Coldeven 11, CY 594
94-Sometimes you are the knife, sometimes the gut.
"We're going to win," Heydricus says. "What is your name, sir?"
"I am Jozan of Pelor. I came with the Boon Companions."
Lucius shoots Jespo a look and shakes his head no.
"Are you the only survivor of your group?" Prisantha asks.
"I do not know. In truth, I was the first to fall. Our magic, it does not work here."
"It does now," she says. "The Old One is . . . sleeping for the moment."
Healed, and free from his pain, Jozan is able to speak his word of recall, and in so doing place himself within the history books as the first member of the Second Great Crusade to return with the Bad News. The first sent will now be the second to arrive-His Holiness Othric IV, Bishop of Veluna was dispatched on foot days ago, as a zombie, with the Iuzian victory proclamation acid-scarred into his skin. The message was verbose. It took him days to die.
The party has a quick search through Panshazek's meager chambers and discovers that he is a man of few pleasures (aside from taking people apart and putting them back together in unnatural ways, which for Panshazek represents that happy intersection between vocation and hobby). They destroy a number of his foul creations, and after a true seeing (just to dot all the eyes), step through a hidden door.
Directly into the barracks housing several score orcs, The Pledge of Unholy Contrition, as their unit is known to Iuz' priesthood, or The North Barracks Blood Takers, as they call themselves.
"Where is Marynnek," Heydricus demands in pidgin Abyssal. "We have a message for him."
The first orc to saunter forward, nostrils flared, is a huge brute clearly reckoned the bet-your-damned-soul right nastiest by his companions. The other Blood Takers part before him like leaves before a wind, and murmur in anticipation of the blood to come. The orcs of the Temple Dungeons are by-and-large the nastiest of their breed, and the orcs of The Pledge consider themselves the nastiest of that already nastiest pool. His swagger is therefore, probably not entirely without merit.
It serves to note that if there's one thing the Blood Takers hate more than those gods-damned South Barracks orcs, it's the triple-damned Dorrakan Irregulars.
"F-ck you, meat," the brute growls, his Abyssal better than Heydricus'. On the stone column directly behind the pugnacious orc, the following verse is etched:
We've heard all about that Graz'zt
A fool, all the rumors would have it;
His sixth finger unfurls
And he asks you to pull
But the joke is on you if you grab it!
"You should let us pass," Prisantha suggests, "so that you can be rewarded by Marynnek with a promotion and eternal strength."
In the barracks of life, some orcs are thinkers, while others are do-ers. This orc is solidly of the latter type, and without any further ado, he leads the group back through the secret door, past Panshazek's headless corpse, left at the intersection, through the second side-door, out the door opposite, and into a long wide hall running north and south.
"Just go south until you hit the South Barracks Bleeders' camp. Give them the password, and tell Marynnek that my name is Kuthuk Ahl-Achatl, called the Mighty, called the Strength of the Darkening Sky."
Lucius slips a knife into the orc's spine, just slightly beneath his ears. "I'll pass on your regards," he mutters. "Meat."
The party passes two checkpoints, and offers up passwords to the sum of two hundred and thirty gold pieces, before coming to the portal that supposedly demarcates Marynnek's personal compound.
This door is larger than the others, its size suggesting that its occupants are either giant-sized, or wish to appear that way. It is cunningly decorated, bas-relief mixing with embedded iron-work to create a riotous scene wherein demonic figures undermine the righteousness of mortal knights, and exchange power for virtue. A stone sculpture of an imperious and coldly handsome human male straddles the lintel above all of this temptation and debauchery, his narrowed gaze expressing clear contempt for all those whose souls are still things to be wrestled with.
True Abyssal runes are vile things to behold. They twine, and they writhe, shudder and slither. They corrupt the reader, and leave a residue in whatever parts of the mind are touched by their meaning. They have the same function expected from mortal writing-they are symbols that represent concepts-but Abyssal runes are also suggestive of deeper secrets, things best left buried. They hold hidden occult meanings that open cavernous vistas in the mind, and gently lead the reader to places she would never willingly go. These runes are carved into the lintel: "This is Marynnek's home, and all who pass beneath me are made subject to his desire. Life, death, agony and ecstasy; his to offer, his to take away. Make your obeisance, and surrender your heart. In the name of Iuz the Old are you so commanded."
A rectangular slit bisects the door's façade, approximately seven feet off the ground, worked into the sculpture so as to seem like a leering demonic mouth. The opening is barred, huge chunks of slagged iron set into it, meant to represent teeth. Heydricus, still disguised as an orc, pounds on the door with his spear-haft. Surprisingly, for all of its weighty trappings, the door is thin and taut, and his pounding echoes down the hallway.
A panel on the other side of the opening slides open, framing a huge pair of red-veined eyes, surrounded by warty, grey-green skin flanked by a pair of yellow tusks jutting up from a hidden mouth.
"We are here for Marynnek," Heydricus begins.
"Never heard of him," the orog rumbles, and slams the grate. Faint orcish laughter can be heard from beyond the door-there are several orcs enjoying the scene.
Heydricus smiles to himself, and raps again. The slit ratchets open.
"How may I be of assistance, milord?" the orc says, this time in a higher register.
"Marynnek. We have a message,"
"Do you? You can leave it with me." Suppressed orcish giggling filters through the grate, something like a group of men dying from throat-wounds.
"It's for his ears alone, wretch," Heydricus says.
"Oh! It's an important message," the brute says. "Well, why didn't you say so, friend? Wait here, I'll send him right out." The orog slams the grate shut again, followed by more laughter.
Dabus steps forward, and with a quick invocation is filled with the majesty of Tritherion. He kicks the door squarely in a demon's ass, shattering the sculpture and ripping the whole construction from its hinges, causing it to strike the door-orog and fall to the side. Heydricus steps into the gap and raises his spear in an overhead grip, jamming it down between the shoulder-blades of the brute, out through his abdomen, and into the thigh of the orc sitting on a stool directly behind him, who begins to scream.
The other five orcs in the room stop laughing.
"Shut up," Heydricus says to the screaming orc, who complies. "Anything funny now?" He glares at them. "No? Good. Which one of you f-ck-bags is going to take me to Marynnek?"
The orcs stare at their former leader, who died so quickly that his corpse still appears to be laughing, although with a spear shaft where his lunch used to be, it must be a pretty good joke.
"I volunteer, sir," one orc says, admiration in his voice.
"No, I volunteer!" another shouts, leaping to his feet.
"Ignore them, my lord," the third cries. "I am the most true to Iuz, and serve until death! Choose me!" This orc throws himself to the ground, prostrate.
The fourth orc rises calmly and stands straight-backed, placing a hand upon the pommel of his khopesh and lifting his chin. "My lord, I am known as the Elf-Eater, for I have torn the hearts from the woodland vermin, and feasted upon them before the eyes of their children! Half a score of elves have I killed in the name of our Dark Lord."
Heydricus turns to the fifth orc, expectantly. The creature regards him sullenly and shrugs.
"You win," Heydricus says. "The rest of you a-sholes talk too much." He plants a boot on the back of the orog, and pulls his spear free with a wet and meaty pop. "Take me to Marynnek."
The orc shrugs again and gathers his weapons before leading the group through a series of corridors that eventually end at a wide stairwell leading down into some sort of candle-lit space. The floor at the base of the stairs is thickly carpeted, and the scents of amber and myrrh drift up in alternating waves.
"This is his home," the orc says. "This is as far as I go."
"It's the end of the line allright," Lucius agrees, as he runs a thin dirk into the orc's heart, shoving him up against a wall. "Look at me, that's it," he mutters looking into the orc's face. The creature bucks and grabs Lucius, and they wrestle for a moment. Lucius is nose to nose with the orc, whispering, "Stay with me, now. That's it, that's it." The orc fades, and Lucius sets him down gently, leaving the dagger in the corpse.
"You oughter just had his head off, I think," Hastur says.
"Do you?" Lucius says.
"No need to dance with him, that way."
"Are you making small talk, Hastur?" Gwendolyn sniffs.
"Nobody likes a critic," Lucius says.
"Really, Hastur," Jespo says.
"I'd have had his head off, that's all I'm saying," Hastur says.
"That's the spirit," Heydricus says. "We'll have all their heads off eventually!"
