us in power and ability. Mulissu should be our leader – the first among equals."
"Not for long, I suspect," the Witch said drily.
**
"She is here?" Eadric asked, aghast.
Mostin gave a confirmatory nod. "There is more. Before we left, I inspected the web for a third time. It would appear that certain of those others whom we encountered have also made a translation."
Eadric looked sick. "Go on."
"Nhura. The Wyrm, and the Shadow who rode with him – most likely Threxu the Nymph mentioned by Nufrut. At least a dozen of the Loquai – including the one we briefly captured. The other chthonic thing. Nhura is accompanied by another creature: powerful, but heretofore unknown to us."
"A demon?"
"Demons may not enter the world of men unless called. The Interdict forbids it."
"But you just said…"
"It would seem that Soneillon has a way to circumvent it. Or perhaps it no longer applies to her. I would have said that perhaps she has an ally that we do not know about. One who brought her here – it would not be the first time. But the Enforcer would have intercepted a summoner and annihilated him or her. In any case, she is here."
"Where?" Nwm asked.
"Unfortunately, I currently lack the expertise to make an accurate assessment of her position without drawing attention to myself. Not that it matters – she can travel an unlimited distance at will."
"And the others?" Ortwin asked. "The Dragon?"
"Are split into two groups. I suspect one or more of them can plane shift: they may have arrived in two waves."
"I thought the sidhe were capable of that feat in any case," Ortwin said.
"Not the Loquai," Shomei answered. "They are bound to Shadow. Which is fortunate for us – several hundred of them would present a significant threat."
Eadric groaned. "We cannot allow them to remain here. They will cause untold damage."
Shomei shrugged. "It is you they seek, Ahma – your mote is replete with connections to them. Many minds are extended and focused in your direction. They may take some time to arrive here – the two groups are probably several hundred miles distant – both from us and each other. I don’t think they will tarry to cause random mayhem."
"We need to intercept the Dragon," Eadric said.
Mostin nodded. "I will scry him shortly. But give me an hour to prepare the rest of my spells."
"An hour?"
"I cannot work miracles, Eadric! If I don’t give this some thought, then the chances are that we’ll all wind up dead anyway."
**
In the chapel at Deorham, the four devas chanted in unison as they strapped Eadric’s armour to him and girded him with his sword belt. He hefted Melimpor’s shield – perpetually burnished to an unnatural sheen – and slid Lukarn into its scabbard.
The potent runes and wards on his weapon, girdle and armour would, he knew, be of limited use to him. In an area of dead magic, their power would be suspended: he was relying in large part on skill and force alone. He recalled his own words to Hullu – that he was the greatest warrior of the age, unmatched in arms by any other in Wyre. He swallowed, and wondered if it had been an idle boast.
From his armoury, the Ahma had selected two powerful horn bows – one for himself, and another for Iua – together with quivers full of blue-fletched arrows. Ortwin would be using Shupthul’s bow – his own, Anguish – had been lost along with the rest of his equipment. Unlike the Satyr and duelist, however, Eadric would carry no further wards or augmentations.
Ortwin and Iua were highly mobile – it was expected that they would range beyond the antimagic field, attack, and retreat back within it again. Eadric would stay at the centre, protecting the locus of null magic – Shomei – by whatever means he could.
Eadric sighed. He could have commanded a dozen, or even a hundred of Wyre’s most stalwart Templars to accompany him, and didn’t doubt for an instant that they would have followed. But his actions now were far beyond the purview of the Temple, and dragging them off to possible death – or worse – would have weighed on his mind for the rest of his life. This was not their fight. And there was no time.
He hoped that Shomei’s assessment was accurate – that they were interested in him alone. His stomach turned. What havoc would they wreak here, in Wyre?
He closed his eyes, knelt, and prayed.
When he opened them again, he found that he could not rise. The celestials stood in unlikely poses near the altar, similarly paralyzed. Behind him, the Paladin heard gentle footsteps approaching.
A girl who was almost a woman, clad in the traditional folk costume of Trempa – a clean white dress drawn in around the waist, with brightly patterned hems – stood next to him. She leaned forward and lit an offertory candle from an oil lamp, which burned before the solar orb upon the small altar. The flame which kindled from the taper seemed to blaze with a colour that was darker than soot. Eadric’s eyes strained to see her face, oval and framed with a riot of black hair.
She knelt slightly too close for decency, her perfume a heady combination of musk and spice. She turned her head, and her breath was warm in his ear as she whispered.
Soneillon shifted her position, placing a prayer cushion on the low dais before the Paladin, and sitting upon it – squarely in front of him – in the meditation posture of saizhan. Whether an authentic act, or in dry mockery, Eadric could not tell. She reached forwards, and cupped the Eye of Palamabron which hung around Eadric’s neck in her delicate hand, snapped the chain which held it between thumb and forefinger, and casually tossed the amulet aside. As she straightened again, her hair – which smelled of lotus and sandalwood – brushed his face. She smiled.
Her every gesture possessed an effortless allure, replete with innuendo, and the promise of annihilation which rested in her eyes – fathomless voids – served only to heighten her magnetism. She was infinitely desirable. And something about her, not her appearance, but in some way her essence – if she was endowed with such – reminded him of Nehael.
Eadric closed his eyes.
"Saizhan," she said gently, "demands that you admit to your feelings, take note of them, and allow them to pass peacefully from your mind without judging them. Repression leads to madness. This is why Orthodoxy failed. And erotophobia was among its greatest flaws. You may speak."
The compulsion which transfixed him relaxed just a little. He opened his eyes again, looked at her, and nodded. "There is some merit in that statement," he said shakily. "But If you wish to act as my temptress, you should stand in line – that position is currently filled."
Soneillon laughed, and Eadric was surprised to find that it was a pleasant and agreeable sound. The Paladin recalled Nufrut’s words – most enigmatic, she had labeled the Succubus. He reluctantly found himself in agreement with the Marilith’s assessment.
"What do you want, Eadric?" She asked softly. The question penetrated to his core, assailing him on all levels – existential, emotional and physical – at once. "I can help you recover your demon-lover. I don’t doubt you have already speculated about how best to use me. You could have come to Throile and approached me directly – I am not unreasonable."
"And I am not in the habit of frequenting the Abyssal lairs of demonesses," Eadric replied. "Besides, I find far too many fiends far too reasonable. We determined early on that Throile was too high a risk."
"But you entertained the possibility," she smiled. "One of your allies – the devil Aoloz – is still interned there. The Ahma is wise to use fiends to do his dirty work – they are less conspicuous than solars, I suspect. Although their demise is also less spectacular." Her words bit deep.
"I am not responsible for Shomei’s choice of servants," Eadric sighed.
"Ahh." The fact that Soneillon evinced no sarcasm made her reply even more frustrating.
Eadric looked sceptical. "I’m surprised that you felt the need to discard Palamabron’s Eye. Titivilus felt no compunction about allowing me to wear it. Perhaps you lack his guile?"
"Perhaps," she shrugged. "Or perhaps unequal truths do not concern me."
The Paladin scowled. "I find your oblique references to saizhan baffling. What are you trying to accomplish?"
"They are hardly oblique, Eadric. If I perceive a kernel of wisdom in an idea, then I am not above admitting it – no matter where its source lies. But I am no philosopher and have no interest in debate – I lack the patience. As to the Eye, I’d hoped that you would trust your own ability to judge me, rather than the obsolete lens of a dead cherub. The Truth has changed."
Eadric shook his head wrily. "I can’t trust the authenticity of my own thoughts and actions whilst under the effect of a compulsion. The Eye might allow me to retain some sense of perspective." He sighed. "You wish to use me against Graz’zt. What is it that I can accomplish, which you cannot?"
"Force of arms is not my forté – nor that of my servants. And you are singularly driven in your desire for vengeance. One of Oronthon’s less ‘noble’ aspects, I would argue – but that’s beside the point."
"And what of those you sent here – the Wyrm, Nhura, the Loquai. Why are you here now, if they have come to whisk me back to you?"
"I did not send them – Nhura determined to come of her own volition. And while I’m sure that ingratiating themselves with me is one motive, there are many others. Nhura needs to assert her ascendancy. Koilimilou desires the return of her box of shades. Threxu always longs for new forests to rape and despoil, and the Wyrm to cause as much mischief as he can. And the Loquai? The Loquai can hunt – which is what they love best."
"But you command them?"
Soneillon smiled. "I have no particular attachment to them. You may relax, now. Do as you wish."
Eadric found that he could move again, and shifted his position accordingly. He stood uneasily, glanced at the quartet of unmoving celestials near the altar, at the door to the chapel, and at the demoness again – she looked strangely vulnerable. Somehow, Eadric felt even more uncomfortable than before. He could not read her. He looked at the Eye of Palamabron lying nearby, and sighed. On some level, her words regarding the amulet rang true.
"I would ask that you do not target my friends," Eadric said. "We are interdependent. If you eliminate them, then my effectiveness is diminished."
"I regret Ortwin’s disintegration," she answered. "I didn’t command it."
"And you will call your servants off."
"They are not my servants, Eadric. I am not responsible for their actions."
"You slew Irknaan for his intransigence."
"I slew Irknaan because he was an irritating bore," she replied.
She was maddening. Impossible.
"And what of the other demon? The one of your kind, who is now with Nhura? It is one of yours?"
Soneillon shook her head. "I suggested the name to Irknaan. Whatever compacts were arranged subsequently with Nhura are beyond my purview."
"You could ask the Lillend and her cohorts to return to Afqithan," Eadric said through gritted teeth.
"I could."
"Will you?" He asked.
"No," she replied. "Your actions have led to their presence here. They are your responsibility. And I would like to see how you deal with them."
"You would sacrifice them merely to gauge my suitability as an assassin?"
Soneillon stood up smoothly and stretched slowly, catlike. "If you need me, then call me with your mind when you are on the threshold of sleep. I will come to you."
"I need you to convince your allies to return to Afqithan."
"You know what I mean, Eadric."
He swallowed. "I think you should leave, now." Do not look at me thus.
"Until tonight, then."
"Go."
"Dream well," she smiled, and vanished.
Eadric shook, and cursed silently. He flung the doors to the chapel open, and stormed into the courtyard. The sun was bright, and caused him to squint.
"Nwm!" He thundered.
**
They sat in the Great Hall at Kyrtill’s Burh, around a huge oak table, stained and worn by centuries of feasts held by Eadric’s forebears. Shafts of light from the high windows – opened for the first time in several months – revealed more dust than Mostin felt was healthy. The handful of servants had been less than conscientious in maintaining the interior of the Keep, content instead to deplete the Paladin’s wine cellar. Eadric was unusually tolerant of their idleness – something which the Alienist found deplorable, but knew better than to mention. Mostin discreetly deployed a cantrip to clean the air and furniture.
"Perhaps you should have accepted Titivilus in his offer to act as mediator," the Druid said drily. "I suspect that he would have kept his head, and remained a little cooler. What is it with you and succubi, anyway?"
"Shut up, Ortwin," Eadric said, before the Satyr could open his mouth. The Bard gave a look of mock offense.
Nwm gestured airily. "She has demonstrated her power, in any case. It would seem to be considerable."
Shomei nodded. "I think we knew that – she has held the Prince of Azzagrat to a stalemate for millennia. That is no small feat."
"A simple protection spell should suffice to prevent her exercising further control," Mostin added. "Of course, if she determines that she really wants to – for whatever reason – then she can. We can smother you with wards, all of which would crumble before her magic."
Eadric groaned. "I had assumed that she had dismissed the enchantment."
"No," Mostin said ruefully.
"How long will it last?"
"I don’t know. I could disjoin it, but I think we’re probably better off just letting it run its course – I may need the spell. I doubt it’s permanent – she was dominating the celestials as well."
"How did she appear?" Ortwin asked. "Was she pert, or curvaceous?"
Iua kicked him hard under the table.
"These are important considerations," the Satyr continued. "Would she be swayed by my not inconsiderable charms, I wonder?"
"Have you no principles at all?" Eadric asked. "The question is rhetorical – you need not answer it. As a girl of perhaps eighteen years. She was wearing a Trempan peasant’s clothes – the kind reserved for festivals and holidays."
Mostin raised an eyebrow. "Intriguing. I had a vision of such, although its significance was difficult to determine."
"That is an agreeable persona," Ortwin nodded. "Did it elicit the Ahma’s approval?"
"Where is this line of inquiry leading, Ortwin?" Eadric looked through narrowed eyes.
"I am an accomplished seducer," the Bard declared. "I am merely attempting to deduce her tactics. I appreciate professionalism in the field of love – hence I’ve always had a soft spot for succubi."
"She is far more," Eadric said irritably.
"Than Nehael?" The question was brutal.
"That is not what I meant."
"I’m just making sure," Ortwin smiled disarmingly. "Eadric, forbidden fruit always tastes sweetest – trust me, I’ve plucked enough of it in my time. Your sorry lot is compounded by the fact that you are driven by some religious urge to overcome duality – on whatever level it happens to manifest. Hence, I would speculate, your initial attraction to Nehael."
"They are hardly comparable circumstances."
"Let the Satyr continue," Mostin said. "This is interesting, and he may have a point. He is experiencing a rare moment of philosophical insight. Do not discourage him."
"You perceive the possibility of a union of opposites," Ortwin said.
"Hierosgamos," Mostin nodded approvingly. "The Alchymic Marriage."
"Quite," Ortwin raised an eyebrow.
"And she is playing to your understanding of saizhan," Shomei smiled, "to which the ontological paradox is central. Transcending the duality of ens and non-ens is one of the oldest conundrums of mysticism. Where does consciousness lie when it observes the duality? Does it exist or not? She promises oblivion, which attracts you."
Eadric grumbled. "If you are quite finished in dissecting my psyche…"
"I am not," Ortwin interrupted.
"Nor I," Mostin added. "Eroticism is dangerous because it clouds your perspective – you should exercise caution if you plan to pursue this route as a means to metagnosis. As a recreational activity, I have no problem with it."
"Enough!" Eadric snapped. "I have no desire to pursue ‘metagnosis’ so the point is moot. Can we leave now?"
"Soon," Mostin replied. "I would prefer to wait until they have passed over the deeper stretches of Lake Thahan – if the Dragon takes to the water, it may complicate things."
"I will go and put on that damned armour," Ortwin complained. "I want my gear back."
Outside, Iua turned to the Bard, exasperated. "Do you have to goad him so?"
"My Love, sometimes it is the only way to make him think."
"Do you have to enjoy it so much?"
Ortwin laughed.
Within the hall, Eadric turned to Nwm. "I was hoping that you might have some advice."
The Druid sighed. "It is difficult. I do not view carnality with the same suspicion that you do. Don’t look offended, you know its true. Assuming that we survive this afternoon, then you will be tested again tonight."
"If I sleep within Mostin’s extradimensional space, mind blanked, then I should be safe. Correct, Mostin?"
The Alienist looked dubious. "I suppose so. I am no expert in the way that Dream functions, but that seems reasonable. If she locates you, she can dispel the ward, though. And the fact remains: how long can you realistically avoid her, using this tactic?"
"I concur," Nwm nodded. "And I think that trying to place yourself beyond her ability to reach you might even be detrimental in the long run. It might pique her interest even more, if you set yourself up as a challenge. She seems to have a well-developed sense of humour – from what you’ve said, at least. No. You should retire as normal, and – you’re not going to like this – maybe you should call to her."
Eadric’s jaw dropped. "Are you crazy?"
"You cannot avoid this confrontation now, Eadric. Maybe you can delay it, but I don’t think that would be productive. It will eat at your mind. You should ground yourself, embrace the paradox, and see where it leads. You must act in full consciousness, not in partial denial. If you refuse her attentions, it must be for the right reasons. Talk to her. Open a dialogue, as you said yourself."
"Something which you were against, I recall," Eadric said ironically.
"But now she has made the first move," Nwm pointed out, "and we should reappraise. Reflexivity is required. I am not you, Eadric, and I lack your understanding in certain areas. Shomei seems to think that Soneillon is the most evil, blasphemous, corrupt, tainted entity that she has ever had the misfortune to encounter – she is an expert in such matters, and I am not, so normally I would defer to her opinion. However, you are the Ahma, and your perspective is less than conventional. You must act from instinct, or insight, or whatever you want to call it."
"Sometimes you are very wise, Nwm."
"Yes," the Druid replied. "Although, as a caveat, I would add that it is entirely possible that Mostin is right, your judgement is skewed, and you are rationalizing a basic sexual urge in terms of mystical inquiry."
"That is not helpful," Eadric sighed.
Nwm shrugged. "Sorry," he said.
**
Mostin sat before the Looking-glass of Urm Nahat, idly commanding various scenes to appear upon its surface. Villages. Still, deep water. A small island with a rambling, ramshackle manse of modest proportions.
Eadric stood impatiently behind the Alienist. "What are you doing Mostin?"
"Patience," Mostin replied. He issued a sending:
Whatever you are doing, desist. I will be in your study in five seconds. A matter of utmost importance. Mostin.
The return message began:
But…
Mostin ignored it. Upon the face of the mirror, the scene of a cluttered workspace appeared. Alembics, heaps of papers, homunculi in jars, and devices whose function Eadric could only begin to guess at were scattered and strewn around. A girl – perhaps six years old and wearing a bright yellow cloak which seemed far too large for her – sat at a table, her tiny hands holding a tome almost as large as she was. She scowled into the sensor.
Mostin raised an eyebrow, and stepped through the mirror.
*
"This is most irregular, Mostin," Tozinak said. "I have no party scheduled for three weeks."
"Pay attention," Mostin replied rudely.
Tozinak shifted into the form of a squat dwarf with chestnut skin, a bulbous nose and large, gnarled hands. He looked irritated.
"In approximately fifteen minutes," Mostin continued, "an enormous umbral fiendish dragon and several other creatures of an equally dubious nature will be passing some three miles from here – if they maintain their current course. I plan on intercepting them nearby."
Tozinak spluttered. "But…"
"Tozinak, if I thought there was any chance that you would aid me, then I would ask. You are renowned for your meek temperament – not that I am criticizing…
"It sounds like you are to me," Tozinak grumbled.
"…but I thought I should warn you nonetheless. There will be magical fireworks in your vicinity – do not be alarmed. When Shomei and I…"
"Shomei is with you?"
"She will be. When…" Mostin paused, about to continue with his explanation – a white lie or two to draw the other Wizard’s interest. Perhaps the Dragon had swallowed an ingot of adamant. Perhaps one of the other ‘dubious’ creatures possessed something Tozinak desired. Mostin sighed.
"Tozinak, I can’t lie to you – you’re just too damn nice. Will you help?"
"Well, Mostin, I’d love to but…"
"Never mind," Mostin said. "One cannot expect too much, I suppose. You are not your sister.*"
"That is most unfair. Besides, you never even met my sister."
"Something which I deeply regret," Mostin replied.
"Bah!" Tozinak grunted, and transformed into a winged fey of uncertain genus. "I will do what I can. But then all debts are settled."
"Thank-you, Tozinak."
"Do not expect too much!"
"Don’t worry, Tozinak – I don’t."
**
The inhabitants of Brinnan, a small fishing village nestled beneath the crags of the Gairu – a precipitous massif, which thrust far southwards of the western Thrumohars on the shores of Lake Thahan – did not, for the most part, notice anything untoward, unless it was the faintest acrid smell upon the breeze.
High above, invisible, Crosod, Threxu, Koilimilou and three Loquai champions upon umbral griffons passed rapidly through the sky. They ascended, the great, tenebrous wings of the Dragon somehow capturing the thermals, and granting him lift.
Disguised as a rock upon a granite outcrop, Tozinak shivered. With his magical Sight, he had observed them, and the spectre of the Wyrm – a vast, ravenous shape which ate all light – had almost caused him to fall into a catalepsy of fear and void his stony bowels when they flew overhead. His terror at their passing was matched only by his relief that they could not perceive him.
He swallowed, cast a greater dispelling, and immediately teleported back to his island retreat.
Crosod screeched as wards fell from him and he immediately became visible. He turned his head to locate the source of the spell, his blindsight rapidly scanning the scree. A small boulder vanished. The Wyrm cursed. He turned his head again and was suddenly overwhelmed by a squamous pulse which caused his two-foot thick armour to buckle and rupture.
The sound of his pain and fury was terrific. Rocks split under the force of the noise.
From another outcrop, some hundred yards distant, Eadric, Ortwin and Iua – hasted and invisible – began to launch a storm of enchanted arrows at the Dragon. From an unlocated source, Mostin struck him squarely with a sonic meteor swarm.
The Dragon still reeled, attempting to regain his coordination but Threxu, her face contorted in rage, reacted quickly. She rendered the Wyrm invulnerable to elements and invoked an unholy aura around them both. Nearby, upon her griffon and still warded from sight, Koilimilou targeted the outcrop from which the arrows had issued with an intense burst of dark sound.
Two miles away, on the lakeshore, the fisher-folk of Brinnan stopped in the streets and looked towards the Gairu suspiciously. Thunder echoed in the mountains, but the skies were clear. A mile further out upon the lake, Tozinak quailed in his overgrown garden.
Crosod screamed again as two more squamous pulses caused his scales to twist and dig further into the flesh beneath them, and darts began to pierce his failing armour. Another immense sonic struck him, but harmlessly. He shook off a disintegrate. Above him, now revealed to his perception, a trio of birds descended towards him – two eagles, pulsing with magical power, and a roc of colossal size which dwarfed even his enormous form. The Wyrm’s wings powered him upwards, he invoked a haste, and struck the roc with a quickened destruction which immediately rebounded back upon him, dissipating quickly in the form of black fire over his body.
Sem and Gheim, acting as vehicles of Uedii’s distaste at the presence of the fiendish dragon in her realm, blazed with Green power as they outpaced the larger bird and tore into Crosod. Their claws and beaks ripped through his shivered scales, finding the gaps in his armour around his head and throat.
Shomei erected an antimagic field, and she, Eadric, Iua and Ortwin suddenly became visible upon a granite buttress. The mounted Loquai immediately dived at full speed towards them, leveling their lances. Threxu scowled – unsure of what their sudden appearance meant.
The Wasted Nymph lashed out with a horrid wilting, only to find that it evaporated harmlessly. Koilimilou took note, issued a sending to Nhura for immediate assistance – whatever and however it could arrive there – and quickly summoned a vrock which appeared in the air nearby.
Nwm, seething with powerful magic, broke upon Crosod at full speed, his immense claws and beak puncturing scales, muscle and sinew upon the Wyrm’s back. Shomei gaped from her vantage point as she watched the Roc pluck the writhing Dragon from the air, and toss him with contemptuous ease against a jagged pilon of stone which reared nearby, smashing it to pieces. Threxu gripped onto Crosod’s foreleg desperately, but was flung clear.
Now, upon the rocky platform, Paladin, Bard and Duelist found themselves engaged in a fierce melee with the Loquai and their griffons, trading blows in an area where wards were ineffective and all magic was suffocated. Shomei felt utterly vulnerable – as one unused to depending on the skill of others for her wellbeing, the voluntary surrender of power had been difficult to stomach. The Infernalist’s fears were misplaced – the sidhe were revealed to be totally outmatched, and were cut down in a matter of seconds.
Mostin – wherever he was – targeted Crosod with another greater dispelling, followed by another sonic meteor swarm and a quickened, maximized cluster of magic missiles.
Shattered, Crosod lurched briefly, and vanished into Shadow. Threxu screamed – in frustration and betrayal – even as the pair of eagles descended upon her with their claws bared. They lacerated her umbral flesh in a frenzy, as she strove to fend them off.
Cursing, the Nymph gestured and malice flowed from her. She targeted the base of the buttress upon which Eadric, Ortwin, Iua and Shomei stood with an earthquake, caused granite to crack and groan, and vanished using a dimension door. As the stack collapsed, Ortwin rode a crumbling section of cliff-face downwards, leapt from it as it toppled outwards, rolled, and stood up smoothly.
Shomei, bruised and bloody, sighed as she observed the Satyr and Iua. The Duelist appeared similarly unscathed.
Koilimilou vanished in terror, even as her summoned servitor – following its orders – swept down towards Eadric. The Paladin sighed and hefted Lukarn.
Above, Nwm’s mind reached out with his torc. Threxu was still within range, and although his Sight could not extend to discern her invisible form, he knew she was there. As he powered towards her and she came within view, Nwm shuddered as a horrid wilting coursed over him. It was her last, desperate effort.
Nwm spoke, and a column of viridescent fire erupted from the ground beneath Threxu. The Shadow burned away. For the briefest moment, Nwm fancied that he saw her as maybe she once had been, and then the Green gently reabsorbed her essence.
Before the demon reached Eadric, it entered the antimagic field which still emanated from Shomei, and winked out. Mostin alighted softly upon the ground and reappeared. He grinned wrily. Hovering in the air nearby were four sensors – obviously several parties were interested in their activities, but if one was Nhura, she was disinclined to reveal herself.
After they had returned to Kyrtill’s Burh, Mostin gestured for the others to follow him back through the mirror.
Within two minutes, Crosod was dead: tracked to the Plane of Shadow, and butchered methodically, unceremoniously, and with surprisingly little effort.
**
"Nhura will, no doubt, be reconsidering her options." Shomei closed her eyes and drank deeply from a crystal goblet, allowing the firewine to course through her veins and causing her head to spin.
"Koilimilou used a limited wish in order to teleport," Mostin sighed. "That could prove tedious – Irknaan may have used the same tactic. I suspect that she has joined Nhura and the other group. Still, if I were the Lillend, I would secure reinforcements before proceeding."
"I agree," Eadric nodded. "We are far from safe, but the Wyrm has been eliminated – frankly, he was my biggest concern. His sheer destructive potential was unmatched. The demon, of Soneillon’s ilk – chthonic, Shomei called it: what is its power?"
"That is hard to gauge," Mostin admitted.
"And the other? The ‘unknown?’ Does it remain so?"
Mostin nodded. "But, whatever it is, it cannot be that fearsome – or else we would have been assailed already. I am reluctant to scry them unless we intend to attack immediately afterwards. If they are warded – which seems likely – then a sensor may be ineffective in any case. When I discerned Nhura’s location she was three hundred miles away to the northeast, over Einir. The web of motes revealed Nhura, the Demon, the other creature, and nine more Loquai ‘stalwarts’ in that cluster. Koilimilou has, doubtless, joined them."
"How long before they reach us, assuming we don’t intercept them?"
"Six hours, maybe," Shomei answered. "But they may need to rest – even the griffons cannot fly tirelessly."
"The question is simple," Ortwin said. "Do we engage them here, or en route?"
"I favour the former," Nwm said. "We need to replenish our flagging reserves. Let them come. We will be ready for them. We should rest in the chapel. If they teleport here, it will be at great cost to them, in ineffective pairs or trios. And they will not fly in anytime soon."
"Why?" Eadric asked.
"Because I am going to conjure a large storm," Nwm replied. "So I suggest that you close your windows."
"The enchantment, upon the devas and myself…" Eadric began.
"I will disjoin it," Mostin sighed.
"Ahh, free will will be yours again, Ed," the Satyr said sarcastically. "Now, whatever happens, you have only yourself to blame."
Eadric scowled.
*Qiseze, the Fire Savant slain by Feezuu. Feezuu herself was, of course, subsequently killed by Mostin.
**Mostin had used a discern location to pinpoint Crosod some thirty minutes beforehand, but had opted not to use the mirror to scry him – it was likely that most of the enemy would detect the sensor, and react accordingly. Nwm used his torc to determine their path – there was much to-ing and fro-ing using the mirror, as the party assumed a favorable position. The mountains were chosen because they would afford a useful vantage for the archers, and were away from both forests and inhabited areas.
The two legendary eagles were very seriously buffed – animal growth, bear’s heart, greater magic fang, expeditious retreat and nature’s avatar. I didn’t realize quite how dangerous they could be until this encounter – their melee attacks were at +40 something, and they were dishing out 30 points of damage or more with each attack.
Yet more of Soneillon’s unreasonable Epic spells. She was under the influence the Renewal of Purpose and Desire, routinely invoked by her every month when she is in Throile – essentially a highly excessive buff spell. The Renewal involves the input of the four chief sorcerer-succubi who serve Soneillon. The compulsion afflicting Eadric and the devas, I had dubbed Do What I Will – a nod to the overt Crowleyanity which sometimes pervades the game.
Renewal of Purpose and Desire
Transmutation
Spellcraft DC: 34
Components: V,S, XP, Ritual
Casting Time: 10 minutes
Range: Personal
Target: You
Duration: 672 hours
To Develop: Seed: Fortify (DC 17), Ward (DC 14). Factors: increase Cha bonus by +19 (+38 DC); increase duration by 3250% (+65 DC); gain +30 on caster level check to beat foe’s dispel effect (+60 DC); ward against disjunction (+16 DC). Mitigating factors: increase casting time by 9 minutes (-18 DC); four other casters contributing 7th level slots (-56 DC); change from target to personal (-2 DC); burn 10,000 XP (-100 DC).
In a brief rite conducted every month (when the moon is new on the Prime Plane), the caster renews her focus and the ability to exercise her Will. She gains a +20 enhancement bonus to Charisma which lasts for one month – until the next invocation of Renewal of Purpose and Desire.
The spell itself enjoys a +30 bonus on the caster level check when targeted by dispel effects directed at it – effectively negating the bonus offered by superb dispelling. It otherwise requires two disjunctions to counter the Renewal of Purpose and Desire – the first eliminates the ward component of the spell, the second counters the enhancement bonus itself.
Do What I Will
Enchantment (Compulsion) [Mind-Affecting]
To Develop: Seeds: Compel (DC 19); Contact (DC 23). Factors: Quickened spell (+28 DC); no verbal or somatic components (+4 DC); dismissible by caster (+2 DC); increase duration by 600% (+24 DC); change from target to 20 ft. radius area (+10 DC); compel unreasonable course of action (+10 DC); Increase spell’s saving throw DC by +10 (+20 DC); Mitigating factor: burn 10000 XP.
The caster establishes an immediate telepathic bond with all creatures within the area of effect and issues a silent mental command forcing them to do her bidding. Each target is allowed a Will saving throw (DC 30 + relevant modifier) in order to resist the effect.
Once the compulsion is established, the caster may exercise her Will and telepathically command each of those affected – either singly or jointly – to perform actions as she sees fit. Distance is not a factor. Issuing subsequent commands is a free action, although only one such command may be given in any round. Even instructions which would normally result in the death of those affected by Do What I Will are followed to the letter.
Last edited by Cheiromancer; 5th August 2003 at 04:41 AM..
The chapel at Kyrtill’s Burh was a compact space, perhaps twenty-five feet in its longest dimension, which abutted the main keep. Like the rest of the castle, its exterior – recently repaired by Nwm’s efforts – was smothered in an ivy of an unusually prolific variety, which required continual management and pruning. And pruning seldom happened within the Burh.
There were two entrances to the sanctuary: a pair of stout oak double-doors which led into the courtyard, close to the archway at the base of the Steeple; and a smaller lintel, constructed of steel, which joined the portico in the keep proper. The metal door was hidden in a concave, behind the plain white arras which formed a backdrop to the altar space – raised upon a low dais reached by three shallow steps. The area below the dais was clear, except for a thick carpet some twenty feet long which stretched to the main doors, two low benches, and a dozen or so prayer cushions – some of which were extremely threadbare.
Ortwin sat in the centre of the floor, uncharacteristically tense. He disliked the chapel for a number of reasons, not the least of which was the draught – barely noticeable – which issued from beneath the floor covering: cold air from the crypt, finding its way through cracks in the flagstones. Nwm had specifically instructed the gnomes who had restored the rest of the keep’s interior to leave the chapel untouched: it was Eadric’s sanctum, and the Druid had felt that it would have been the worst breach of etiquette to engage in unapproved remodeling. Whilst Eadric appreciated the gesture, he had privately wished that Nwm had done something about the chapel. The austerity which had marked his earlier years had given way to a more balanced outlook, and sometimes comfor
