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The Mésalliance. Part 2. (Updated 11/28)
- Thread starter Sepulchrave II
- Start date
Yes. There are things that can be part of a particular universe; there are things that cannot be part of any universe. Reality is not all-encompassing, because all realities are subsets of the Totality, but there are subsets of the Totality which cannot be realities.GneralTsao said:
Lord_Fergus
First Post
Which brings to mind a question my gaming group and I have wondered for some time. Sepulchrave, as avid readers of this story hour we have wondered how much of the dialogue in your story hour is artistic liscense and how much of it actually occurs in game? I could easily see much of the dialogue being your vision of the interplay which occured due to a statement by one of the players without that actual dialogue occurring in session.DanMcS said:
A thought might be in some future update to perhaps give a transcript of the game session along with your story update. I think this would be an invaluable tool both to aspiring authors of story hours and to a lot of gamers looking to improve their roleplay/gaming experience. Thanks for taking such an effort to entertain us all.
Indescribable.Pyske said:
the Jester
Legend
Sepulchrave II said:
Just noticed this! I wonder how Mostin will take seeing Rimilin again...?
I also wonder what level he is now- surely not epic...?
GneralTsao
First Post
I just found an interesting bit of trivia (although when I say interesting, this might only be interesting to me): the final word in the recent National Spelling Bee was "autochthonous", meaning indigenous. I knew something looked familiar about the word and sure enough it shares the same root as "chthonic" (chthon, Greek -- the earth).
In any event:
BUMP!
In any event:
BUMP!
Last edited:
Sepulchrave II
Legend
Oh God, don't get me started. The urge to upset Eric's grandmother is almost too much to resist. Sex and religion.
From my perspective, the answer is yes. Eadric's actions are definitely reminiscent of left-hand Tantra - or at least, the ramifications of them are. Without dropping a huge spoiler for the next update (sometime between now and never, as tleilaxu wrote), they have a profound effect on the development of method amongst some of those who practice Saizhan in Wyre. The parallels with Vajrayana are quite intentional: even the name 'The Path of Lightning' is a homage - although when Titivilus coined the phrase, I didn't know where it would end up (ironic, eh?). Soneillon can be viewed as a Dakini in that respect. Karuna + Sunyata = perfect enlightenment.
From Marc's (Eadric's player) point of view, however, it is much more tied to the alchemical marriage of sun and moon and Western Hermetic/Alchemical symbolism. We had quite different ideas as to its significance.
This is the Viridity. But you forgot to add Nehael to the equation.
I'd like to apologize for the long delay: I've got lots of RL issues to deal with at present. Good issues, but issues nonetheless. I've been distracted and unfocused, and writing simply hasn't appealed recently. I can't say when I'll get it together to complete the next update (it's about half done), because I know that as soon as I do, I'll probably start writing again like mad. If you can be patient, I promise not to disappoint.
Sepulchrave II
Legend
Hello 
I had originally vowed to myself not to post an update until I had detailed events as they transpired in Afqithan. In the event, this became impossible because too much other stuff was going down, and it took too long to document: if I omitted it, subsequent events would be incomprehensible. All of the pieces needed to be in place beforehand.
I've asked Eridanis to do some brutal pruning when he's got time. Nonetheless, many thanks for all of your 'bumps' in keeping this thread alive. Hopefully, it won't be quite as long before you see me again.
**
**
AFQITHAN: PROLOGUE (Part 1)
[Soneillon]: If you should happen to slay Ainhorr today, you should grieve for him.
[Eadric]: (Contempt.)
[Soneillon]: Arrogance! You, at least, should lament his passing. A great warrior. Ever loyal to the master he loves and despises.
[Eadric]: Loves? Love is never that ugly.
[Soneillon]: Love is often that ugly, Eadric.
[Eadric]: And if you should perish today? How should I then react?
[Soneillon]: Exult in your memory, Eadric. Because nothing will ever again compare to me.
[Eadric]: For that, at least, I will be thankful.
[Soneillon]: You will be diminished.
*
[Eadric]: What does Hell have to do with this?
[Shomei]: I don't know.
[Eadric]: I fear its agenda.
[Shomei]: That is wise. Many forget the single, overarching truth.
[Eadric] (Wrily): And what might that be?
[Shomei]: Hell is merely a vehicle for expressing the Will of the Nameless Fiend. Despite all appearances, it acts with one purpose.
[Eadric]: I had not forgotten.
[Shomei]: Do you believe the Will of Oronthon and the Will of the Adversary to be one and the same, Ahma?
[Eadric]: They are not unidentical.
[Shomei]: Do you believe that you are a focus through which the Will of the Adversary is expressed?
[Eadric]: Perhaps.
[Shomei]: Do you trust the Will of the Adversary?
[Eadric]: No.
[Shomei]: How do you resolve this paradox?
[Eadric]: I meditate to realize Saizhan.
[Shomei] (Exasperated): Must you always proselytize?
[Eadric] (Laughing): Do I? Good.
*
[Eadric]: Will you exercise restraint?
[Mostin]: I doubt it.
[Eadric]: Can you exercise restraint? Is it within your nature?
[Mostin]: I don't know. I've never tried, and have no plans to.
[Eadric]: Your lack of moral responsibility concerns me.
[Mostin]: A surfeit of it would concern me more. I abide by certain…axioms…Eadric, which you cannot hope to comprehend. You can rest assured that within your own framework, I am completely mad.
[Eadric]: And within yours?
[Mostin]: I am utterly pedestrian. There are things far madder than I.
*
[Eadric]: What of Iua?
[Ortwin]: She can look after herself.
[Eadric]: You have betrayed her.
[Ortwin]: Not so! Our arrangement made provision for outside interests.
[Eadric]: I am referring to how you went about this. Flaunting a lover in front of her is not discreet. You could have been more sensitive.
[Ortwin]: I have not lied to her. Are you suggesting that I should have?
[Eadric]: She is eighteen years old.
[Ortwin]: Life is full of hard lessons, Ed.
[Eadric]: That is facile. You have a duty towards her.
[Ortwin]: What can I say? I'm selfish.
[Eadric]: Koilimilou is a sidhe and a cambion, Ortwin. She venerates Rhyxali. She is without remorse or compassion. What can she offer you?
[Ortwin]: Inventiveness, and insatiability. Relief from the boredom of existence.
[Eadric]: Once you had principles, as much as you pretended not to.
[Ortwin]: Once, I was mortal. My perspective has changed.
[Eadric]: Your essential nature has changed.
[Ortwin]: No more than yours. And Eadric of Deorham is the one f*cking the Demon Queen of Throile.
[Eadric]: I remain conflicted in my actions, Ortwin. I am neither complacent nor fixated on sensation. I do what I must.
[Ortwin]: Oh, bullsh*t Ed. Grow up. You're just doing what we all have to do. It's biological. It's just been a long time coming for you, and you've decided to take an unconventional route. Guilt is an outdated emotion.
[Eadric]: Why are you even here, Ortwin?
[Ortwin]: I feel it in my blood, Eadric. I can smell it. Every tree whispers it to me.
[Eadric]: ?
[Ortwin]: Good things, Ed. Good things. Something stirs.
**
Why the Nameless Adversary acts in the way he does is a cosmic imponderable. His reasonings are so complex, his plots so byzantine, his vision so broad in its imagining, that no real hope exists in penetrating his motives.
The Irrenites – who had been generally sympathetic to the Adversarial paradigm – maintained the position that if the Oronthon beyond Oronthon was utterly ineffable, then the Adversary was the distillation of pure rationality. Every move that he made – to augment one incomprehensible factor, or to reduce another – was calculated with the utmost precision and played out within the framework of eternal potentiality. He nurtured tendrils of possibility which might not yield fruit for a billion years.
The nodality in Afqithan – although complex and multi-faceted – was itself only a minor aspect of a larger process of change: or so it could be interpreted, if one was inclined towards such speculation. The mind of God – which, from an Urgic perspective, included every iota of consciousness in existence at any time and every possible combination thereof – was engaged in a reorganization of its own, internal structure. This manifested in the World of Men in a number of ways: a resurgence in the cult of Cheshne, as concepts of Nothingness were articulated within the physical plane; long periods during which the Sela was engaged in intense meditation; and finally, the beginnings of a schism regarding the interpretation of the best way to implement and realize Saizhan itself.
Because Cheshne – who, if the cosmos possessed an objective truth, might be identical with Demogorgon, and might not – had stirred. Or maybe she shifted slightly in her sleep. In any event, a torrent of contradictory truths were suddenly unleashed upon an already strained Dialectic, forcing an explosion of insights to occur. Cheshne was real again, and always had been.
The liaison between the Ahma and Soneillon – it was suspected – was merely a physical symptom of the articulation of Nothingness within the Ideal realm. Eadric did not know it, but his relationship with the demoness was to have profound and far-reaching consequences for Oronthonian mysticism. Not with respect to the definition of Saizhan – after all, how can a state devoid of all qualities be rendered in sensible terms? But as far as praxis was concerned – the method by which one came to the final realization which Saizhan claimed to be – the Ahma was blazing a path which would appeal to a particular minority: those of antinomian bent within the broad and complex set of perspectives which comprised Oronthonian religion.
Many who had been Irrenites – before such labels became superfluous – immediately understood what Eadric of Deorham was attempting to do. They applauded his revolutionary vision, his rejection of conventional mores, and his apparent transcendence of notions such as good and evil – although the matter was far from resolved within the Ahma's own mind. Several adepts – including the thaumaturges Sineig and Wrohs* – went as far as to compact succubi in their exploration of Saizhan. Not so much in emulation of the Ahma, but in recognition that rapid deconstruction of conventional reality required radical tools, and demons were about as radical as it got.
The subschool which arose, Skôhsldaúr – the gate of demons – would produce works of extraordinary genius and subtlety. Its validity as an authentic vehicle for Saizhan was doubted by few, but its suitability as a universal tool – which many of its proponents advocated – was regarded with dubiety by more conservative elements. It was too controversial. Too hazardous. Too Adversarial for the tastes of many. It was the beyond even the most questionable of Goetic practices. It should be reserved only for those whom the Sela deemed ready.
Of course, the Sela himself declined to make such judgments.
It was in foreknowledge and anticipation of these events – and others beside – that the schemes of Hell were set into motion. To the amazement of the nobles Furcas and Murmuur, Azazel – and the Infernal Standard – arrived in Afqithan, together with three other devils of unusually wicked temperament. Sachir, Zaare and Nahuzihis were Akesoli, serving the arch-fiend Amaimon, and dispensing pain upon powerful and intractable thralls both mortal and diabolic. There was no question of challenging Azazel's authority in the demiplane by either of the entrenched Dukes. He needed neither seals nor letters of precedence to validate his assumption of command: he was Azazel. That was enough.
The presence of the Akesoli caused fearful speculation amongst Murmuur and his various captains and lieutenants – decorated narzugons high in the Order of the Fly. Murmuur was a straightforward soldier, and although subtle in the way that all Infernal aristocrats are subtle, he lacked the calculated finesse of intellectuals such as Furcas and Titivilus. He was not privy to the machinations of his liege in Malbolge, nor of his liege's liege in Maladomini. It was evident that the Akesoli's presence must have been authorized at the highest level: sanctioned by the Adversary himself, the Quatriumvirate, and possibly the silent council of the thirteen great Antagonists.**
Murmuur was, however, relieved that Azazel had been appointed the task of commanding the effort. Azazel was – like himself – a warrior, with little interest in devious schemes. Although a harsh taskmaster, Hell's standard-bearer recognized accomplishment upon the battlefield above all else, and Murmuur excelled in battle and deeds of martial prowess. The Duke mused drily whether Azazel's arrival had been a strategic decision designed to make Murmuur himself more tractable, or whether it in some way reflected the involvement of the Ahma: although Agalierept might have been a more obvious choice, he would possess less gravitas as far as mortals were concerned.***
Murmuur waited impatiently, eager to simultaneously align the nine gates within his tower to Malbolge, in order to permit his troops through: thirty legions, plus their auxiliaries. There were bearded devils, malebranche, horned devils and erinyes. And his knights, who numbered several thousand, would lead the narzugon charge – if and when it came.
If it came. Murmuur realized that he still had no idea what was really happening. But unlike Furcus or Titivilus, his political ignorance was a source of comfort rather than distress.
He grunted. Spined devils flapped silently around him, strapping his breastplate and vambraces – constructed of an unknown, greenish metal – over a fine mesh of infernal steel.
**
The galley – a vast, ponderous quadrieme from Shûth – lumbered at dusk into the bustling port of Jashat, and moored close to the weathered marble of an ancient wharf, fast by a sleek Thalassine jabeque. Her timbers groaned as she eclipsed the smaller ship, blotting out the sunset and irritating the dozen or so sailors who smoked and relaxed upon the jabeque's deck after a hard week's work. The quayside – stretching below a vast plaza crammed with temples to a hundred gods – was a riot of colour and activity.
The Gentleman from Thond – whose own preference for colour in his clothing was understated at best, and muted at worst – stood in the cool evening air upon wide steps, below a timeworn shrine to the god Pe’ahj. Six retainers attended him. He squinted through the scented clouds exuded by temple censers in an effort to suppress the effect upon his humours. His humours exhibited a particularly delicate balance. He was nervous, and agitated.
He watched impatiently as pulleys span and counterweights soared upon two great derricks near the stern, and the galley lowered a gangway half as wide as the road to Fumaril. She began to unload dozens of crates, chests and boxes from her hold, lugged by huge slaves who bore intricate brands upon their arms and shoulders: the Gentleman from Thond wondered they were a giant-breed from some distant corner of Shûth. Before them, a company of guards – of similar type, but clad in dull breastplates and wearing cloaks of sombre red – marched silently down the walkway and arrayed themselves in a wide semicircle, blocking half the quayside and causing merchants and vendors to curse and grumble. Long, sharp glaives pointed outwards like a thicket, oblivious to the laws and customs of Jashat.
A second gangplank – less massive than the first – was hauled into place and dropped by a hundred muscled arms.
The Gentleman from Thond licked his lips apprehensively. A slow procession of magi began to issue from the galley. Some were cowled and hooded, others bare-headed, yet more bore hair arranged in long, intricate braids – all according to their station and function, at which the Gentleman could only guess. In the rear, a number of veiled palanquins – attended by servants or neophytes – swayed rhythmically, in time with the steady footsteps of their muscled bearers.
He swallowed, and strode forwards. Several of the guards – each a cubit taller than himself – immediately brought their weapons to bear on him. He smiled uncertainly, and coughed. Before he had the chance to speak, he heard another voice issue from behind them.
The wall of steel parted, to reveal a slender man with a terse manner dressed in a loose, silk robe of greenish-black.
"I have made the necessary arrangements, but…" the Gentleman from Thond began.
"Good," the other interrupted. "I am Anumid. You will address me – and me only. Here is a list of our requirements."
Anumid handed a long scroll to the Gentleman, who raised his eyes in surprise.
"The temple precinct has been cleared," the Gentleman from Thond said. "Vagrants were…"
"The details are irrelevant," Anumid interrupted again. "The site will be reconsecrated, in any case."
"I have had to call in many favours and line many purses, to make this happen, Anumid. I have had numerous unforeseen expenses."
"You will be recompensed," Anumid smiled. "Do you wish to continue in the capacity of our agent?"
"Yes, but…"
"Will fifty thousand be sufficient to begin with?"
"Yes." The Gentleman from Thond bowed perfunctorily.
As the train made its winding progress through the city of Jashat, they passed by two Wizards of middling power: a local enchantress named Luthlul, and her recent acquaintance Menniz, a conjurer who originally hailed from Lang Herath in Wyre.**** Luthlul gave Menniz a meaningful look.
"This is an unexpected development," Menniz said uncomfortably, scratching his neck. "Do you think they're genuine?"
Luthlul invoked her arcane sight and gaped.
"I assume from your expression that the answer is an unqualified yes," Menniz said laconically.
"The four in the palanquins are off the scale," Luthlul whispered. "I'm not getting anything from half a dozen others – they're probably mind blanked."
"Why aren't they using a more conventional mode of transport? Is it a ritual thing?"
"Probably," Luthlul nodded. "What should we do?"
"We can't do anything, Luthlul. But I'll issue a sending to Daunton in a while: he should probably know. Frankly, if they're staying here, I'm inclined to return to Wyre. At least it's safer there."
"From less than half of them," Luthlul grimaced. "I wonder if any more are coming."
"I doubt it. I'm surprised that there are that many in the whole of Shûth. What have they been doing for the past eight hundred years?"
"Preserving the tradition, apparently."
After Daunton received the sending in Gibirazen, news quickly became current among those mages he knew – and subsequently, through his friend Prince Tagur, passed into both temporal and spiritual circles.
When it reached the ears of the Sela, Tramst evinced neither surprise nor concern.
Within a day more rumours were circulating, and Daunton determined to visit Jashat himself – none of his divinations were proving effective in the matter.
Three miles outside of the city, the temple of Cheshne – abandoned and overgrown for a millennium – had risen again from its crumbling ruins. By their arts the magi – and now none doubted their authenticity – had restored the compound overnight.
Towers soared skywards to giddying heights, icons and statues of tormented spirits – the ugras or 'fierce protectors' of the faith – adorned walls and bastions: they bore an uncanny resemblance to figures which, in the faith of Oronthon, were understood to be fallen celestials. In the beliefs of Shûth, however, their rôle was subtler and more complex. And far older. Embodiments of fear, lust or violence which must be both placated and overcome in order for reconciliation with Nothingness to be achieved.
Mostin – who had been inwardly concerned about the missing tendril in his convergence – received a sending from Daunton while he sat at the table in the Great Hall at Kyrtill's Burh. His face remained impassive.
Queen Soneillon, who rested across from him in contemplative pose, looked into his eyes.
**
Iua's defiance of her mother's wishes was rooted in her need to refamiliarize herself with Fumaril – from which she had been absent for a year – almost as much as her obstinacy when it came to obeying Mulissu's commands. Despite her mother's insistence that Iua remain inconspicuous and protected by the wards of faith, the Duelist's own curiosity and wanderlust – traits for which Mulissu herself had once been renowned – found her in any number of dubious locales. She took to the streets with a mind to finding anything which might distract her from brooding upon her brief, eccentric and ultimately empty relationship with Ortwin.
Mulissu herself was cloistered within one of several small temples to Jeshi – into whose cult, in her youth, she had been initiated.***** Whilst the Savant had maintained a relatively low profile amongst wizardly circles in Wyre and beyond, her reputation amongst the clergy of Jeshi – who shared many of the same aerial contacts as the Elementalist – was somewhat different. Her progress had been watched: lauded by some, criticized by others, and, by more than a few, recognized as a potential source of revivification for the cult's flagging fortunes.
Mulissu, who abhorred politics almost as much as organized religion, avoided all attempts to convince her to renew her vows to Jeshi. But the hallowed ground of the temple was – from her perspective – too useful a defense to ignore, so she grudgingly acquiesced to the demands of the High Priestess to attend revels held in Jeshi's name. In return, the Elementalist was granted several perquisites: the use of the roof-space above the Chamber of Chimes, a feigned ignorance of any magic that she might work, and assurances that she would be otherwise left alone.
Mulissu's unique spirituality – cerebral in the extreme – had developed to regard devotional practices as bizarre and inexplicable. There was no reconnection with a deeper source, no feeling of unity or succour, no camaraderie, and no appreciation of a symbolism which might – to an initiate – possess profound revelatory significance: to Mulissu, it appeared as an alphabet inaccurately scrawled by a toddler.
But in Fumaril – which lay beyond the purview of the Claviger – Mulissu could summon. She haggled ad nauseum with powerful djinns in an effort to replenish her diminished supply of spells, and co-opted the services of a novice called Naimha to act in the capacity of a broker. Naimha scoured every marketplace and every hidden shop which dealt in oddities in an attempt to procure magical paraphernalia – mostly without success. Mulissu opened lines of communication with Tozinak, whom she liked; with Jalael, whom she distrusted; and with Waide, whom she found intolerable. She also began to cultivate the friendship of Ehieu, a sorcerer from Pandicule whose flightiness made Mulissu seem positively stable. Ehieu roamed the seas south of Fumaril and – when not alternately vexing or aiding sailors – made infrequent visits to the Temple.
She pointedly – and somewhat petulantly – snubbed Shomei, who by virtue of close association with Mostin, was considered an undesirable acquaintance. Shomei was, to some degree at least, responsible for the Elementalist's decline in fortunes.
She sighed. She should have known better than to deal with Alienists and Infernalists, even if they were among the handful of people whose intellects she actually respected.
When Mulissu therefore received a sending from Daunton – who had been apprised of her presence on the Prime – her heart sunk:
Cult of Cheshne resurfaced in Jashat. Powerful necromancers and blood-magi. Suspect at least six first-order wizards and four transvalent hierophants. Will advise further. Daunton.
Mulissu groaned, and wondered if it was related to the nonsense that Mostin had involved himself in. She would keep all of her possessions on hand, in case a speedy exit from Fumaril proved necessary.
Jashat, after all, was only forty miles away.
She brooded briefly, and wondered whether relaying the information to Iua would be wise. He daughter was brilliant, but her judgment frequently poor.
Iua herself did not return until the early hours of the next morning. She was flushed from a number of encounters – some involving crossed blades, others not – and moderately inebriated.
Mulissu sighed. Parenting was not her strong suit. She chided Iua inexpertly and gestured, vaguely conscious that this might be the correct way to address a child.
Iua ignored her, and her eyes widened: she seemed to be looking at something behind Mulissu. The Elementalist's hackles rose, and she wheeled about, prepared to unleash a powerful necromancy.
I see nothing
The thought passed through Mulissu's mind a fraction of a second before she experienced an acute, stabbing agony, rapidly followed by a succession of further intense pains. Her eyes glazed over, and she glanced down to notice that around a foot of cold, slender steel was protruding from her stomach, and that blood was flowing freely from her. She felt Iua's blade withdraw from her, and as she collapsed and died, she idly wondered why her own daughter had slain her.
Thus passed Mulissu: counted among the greatest of evokers in Wyre's history, although she was not herself a native of that place. And this time, Mostin the Metagnostic experienced no feeling of foreboding prior to the danger in which the Savant found herself, no presentiment of her demise. Not even the faintest inkling of prescience remained to him now, and some time would pass before news of her death reached him. Mulissu, whom he had loved in his own, strange fashion.
Her spirit fled, and was dispersed upon the winds.
Iua screamed silently from within the prison which her body had become, and watched, helpless, as her hands began to rifle her mother's still-warm corpse for items beyond worth. She grabbed rings from Mulissu's fingers, ripped an amulet from her breast, and pulled the sapphire of mutable coruscations from its collar around her throat. She smiled wickedly as she delved into a glove of storing and felt the web of motes, and something else. She pulled forth a small lump of obsidian, shaped like a horse.
How fortuitous, the thought manifested with savage irony within Iua's mind, although it was not her own.
Iua, and her possessor – a demon named Surab – plane shifted to the Abyss upon a fantastic steed.
*Although Orthodoxy had boasted few magically potent priests in its heyday – and many had been slain during the war with Trempa – the heretical Irrenite fringe sheltered a number of competent thaumaturges.
**Hell's hierarchy is, of course, immensely complex, and various devils exercise varying degrees of power in different areas. Governance is executed through Asmodeus, Astaroth, Baalzebul and Belial – amongst whom precedence is hotly contested. The Thirteen Great Antagonists are fallen seraphs who have no place in the day-to-day administration of Hell, and concern themselves entirely with the war against Heaven. Many scholars of diabolic politics insist that the arrangement is purposely tense and ambiguous – a dynamism in the hierarchy enforced by the Adversary to prevent stagnation.
***Agalierept is the commander of Hell's second legion and Grand General of Hell. Among Hell's foremost soldiers, his cruelty and vindictiveness are legendary. The armoured cornugons who serve him are likewise renowned for their ruthless brutality.
****After the Claviger’s Injunction in Wyre, many wizards of more independent mind moved outside of the magically proscribed area. Of them, most found their way south to the Thalassine.
*****Mulissu's initial vocation – that of a priestess – had been quickly rejected. Jeshi is a Thalassine goddess of the winds, with a widespread but uninfluential following. The names Jeshi and Jashat are etymologically connected.
I had originally vowed to myself not to post an update until I had detailed events as they transpired in Afqithan. In the event, this became impossible because too much other stuff was going down, and it took too long to document: if I omitted it, subsequent events would be incomprehensible. All of the pieces needed to be in place beforehand.
I've asked Eridanis to do some brutal pruning when he's got time. Nonetheless, many thanks for all of your 'bumps' in keeping this thread alive. Hopefully, it won't be quite as long before you see me again.
**
**
AFQITHAN: PROLOGUE (Part 1)
[Soneillon]: If you should happen to slay Ainhorr today, you should grieve for him.
[Eadric]: (Contempt.)
[Soneillon]: Arrogance! You, at least, should lament his passing. A great warrior. Ever loyal to the master he loves and despises.
[Eadric]: Loves? Love is never that ugly.
[Soneillon]: Love is often that ugly, Eadric.
[Eadric]: And if you should perish today? How should I then react?
[Soneillon]: Exult in your memory, Eadric. Because nothing will ever again compare to me.
[Eadric]: For that, at least, I will be thankful.
[Soneillon]: You will be diminished.
*
[Eadric]: What does Hell have to do with this?
[Shomei]: I don't know.
[Eadric]: I fear its agenda.
[Shomei]: That is wise. Many forget the single, overarching truth.
[Eadric] (Wrily): And what might that be?
[Shomei]: Hell is merely a vehicle for expressing the Will of the Nameless Fiend. Despite all appearances, it acts with one purpose.
[Eadric]: I had not forgotten.
[Shomei]: Do you believe the Will of Oronthon and the Will of the Adversary to be one and the same, Ahma?
[Eadric]: They are not unidentical.
[Shomei]: Do you believe that you are a focus through which the Will of the Adversary is expressed?
[Eadric]: Perhaps.
[Shomei]: Do you trust the Will of the Adversary?
[Eadric]: No.
[Shomei]: How do you resolve this paradox?
[Eadric]: I meditate to realize Saizhan.
[Shomei] (Exasperated): Must you always proselytize?
[Eadric] (Laughing): Do I? Good.
*
[Eadric]: Will you exercise restraint?
[Mostin]: I doubt it.
[Eadric]: Can you exercise restraint? Is it within your nature?
[Mostin]: I don't know. I've never tried, and have no plans to.
[Eadric]: Your lack of moral responsibility concerns me.
[Mostin]: A surfeit of it would concern me more. I abide by certain…axioms…Eadric, which you cannot hope to comprehend. You can rest assured that within your own framework, I am completely mad.
[Eadric]: And within yours?
[Mostin]: I am utterly pedestrian. There are things far madder than I.
*
[Eadric]: What of Iua?
[Ortwin]: She can look after herself.
[Eadric]: You have betrayed her.
[Ortwin]: Not so! Our arrangement made provision for outside interests.
[Eadric]: I am referring to how you went about this. Flaunting a lover in front of her is not discreet. You could have been more sensitive.
[Ortwin]: I have not lied to her. Are you suggesting that I should have?
[Eadric]: She is eighteen years old.
[Ortwin]: Life is full of hard lessons, Ed.
[Eadric]: That is facile. You have a duty towards her.
[Ortwin]: What can I say? I'm selfish.
[Eadric]: Koilimilou is a sidhe and a cambion, Ortwin. She venerates Rhyxali. She is without remorse or compassion. What can she offer you?
[Ortwin]: Inventiveness, and insatiability. Relief from the boredom of existence.
[Eadric]: Once you had principles, as much as you pretended not to.
[Ortwin]: Once, I was mortal. My perspective has changed.
[Eadric]: Your essential nature has changed.
[Ortwin]: No more than yours. And Eadric of Deorham is the one f*cking the Demon Queen of Throile.
[Eadric]: I remain conflicted in my actions, Ortwin. I am neither complacent nor fixated on sensation. I do what I must.
[Ortwin]: Oh, bullsh*t Ed. Grow up. You're just doing what we all have to do. It's biological. It's just been a long time coming for you, and you've decided to take an unconventional route. Guilt is an outdated emotion.
[Eadric]: Why are you even here, Ortwin?
[Ortwin]: I feel it in my blood, Eadric. I can smell it. Every tree whispers it to me.
[Eadric]: ?
[Ortwin]: Good things, Ed. Good things. Something stirs.
**
Why the Nameless Adversary acts in the way he does is a cosmic imponderable. His reasonings are so complex, his plots so byzantine, his vision so broad in its imagining, that no real hope exists in penetrating his motives.
The Irrenites – who had been generally sympathetic to the Adversarial paradigm – maintained the position that if the Oronthon beyond Oronthon was utterly ineffable, then the Adversary was the distillation of pure rationality. Every move that he made – to augment one incomprehensible factor, or to reduce another – was calculated with the utmost precision and played out within the framework of eternal potentiality. He nurtured tendrils of possibility which might not yield fruit for a billion years.
The nodality in Afqithan – although complex and multi-faceted – was itself only a minor aspect of a larger process of change: or so it could be interpreted, if one was inclined towards such speculation. The mind of God – which, from an Urgic perspective, included every iota of consciousness in existence at any time and every possible combination thereof – was engaged in a reorganization of its own, internal structure. This manifested in the World of Men in a number of ways: a resurgence in the cult of Cheshne, as concepts of Nothingness were articulated within the physical plane; long periods during which the Sela was engaged in intense meditation; and finally, the beginnings of a schism regarding the interpretation of the best way to implement and realize Saizhan itself.
Because Cheshne – who, if the cosmos possessed an objective truth, might be identical with Demogorgon, and might not – had stirred. Or maybe she shifted slightly in her sleep. In any event, a torrent of contradictory truths were suddenly unleashed upon an already strained Dialectic, forcing an explosion of insights to occur. Cheshne was real again, and always had been.
The liaison between the Ahma and Soneillon – it was suspected – was merely a physical symptom of the articulation of Nothingness within the Ideal realm. Eadric did not know it, but his relationship with the demoness was to have profound and far-reaching consequences for Oronthonian mysticism. Not with respect to the definition of Saizhan – after all, how can a state devoid of all qualities be rendered in sensible terms? But as far as praxis was concerned – the method by which one came to the final realization which Saizhan claimed to be – the Ahma was blazing a path which would appeal to a particular minority: those of antinomian bent within the broad and complex set of perspectives which comprised Oronthonian religion.
Many who had been Irrenites – before such labels became superfluous – immediately understood what Eadric of Deorham was attempting to do. They applauded his revolutionary vision, his rejection of conventional mores, and his apparent transcendence of notions such as good and evil – although the matter was far from resolved within the Ahma's own mind. Several adepts – including the thaumaturges Sineig and Wrohs* – went as far as to compact succubi in their exploration of Saizhan. Not so much in emulation of the Ahma, but in recognition that rapid deconstruction of conventional reality required radical tools, and demons were about as radical as it got.
The subschool which arose, Skôhsldaúr – the gate of demons – would produce works of extraordinary genius and subtlety. Its validity as an authentic vehicle for Saizhan was doubted by few, but its suitability as a universal tool – which many of its proponents advocated – was regarded with dubiety by more conservative elements. It was too controversial. Too hazardous. Too Adversarial for the tastes of many. It was the beyond even the most questionable of Goetic practices. It should be reserved only for those whom the Sela deemed ready.
Of course, the Sela himself declined to make such judgments.
It was in foreknowledge and anticipation of these events – and others beside – that the schemes of Hell were set into motion. To the amazement of the nobles Furcas and Murmuur, Azazel – and the Infernal Standard – arrived in Afqithan, together with three other devils of unusually wicked temperament. Sachir, Zaare and Nahuzihis were Akesoli, serving the arch-fiend Amaimon, and dispensing pain upon powerful and intractable thralls both mortal and diabolic. There was no question of challenging Azazel's authority in the demiplane by either of the entrenched Dukes. He needed neither seals nor letters of precedence to validate his assumption of command: he was Azazel. That was enough.
The presence of the Akesoli caused fearful speculation amongst Murmuur and his various captains and lieutenants – decorated narzugons high in the Order of the Fly. Murmuur was a straightforward soldier, and although subtle in the way that all Infernal aristocrats are subtle, he lacked the calculated finesse of intellectuals such as Furcas and Titivilus. He was not privy to the machinations of his liege in Malbolge, nor of his liege's liege in Maladomini. It was evident that the Akesoli's presence must have been authorized at the highest level: sanctioned by the Adversary himself, the Quatriumvirate, and possibly the silent council of the thirteen great Antagonists.**
Murmuur was, however, relieved that Azazel had been appointed the task of commanding the effort. Azazel was – like himself – a warrior, with little interest in devious schemes. Although a harsh taskmaster, Hell's standard-bearer recognized accomplishment upon the battlefield above all else, and Murmuur excelled in battle and deeds of martial prowess. The Duke mused drily whether Azazel's arrival had been a strategic decision designed to make Murmuur himself more tractable, or whether it in some way reflected the involvement of the Ahma: although Agalierept might have been a more obvious choice, he would possess less gravitas as far as mortals were concerned.***
Murmuur waited impatiently, eager to simultaneously align the nine gates within his tower to Malbolge, in order to permit his troops through: thirty legions, plus their auxiliaries. There were bearded devils, malebranche, horned devils and erinyes. And his knights, who numbered several thousand, would lead the narzugon charge – if and when it came.
If it came. Murmuur realized that he still had no idea what was really happening. But unlike Furcus or Titivilus, his political ignorance was a source of comfort rather than distress.
He grunted. Spined devils flapped silently around him, strapping his breastplate and vambraces – constructed of an unknown, greenish metal – over a fine mesh of infernal steel.
**
The galley – a vast, ponderous quadrieme from Shûth – lumbered at dusk into the bustling port of Jashat, and moored close to the weathered marble of an ancient wharf, fast by a sleek Thalassine jabeque. Her timbers groaned as she eclipsed the smaller ship, blotting out the sunset and irritating the dozen or so sailors who smoked and relaxed upon the jabeque's deck after a hard week's work. The quayside – stretching below a vast plaza crammed with temples to a hundred gods – was a riot of colour and activity.
The Gentleman from Thond – whose own preference for colour in his clothing was understated at best, and muted at worst – stood in the cool evening air upon wide steps, below a timeworn shrine to the god Pe’ahj. Six retainers attended him. He squinted through the scented clouds exuded by temple censers in an effort to suppress the effect upon his humours. His humours exhibited a particularly delicate balance. He was nervous, and agitated.
He watched impatiently as pulleys span and counterweights soared upon two great derricks near the stern, and the galley lowered a gangway half as wide as the road to Fumaril. She began to unload dozens of crates, chests and boxes from her hold, lugged by huge slaves who bore intricate brands upon their arms and shoulders: the Gentleman from Thond wondered they were a giant-breed from some distant corner of Shûth. Before them, a company of guards – of similar type, but clad in dull breastplates and wearing cloaks of sombre red – marched silently down the walkway and arrayed themselves in a wide semicircle, blocking half the quayside and causing merchants and vendors to curse and grumble. Long, sharp glaives pointed outwards like a thicket, oblivious to the laws and customs of Jashat.
A second gangplank – less massive than the first – was hauled into place and dropped by a hundred muscled arms.
The Gentleman from Thond licked his lips apprehensively. A slow procession of magi began to issue from the galley. Some were cowled and hooded, others bare-headed, yet more bore hair arranged in long, intricate braids – all according to their station and function, at which the Gentleman could only guess. In the rear, a number of veiled palanquins – attended by servants or neophytes – swayed rhythmically, in time with the steady footsteps of their muscled bearers.
He swallowed, and strode forwards. Several of the guards – each a cubit taller than himself – immediately brought their weapons to bear on him. He smiled uncertainly, and coughed. Before he had the chance to speak, he heard another voice issue from behind them.
The wall of steel parted, to reveal a slender man with a terse manner dressed in a loose, silk robe of greenish-black.
"I have made the necessary arrangements, but…" the Gentleman from Thond began.
"Good," the other interrupted. "I am Anumid. You will address me – and me only. Here is a list of our requirements."
Anumid handed a long scroll to the Gentleman, who raised his eyes in surprise.
"The temple precinct has been cleared," the Gentleman from Thond said. "Vagrants were…"
"The details are irrelevant," Anumid interrupted again. "The site will be reconsecrated, in any case."
"I have had to call in many favours and line many purses, to make this happen, Anumid. I have had numerous unforeseen expenses."
"You will be recompensed," Anumid smiled. "Do you wish to continue in the capacity of our agent?"
"Yes, but…"
"Will fifty thousand be sufficient to begin with?"
"Yes." The Gentleman from Thond bowed perfunctorily.
As the train made its winding progress through the city of Jashat, they passed by two Wizards of middling power: a local enchantress named Luthlul, and her recent acquaintance Menniz, a conjurer who originally hailed from Lang Herath in Wyre.**** Luthlul gave Menniz a meaningful look.
"This is an unexpected development," Menniz said uncomfortably, scratching his neck. "Do you think they're genuine?"
Luthlul invoked her arcane sight and gaped.
"I assume from your expression that the answer is an unqualified yes," Menniz said laconically.
"The four in the palanquins are off the scale," Luthlul whispered. "I'm not getting anything from half a dozen others – they're probably mind blanked."
"Why aren't they using a more conventional mode of transport? Is it a ritual thing?"
"Probably," Luthlul nodded. "What should we do?"
"We can't do anything, Luthlul. But I'll issue a sending to Daunton in a while: he should probably know. Frankly, if they're staying here, I'm inclined to return to Wyre. At least it's safer there."
"From less than half of them," Luthlul grimaced. "I wonder if any more are coming."
"I doubt it. I'm surprised that there are that many in the whole of Shûth. What have they been doing for the past eight hundred years?"
"Preserving the tradition, apparently."
After Daunton received the sending in Gibirazen, news quickly became current among those mages he knew – and subsequently, through his friend Prince Tagur, passed into both temporal and spiritual circles.
When it reached the ears of the Sela, Tramst evinced neither surprise nor concern.
Within a day more rumours were circulating, and Daunton determined to visit Jashat himself – none of his divinations were proving effective in the matter.
Three miles outside of the city, the temple of Cheshne – abandoned and overgrown for a millennium – had risen again from its crumbling ruins. By their arts the magi – and now none doubted their authenticity – had restored the compound overnight.
Towers soared skywards to giddying heights, icons and statues of tormented spirits – the ugras or 'fierce protectors' of the faith – adorned walls and bastions: they bore an uncanny resemblance to figures which, in the faith of Oronthon, were understood to be fallen celestials. In the beliefs of Shûth, however, their rôle was subtler and more complex. And far older. Embodiments of fear, lust or violence which must be both placated and overcome in order for reconciliation with Nothingness to be achieved.
Mostin – who had been inwardly concerned about the missing tendril in his convergence – received a sending from Daunton while he sat at the table in the Great Hall at Kyrtill's Burh. His face remained impassive.
Queen Soneillon, who rested across from him in contemplative pose, looked into his eyes.
**
Iua's defiance of her mother's wishes was rooted in her need to refamiliarize herself with Fumaril – from which she had been absent for a year – almost as much as her obstinacy when it came to obeying Mulissu's commands. Despite her mother's insistence that Iua remain inconspicuous and protected by the wards of faith, the Duelist's own curiosity and wanderlust – traits for which Mulissu herself had once been renowned – found her in any number of dubious locales. She took to the streets with a mind to finding anything which might distract her from brooding upon her brief, eccentric and ultimately empty relationship with Ortwin.
Mulissu herself was cloistered within one of several small temples to Jeshi – into whose cult, in her youth, she had been initiated.***** Whilst the Savant had maintained a relatively low profile amongst wizardly circles in Wyre and beyond, her reputation amongst the clergy of Jeshi – who shared many of the same aerial contacts as the Elementalist – was somewhat different. Her progress had been watched: lauded by some, criticized by others, and, by more than a few, recognized as a potential source of revivification for the cult's flagging fortunes.
Mulissu, who abhorred politics almost as much as organized religion, avoided all attempts to convince her to renew her vows to Jeshi. But the hallowed ground of the temple was – from her perspective – too useful a defense to ignore, so she grudgingly acquiesced to the demands of the High Priestess to attend revels held in Jeshi's name. In return, the Elementalist was granted several perquisites: the use of the roof-space above the Chamber of Chimes, a feigned ignorance of any magic that she might work, and assurances that she would be otherwise left alone.
Mulissu's unique spirituality – cerebral in the extreme – had developed to regard devotional practices as bizarre and inexplicable. There was no reconnection with a deeper source, no feeling of unity or succour, no camaraderie, and no appreciation of a symbolism which might – to an initiate – possess profound revelatory significance: to Mulissu, it appeared as an alphabet inaccurately scrawled by a toddler.
But in Fumaril – which lay beyond the purview of the Claviger – Mulissu could summon. She haggled ad nauseum with powerful djinns in an effort to replenish her diminished supply of spells, and co-opted the services of a novice called Naimha to act in the capacity of a broker. Naimha scoured every marketplace and every hidden shop which dealt in oddities in an attempt to procure magical paraphernalia – mostly without success. Mulissu opened lines of communication with Tozinak, whom she liked; with Jalael, whom she distrusted; and with Waide, whom she found intolerable. She also began to cultivate the friendship of Ehieu, a sorcerer from Pandicule whose flightiness made Mulissu seem positively stable. Ehieu roamed the seas south of Fumaril and – when not alternately vexing or aiding sailors – made infrequent visits to the Temple.
She pointedly – and somewhat petulantly – snubbed Shomei, who by virtue of close association with Mostin, was considered an undesirable acquaintance. Shomei was, to some degree at least, responsible for the Elementalist's decline in fortunes.
She sighed. She should have known better than to deal with Alienists and Infernalists, even if they were among the handful of people whose intellects she actually respected.
When Mulissu therefore received a sending from Daunton – who had been apprised of her presence on the Prime – her heart sunk:
Cult of Cheshne resurfaced in Jashat. Powerful necromancers and blood-magi. Suspect at least six first-order wizards and four transvalent hierophants. Will advise further. Daunton.
Mulissu groaned, and wondered if it was related to the nonsense that Mostin had involved himself in. She would keep all of her possessions on hand, in case a speedy exit from Fumaril proved necessary.
Jashat, after all, was only forty miles away.
She brooded briefly, and wondered whether relaying the information to Iua would be wise. He daughter was brilliant, but her judgment frequently poor.
Iua herself did not return until the early hours of the next morning. She was flushed from a number of encounters – some involving crossed blades, others not – and moderately inebriated.
Mulissu sighed. Parenting was not her strong suit. She chided Iua inexpertly and gestured, vaguely conscious that this might be the correct way to address a child.
Iua ignored her, and her eyes widened: she seemed to be looking at something behind Mulissu. The Elementalist's hackles rose, and she wheeled about, prepared to unleash a powerful necromancy.
I see nothing
The thought passed through Mulissu's mind a fraction of a second before she experienced an acute, stabbing agony, rapidly followed by a succession of further intense pains. Her eyes glazed over, and she glanced down to notice that around a foot of cold, slender steel was protruding from her stomach, and that blood was flowing freely from her. She felt Iua's blade withdraw from her, and as she collapsed and died, she idly wondered why her own daughter had slain her.
Thus passed Mulissu: counted among the greatest of evokers in Wyre's history, although she was not herself a native of that place. And this time, Mostin the Metagnostic experienced no feeling of foreboding prior to the danger in which the Savant found herself, no presentiment of her demise. Not even the faintest inkling of prescience remained to him now, and some time would pass before news of her death reached him. Mulissu, whom he had loved in his own, strange fashion.
Her spirit fled, and was dispersed upon the winds.
Iua screamed silently from within the prison which her body had become, and watched, helpless, as her hands began to rifle her mother's still-warm corpse for items beyond worth. She grabbed rings from Mulissu's fingers, ripped an amulet from her breast, and pulled the sapphire of mutable coruscations from its collar around her throat. She smiled wickedly as she delved into a glove of storing and felt the web of motes, and something else. She pulled forth a small lump of obsidian, shaped like a horse.
How fortuitous, the thought manifested with savage irony within Iua's mind, although it was not her own.
Iua, and her possessor – a demon named Surab – plane shifted to the Abyss upon a fantastic steed.
*Although Orthodoxy had boasted few magically potent priests in its heyday – and many had been slain during the war with Trempa – the heretical Irrenite fringe sheltered a number of competent thaumaturges.
**Hell's hierarchy is, of course, immensely complex, and various devils exercise varying degrees of power in different areas. Governance is executed through Asmodeus, Astaroth, Baalzebul and Belial – amongst whom precedence is hotly contested. The Thirteen Great Antagonists are fallen seraphs who have no place in the day-to-day administration of Hell, and concern themselves entirely with the war against Heaven. Many scholars of diabolic politics insist that the arrangement is purposely tense and ambiguous – a dynamism in the hierarchy enforced by the Adversary to prevent stagnation.
***Agalierept is the commander of Hell's second legion and Grand General of Hell. Among Hell's foremost soldiers, his cruelty and vindictiveness are legendary. The armoured cornugons who serve him are likewise renowned for their ruthless brutality.
****After the Claviger’s Injunction in Wyre, many wizards of more independent mind moved outside of the magically proscribed area. Of them, most found their way south to the Thalassine.
*****Mulissu's initial vocation – that of a priestess – had been quickly rejected. Jeshi is a Thalassine goddess of the winds, with a widespread but uninfluential following. The names Jeshi and Jashat are etymologically connected.
Sepulchrave II
Legend
AFQITHAN: PROLOGUE (Part 2)
At least five infinities clashed in Afqithan. When forces collide in the metaphysical realm, it is only natural that this is reflected in our own.
- Orolde.
Rhul's case had been delivered with such eloquence and such poignancy that all those who listened to him, excepting perhaps Jetheeg – the lamia cum hag who possessed neither a moral conscience nor artistic sensibilities – had been moved.
He had spoken of Sisperi: its clans, and history and traditions; its wide grasslands and virgin forests; its towns and villages; the customs and the temperament of its peoples. He had evoked scenes of soaring mountains riven with deep canyons, and sun shining on a rolling surf, and mists rising over cold, still lakes. His speech had possessed a natural rhythm which made all constructed meter seem crass and childish; his tone was mellifluous and enchanting.
And then he had spoken of death, and ruin, and the end of the world. Of the blight which consumed all things and turned them to filth and desolation. Of the razing of civilization, and the final extinction of sapience. Rhul's words had become a soft-spoken lament; there was no compromise in his description of the horror which had occurred, even until the bitter end. He had spoken of Mulhuk, and of Saes, and Lai, and the death of Hodh and other godlings besides. He had spoken of Ninit, and her wild, unquenchable fury.
Ortwin had sat silently, his head in his hands. Mostin had stared blankly. Bile and anger had arisen in Eadric's throat.
And then Rhul had begged for aid. Eadric had felt as though his soul had been cut in half.
*
After he had left – and Rhul's message and entreaty had taken more than two hours to deliver – Eadric resumed his seat uncomfortably. He poured himself a large goblet of wine, and sat back in his chair. The fire in the hearth had dwindled to a dull glow, and moonlight illuminated the Great Hall through the windows high in its south wall. The servants – disturbed by the company which the Ahma chose to keep – had long since retired.
"You cannot waver now," Mostin groaned. "We are so close. How many other worlds could tell a similar tale?"
"The Wizard is right," Jetheeg scoffed. "Do not let your weakness and susceptibility to a well-spun story dictate your course of action in this. You have taken vows, and made assurances, Ahma. Would you add oathbreaking to your tally of crimes against your deity? The list gets longer every day, I hear." The innuendo was hardly subtle.
Eadric sighed. "How many has Nhura gathered?"
"A thousand Loquai knights – virtually all of those who were exiled. Some few sidhe. Compactees. More than a few slaadi may involve themselves."
"Slaadi?" Shomei gaped. "Is Nhura insane?" She furrowed her brow, and glanced at Mostin – who shrugged and scowled. Neither had foreseen the possibility.
"They are not waiting with her in Faerie or Shadow," Jetheeg snapped. "But several Anarchs have become aware of the situation. They have a vested interest, after all."
Realization crossed Mostin's face. "Heedless," he said.
Jetheeg nodded curtly.
Eadric swallowed. "Mostin, you've said many times that this will be no conventional war. That I need to think far beyond anything with which I am familiar. Do you have any idea how long this will take to resolve? Are we talking in terms of days? Weeks?"
Mostin laughed. "Eadric, if the situation in Afqithan is not decided within fifteen minutes, I will be surprised."
The Ahma nodded grimly. "Then I would ask you to issue a sending to Rhul: if I'm not in Sisperi in two days, it means I'm dead, and I'm not coming."
"You mean to go otherwise, then?"
"Yes."
Mostin turned to Soneillon, who had thus far only observed. "You have been conspicuously silent. I am surprised that you have had nothing to contribute. What of your own force? And what of Rhyxali, Soneillon? What is she sending?"
"Demons, dear Mostin. She is sending demons."
"How many?" He asked irritably.
"Rhyxali is not predisposed to act often," Soneillon smiled, "but when she does, she acts decisively. She is sending nearly all of them, Mostin."
Mostin's jaw dropped.
Koilimilou smiled.
"I smell a rat," Ortwin remarked.
**
Mostin dreamed of devils.
Powerful devils. Terrible devils. One bore a chain with many barbed hooks which dripped a black venom; another had claws like scythes which clicked together as it flexed its fingers; a third wore a great hood, but Mostin knew that it was faceless beneath its cowl. The fourth devil was still an angel – a Virtue, of sorts. It was tall and beautiful, and wore a breastplate which had been forged before the beginning of time. Strength and power and wisdom were in its hand – but so were lust and greed and evil. It stood beneath a vast banner which depicted a meteor streaking through oblivion.
When he awoke, the details eluded him, and he was left with a vague feeling of dread. Dream had claimed his last precognition, and Mostin, who was no Dreamer, could not recall it.
**
Magic coursed again through Mostin's veins as he flew. Afqithan was wild, dark and potent.
This place, he thought. Out of a quintillion possible worlds, why had they chosen this one? What forces had conspired to make this time and place what it was? Mostin was no fatalist, but nor was he quite so arrogant to think that he had entirely mastered the cosmos.
He pondered whether Graz'zt would project himself to Afqithan, or whether he would choose to exercise restraint – the latter seemed more likely, according to Mostin's understanding of Graz'zt's paranoia. A combination of the terms silver cord and Heedless had sprung to the Alienist's mind – Graz'zt would not be safe from a vorpal sword, even if he was otherwise warded or fortified. Snip, and it would all be over. Even if Graz'zt knew a spell which specifically protected his cord from dangerous slaadi blades – entirely possible given his age and dedication to sorcery – then it was one less death impulse or desperate summons that he would be casting. And Graz'zt had no doubt considered the unlikely possibility that one of his enemies acquire the sword. Or if Ainhorr lost control…
Gods, Mostin thought. What happens if Ainhorr loses control of the sword? Who will he chop? What was the Sword's agenda?
Kostchtchie was already in Afqithan: a 'visiting dignitary' who, in terms of power, was more-or-less matched with Ainhorr – certainly as long as Heedless remained in the Balor's possession. Kostchtchie's entourage was hardly diplomatic, however – armoured fiendish giant huscarls and sorcerers, white wyrms, a winter-wight and countless bar-lgura. Except for the wight, they were, at present, situated some six hundred miles from their current position, near the fortress of Irknaan. But many could also move instantly across any distance, so it barely mattered. The undead monster was harrowing large tracts of forest with no apparent rhyme or reason – the Alienist wondered whether it was even vaguely reliable as an ally of the Demon Lord.
According to Jetheeg, who had received news from Nhura, Graz'zt had opened a number of portals – most likely of a limited duration than of permanent nature – between the planes. Afqithan was now linked directly with Azzagrat in at least two other locations besides Irknaan's fortress, and also with the Ice Waste – presumably in the vicinity of Kostchtchie's force. The exact whereabouts of the new gates were uncertain: this was problematic.
The Alienist knew that most of Soneillon's faction would arrive the same way: through a portal opened by the demoness from one of Throile's "wrinkles," and assumed that Rhyxali's force would be similarly deployed. The little that Mostin did know about Rhyxali included the importance of the marilith Viractuth within the Shadow Princess's camp. Viractuth was a powerful sorceress who served in the capacity of general and confidante. She would be capable of a magical feat which could transport an army.
Mostin fervently hoped that his quiescence of the spheres would not be anticipated. He cursed, because Nwm would have been an invaluable ally. He made a brief, unfelt prayer to any benign deities who might be listening that Shomei should not die today – she was one of the few people with the wit to understand him. And he adjusted his hat – a huge affair, resembling a mortar-board, made from crimson silk, and boasting two-hundred cloth-of-gold tassles.
They had made the decision to split into two groups. The first contained Shomei, her conjured minions, Eadric and the succubus Chaya – one of Soneillon's 'handmaidens.' Chaya had a penchant for powerful necromantic spells. The second trio – Ortwin, Koilimilou, and the Alienist himself – was less of a concern for Mostin. As long as Rhyxali was on their side, then Koilimilou was not a tangible threat. If Rhyxali were to become their enemy, however – not entirely impossible, given the whims of powerful demonesses – then Koilimilou would be a dangerous adversary, with considerable tactical information useful to the Princess. Prompt elimination of the sidhe-cambion would be necessary.
Chaya, however, was a completely unknown factor. She was wild, bloodthirsty and crazy – even for a demon, Mostin ruefully considered. She had been instructed by Soneillon to guard the Queen of Throile's current favourite – namely, Eadric – and to make her reservoir available to Shomei on demand. Chaya was less than pleased. But she feared Soneillon.
A third group would consist of Soneillon herself (she had elected to become personally involved), the balor Irzho (who, by Soneillon's magic, would be augmented to terrifying power), and Rimilin (won't it be delightful to see him again, Mostin thought caustically). Rimilin's craft had reportedly increased to the extent that Mostin wondered if he might be on the verge of transvalency, or even if he had already achieved it. Rimilin had mastered Irzho. How? Mostin thought. Irzho had a mind blanking ring. How does one master a mind blanked balor?* The price for their involvement? For Irzho, Heedless – what balor wouldn't like a huge, intelligent anarchic vorpal sword? For Rimilin, sinister pacts struck with Soneillon, and possibly Rhyxali. Mostin shuddered. The direct sponsorship of a wizard of Rimilin's prestige by a demoness of Rhyxali's power would place him on a par with Shomei in terms of fiendish clout. And Rimilin lacked Shomei's – admittedly idiosyncratic – principles.
The Alienist smiled. Despite his loathing of the Acolyte of the Skin, it was not without a certain degree of pride that he recognized that Rimilin was part of one of the most formidable generation of spellcasters that Wyre had yet produced. Although, for a golden age of magic, it seems strangely dark and bleak.
Mostin, Shomei, Ortwin and Eadric were all telepathically bonded, magically bolstered, and smothered with various wards. The Alienist lamented Nwm's absence again: more would have been better. Mostin was charged up with reality maelstroms as well as various sonics, conjurations and auxiliary spells. Shomei was loaded with necromancies, enchantments and conjurations.
Their greatest assets, however, were two spells: a protective dweomer devised by Shomei, and an abjuration invoked by Soneillon herself prior to their arrival in Afqithan – Mostin had later learned that Rimilin, Irzho, Nhura and several others had been similarly warded by the Queen of Throile. They were virtually invulnerable to magic, and unless struck by multiple disjunctions, or unless Graz'zt himself were to come and target them with his superb dispelling, all were safe from an unfortunate evaporation of magical protections at the hands of other spellcasters. Mostin knew that the succubus Adyell was capable of bringing down their wards, and hoped that Soneillon was correct in her assertion that her former handmaiden would not be present.
The Alienist circled nervously, and glanced downwards towards Shomei. He sighed. She is glorious, he had to admit to himself.
The Infernalist was flanked by four pit fiends, conjured via planar bindings and then subjected to the power of her Will, focused through her rod. And they were Belial's pit fiends – bound in deliberate defiance of the Lord of Hell's Fourth Circle. She was clad in her robe of stars, and while – as always – she bore her rod, a globe now hung from her belt: a sphere of transparent adamant from which Nufrut's head leered. The marilith had passed into Shomei's possession, as previously agreed with Mostin.
Eadric sat nearby upon Contundor, and both steed and rider appeared impassive. The celestial charger had acquired a pair of huge feathery wings, which caused Mostin to feel nauseous every time he saw them: Mostin was profoundly thankful that he and the Ahma were not in the same team. Next to Eadric, in dark antiparallel, the succubus Chaya waited with her mount – a foul-tempered cauchemar which champed restlessly. Mostin studied her briefly: the demoness was naked and scarred, almost bestial in appearance. She bore no weapon, and carried but a single item – a smoking black diamond the size of a fist which oozed necromantic power.
Somewhat removed, displaying his characteristic nonchalance, Ortwin laughed and twirled his scimitar confidently. Koilimilou, perched upon an ecalypse and surrounded by jariliths, ignored him. She seemed even more introspective than normal, and Mostin watched her nervously: was she privy to Rhyxali's plans (which were certain to be other than had been revealed)? Did she possess a measure of genuine affection for Ortwin? It seemed unlikely – neither demons nor sidhe were renowned for warmth in their relations. Could Ortwin be trusted, anyway?
Except for Eadric, we are a gruesome, conceited and selfish bunch. Perhaps he is the moral glue which binds the feys, sociopaths and fiends together.
The Alienist shrugged, and descended. His thoughts reached out to Shomei.
[Mostin]: My fingers itch! How much longer?
[Shomei]: Three minutes, by my reckoning.
[Mostin]: Aren't your bodyguards restless?
[Shomei]: Devils are notoriously patient.
[Mostin]: I am having reservations.
[Shomei]: Good. Apparently your psychosis has limits.
[Mostin]: I am dubious about the quiescence of the spheres. I like retaining the option of instantaneous retreat.
[Shomei]: Mostin…
[Mostin]: Don't worry. I still intend to cast it.
[Shomei]: You'd damn well better, Mostin. Quite a lot hinges upon it. Still, you may have been better contriving the spell with yourself as a mobile locus, rather than designating a static one.
[Mostin]: And lose the opportunity to invoke reality maelstroms? Not bloody likely.
[Shomei]: I suspect that you won't get the chance in any case – you need to physically remove yourself two miles from your casting point.
[Mostin] (Grins): I've already thought of that. I will summon a pseudodjinn. We will wind walk together.
Shomei laughed. "You are ingenious." Then her manner suddenly became serious. "If I should die, Mostin…"
[Mostin]: Do not start this again.
[Shomei]: There are two simulacra at my mansion…
[Mostin]: !
[Shomei]: Together, they comprise most of what I am.
[Mostin]: They are lumps of ice, Shomei.
[Shomei]: You will need to find a way to reify them.
[Mostin]: That is not possible.
[Shomei]: Nonsense. It has merely never been accomplished before. It will be a task commensurate with your ability.
[Mostin]: They lack a Self, Shomei.
[Shomei]: I didn't say it would be easy. One is of me as I was – before Nwm reincarnated me. The other is of me as I am now. (Ironically) They are called Sho and Mei. You will tell them apart by their hair colour.
[Mostin]: This is distasteful!
[Shomei]: It will be your magnum opus, Mostin. The last challenge I set you. I would not leave the world bereft of my acquired knowledge.
[Mostin]: You are more than the sum of your learning. I wish you'd said something about this before.
[Shomei]: Do all creatures have multiple pseudonatural analogues, Mostin? If so, I would start with that premise.
[Mostin]: (Astonishment).
[Shomei]: I have left each with two contradictory impulses: preserve thyself and transcend thyself. Hopefully, the seeds of dialectical consciousness have already been sown. They will aid you in your research – both are familiar with my library. Everything I have is yours, Mostin.
[Mostin]: (Utter amazement). Shomei…
[Shomei]: Sho possesses the key to my astral retreat. I have not used it in some time, for fear of assault. If the current crisis is resolved favorably, it should be safe again. And try to establish a second Triune: three is a good number for productive magical inquiry. Consider Rimilin…
[Mostin]: You cannot be serious!
[Shomei]: You are the most powerful living wizard in Wyre, Mostin. You have a responsibility to act as a check on him.
[Mostin]: That is the Claviger's purpose.
[Shomei]: The Claviger acts within its own circumscribed limits.
[Mostin]: Mulissu…
[Shomei] (Sadly): Look no more to Mulissu for aid.
[SONEILLON]: NOW
Shomei smiled, unrolled a scroll, and opened a teleportation circle to a location previously scried.
Beneath a screen, in a small glade within sight of both the steep tor upon which Irknaan's palace stood, and of Murmuur's diabolic tower, Mostin – together with Shomei and Koilimilou – began to invoke the quiescence of the spheres.
A thought flickered through Mostin's mind: Murmuur's tower is outside of the quiescence. Had it moved? He couldn't recall its exact previous location.
Mere seconds before the spell was completed, tens of thousands of shadow demons began to manifest as Viractuth – Rhyxali's lieutenant – folded a huge area of a distant Abyssal layer, and brought it into vibrational congruence with Afqithan; a massive gate opened to a demiplane abutting Throile, spewing forth Soneillon's horde; and Nhura and her knights and sorcerers – along with compactees and sidhe mercenaries – simultaneously translated en masse from the Plane of Shadow.
The keen-eyed spined devils who circled Murmuur's tower relayed the information to Azazel – their commander-in-chief. Hell's standard-bearer issued an immediate telepathic command to Murmuur: Open the gates.
Titivilus – whose presence never failed to irk Azazel – now stood nearby. Dispater's Nuncio betrayed no sign of emotion
Azazel scowled, and his knights and captains quailed before him. He entered a brief, silent reverie, and communed with his master. He did not doubt that all contingencies had been anticipated.
[Azazel]: What is your command?
[………..]: We will not intervene yet: a measure of uncertainty still exists. Wait. Hold your position until instructed otherwise.
[Azazel]: Yes, Majesty.
*Mostin had originally assumed that Rimilin was Irzho's slave, rather than vice-versa.
At least five infinities clashed in Afqithan. When forces collide in the metaphysical realm, it is only natural that this is reflected in our own.
- Orolde.
Rhul's case had been delivered with such eloquence and such poignancy that all those who listened to him, excepting perhaps Jetheeg – the lamia cum hag who possessed neither a moral conscience nor artistic sensibilities – had been moved.
He had spoken of Sisperi: its clans, and history and traditions; its wide grasslands and virgin forests; its towns and villages; the customs and the temperament of its peoples. He had evoked scenes of soaring mountains riven with deep canyons, and sun shining on a rolling surf, and mists rising over cold, still lakes. His speech had possessed a natural rhythm which made all constructed meter seem crass and childish; his tone was mellifluous and enchanting.
And then he had spoken of death, and ruin, and the end of the world. Of the blight which consumed all things and turned them to filth and desolation. Of the razing of civilization, and the final extinction of sapience. Rhul's words had become a soft-spoken lament; there was no compromise in his description of the horror which had occurred, even until the bitter end. He had spoken of Mulhuk, and of Saes, and Lai, and the death of Hodh and other godlings besides. He had spoken of Ninit, and her wild, unquenchable fury.
Ortwin had sat silently, his head in his hands. Mostin had stared blankly. Bile and anger had arisen in Eadric's throat.
And then Rhul had begged for aid. Eadric had felt as though his soul had been cut in half.
*
After he had left – and Rhul's message and entreaty had taken more than two hours to deliver – Eadric resumed his seat uncomfortably. He poured himself a large goblet of wine, and sat back in his chair. The fire in the hearth had dwindled to a dull glow, and moonlight illuminated the Great Hall through the windows high in its south wall. The servants – disturbed by the company which the Ahma chose to keep – had long since retired.
"You cannot waver now," Mostin groaned. "We are so close. How many other worlds could tell a similar tale?"
"The Wizard is right," Jetheeg scoffed. "Do not let your weakness and susceptibility to a well-spun story dictate your course of action in this. You have taken vows, and made assurances, Ahma. Would you add oathbreaking to your tally of crimes against your deity? The list gets longer every day, I hear." The innuendo was hardly subtle.
Eadric sighed. "How many has Nhura gathered?"
"A thousand Loquai knights – virtually all of those who were exiled. Some few sidhe. Compactees. More than a few slaadi may involve themselves."
"Slaadi?" Shomei gaped. "Is Nhura insane?" She furrowed her brow, and glanced at Mostin – who shrugged and scowled. Neither had foreseen the possibility.
"They are not waiting with her in Faerie or Shadow," Jetheeg snapped. "But several Anarchs have become aware of the situation. They have a vested interest, after all."
Realization crossed Mostin's face. "Heedless," he said.
Jetheeg nodded curtly.
Eadric swallowed. "Mostin, you've said many times that this will be no conventional war. That I need to think far beyond anything with which I am familiar. Do you have any idea how long this will take to resolve? Are we talking in terms of days? Weeks?"
Mostin laughed. "Eadric, if the situation in Afqithan is not decided within fifteen minutes, I will be surprised."
The Ahma nodded grimly. "Then I would ask you to issue a sending to Rhul: if I'm not in Sisperi in two days, it means I'm dead, and I'm not coming."
"You mean to go otherwise, then?"
"Yes."
Mostin turned to Soneillon, who had thus far only observed. "You have been conspicuously silent. I am surprised that you have had nothing to contribute. What of your own force? And what of Rhyxali, Soneillon? What is she sending?"
"Demons, dear Mostin. She is sending demons."
"How many?" He asked irritably.
"Rhyxali is not predisposed to act often," Soneillon smiled, "but when she does, she acts decisively. She is sending nearly all of them, Mostin."
Mostin's jaw dropped.
Koilimilou smiled.
"I smell a rat," Ortwin remarked.
**
Mostin dreamed of devils.
Powerful devils. Terrible devils. One bore a chain with many barbed hooks which dripped a black venom; another had claws like scythes which clicked together as it flexed its fingers; a third wore a great hood, but Mostin knew that it was faceless beneath its cowl. The fourth devil was still an angel – a Virtue, of sorts. It was tall and beautiful, and wore a breastplate which had been forged before the beginning of time. Strength and power and wisdom were in its hand – but so were lust and greed and evil. It stood beneath a vast banner which depicted a meteor streaking through oblivion.
When he awoke, the details eluded him, and he was left with a vague feeling of dread. Dream had claimed his last precognition, and Mostin, who was no Dreamer, could not recall it.
**
Magic coursed again through Mostin's veins as he flew. Afqithan was wild, dark and potent.
This place, he thought. Out of a quintillion possible worlds, why had they chosen this one? What forces had conspired to make this time and place what it was? Mostin was no fatalist, but nor was he quite so arrogant to think that he had entirely mastered the cosmos.
He pondered whether Graz'zt would project himself to Afqithan, or whether he would choose to exercise restraint – the latter seemed more likely, according to Mostin's understanding of Graz'zt's paranoia. A combination of the terms silver cord and Heedless had sprung to the Alienist's mind – Graz'zt would not be safe from a vorpal sword, even if he was otherwise warded or fortified. Snip, and it would all be over. Even if Graz'zt knew a spell which specifically protected his cord from dangerous slaadi blades – entirely possible given his age and dedication to sorcery – then it was one less death impulse or desperate summons that he would be casting. And Graz'zt had no doubt considered the unlikely possibility that one of his enemies acquire the sword. Or if Ainhorr lost control…
Gods, Mostin thought. What happens if Ainhorr loses control of the sword? Who will he chop? What was the Sword's agenda?
Kostchtchie was already in Afqithan: a 'visiting dignitary' who, in terms of power, was more-or-less matched with Ainhorr – certainly as long as Heedless remained in the Balor's possession. Kostchtchie's entourage was hardly diplomatic, however – armoured fiendish giant huscarls and sorcerers, white wyrms, a winter-wight and countless bar-lgura. Except for the wight, they were, at present, situated some six hundred miles from their current position, near the fortress of Irknaan. But many could also move instantly across any distance, so it barely mattered. The undead monster was harrowing large tracts of forest with no apparent rhyme or reason – the Alienist wondered whether it was even vaguely reliable as an ally of the Demon Lord.
According to Jetheeg, who had received news from Nhura, Graz'zt had opened a number of portals – most likely of a limited duration than of permanent nature – between the planes. Afqithan was now linked directly with Azzagrat in at least two other locations besides Irknaan's fortress, and also with the Ice Waste – presumably in the vicinity of Kostchtchie's force. The exact whereabouts of the new gates were uncertain: this was problematic.
The Alienist knew that most of Soneillon's faction would arrive the same way: through a portal opened by the demoness from one of Throile's "wrinkles," and assumed that Rhyxali's force would be similarly deployed. The little that Mostin did know about Rhyxali included the importance of the marilith Viractuth within the Shadow Princess's camp. Viractuth was a powerful sorceress who served in the capacity of general and confidante. She would be capable of a magical feat which could transport an army.
Mostin fervently hoped that his quiescence of the spheres would not be anticipated. He cursed, because Nwm would have been an invaluable ally. He made a brief, unfelt prayer to any benign deities who might be listening that Shomei should not die today – she was one of the few people with the wit to understand him. And he adjusted his hat – a huge affair, resembling a mortar-board, made from crimson silk, and boasting two-hundred cloth-of-gold tassles.
They had made the decision to split into two groups. The first contained Shomei, her conjured minions, Eadric and the succubus Chaya – one of Soneillon's 'handmaidens.' Chaya had a penchant for powerful necromantic spells. The second trio – Ortwin, Koilimilou, and the Alienist himself – was less of a concern for Mostin. As long as Rhyxali was on their side, then Koilimilou was not a tangible threat. If Rhyxali were to become their enemy, however – not entirely impossible, given the whims of powerful demonesses – then Koilimilou would be a dangerous adversary, with considerable tactical information useful to the Princess. Prompt elimination of the sidhe-cambion would be necessary.
Chaya, however, was a completely unknown factor. She was wild, bloodthirsty and crazy – even for a demon, Mostin ruefully considered. She had been instructed by Soneillon to guard the Queen of Throile's current favourite – namely, Eadric – and to make her reservoir available to Shomei on demand. Chaya was less than pleased. But she feared Soneillon.
A third group would consist of Soneillon herself (she had elected to become personally involved), the balor Irzho (who, by Soneillon's magic, would be augmented to terrifying power), and Rimilin (won't it be delightful to see him again, Mostin thought caustically). Rimilin's craft had reportedly increased to the extent that Mostin wondered if he might be on the verge of transvalency, or even if he had already achieved it. Rimilin had mastered Irzho. How? Mostin thought. Irzho had a mind blanking ring. How does one master a mind blanked balor?* The price for their involvement? For Irzho, Heedless – what balor wouldn't like a huge, intelligent anarchic vorpal sword? For Rimilin, sinister pacts struck with Soneillon, and possibly Rhyxali. Mostin shuddered. The direct sponsorship of a wizard of Rimilin's prestige by a demoness of Rhyxali's power would place him on a par with Shomei in terms of fiendish clout. And Rimilin lacked Shomei's – admittedly idiosyncratic – principles.
The Alienist smiled. Despite his loathing of the Acolyte of the Skin, it was not without a certain degree of pride that he recognized that Rimilin was part of one of the most formidable generation of spellcasters that Wyre had yet produced. Although, for a golden age of magic, it seems strangely dark and bleak.
Mostin, Shomei, Ortwin and Eadric were all telepathically bonded, magically bolstered, and smothered with various wards. The Alienist lamented Nwm's absence again: more would have been better. Mostin was charged up with reality maelstroms as well as various sonics, conjurations and auxiliary spells. Shomei was loaded with necromancies, enchantments and conjurations.
Their greatest assets, however, were two spells: a protective dweomer devised by Shomei, and an abjuration invoked by Soneillon herself prior to their arrival in Afqithan – Mostin had later learned that Rimilin, Irzho, Nhura and several others had been similarly warded by the Queen of Throile. They were virtually invulnerable to magic, and unless struck by multiple disjunctions, or unless Graz'zt himself were to come and target them with his superb dispelling, all were safe from an unfortunate evaporation of magical protections at the hands of other spellcasters. Mostin knew that the succubus Adyell was capable of bringing down their wards, and hoped that Soneillon was correct in her assertion that her former handmaiden would not be present.
The Alienist circled nervously, and glanced downwards towards Shomei. He sighed. She is glorious, he had to admit to himself.
The Infernalist was flanked by four pit fiends, conjured via planar bindings and then subjected to the power of her Will, focused through her rod. And they were Belial's pit fiends – bound in deliberate defiance of the Lord of Hell's Fourth Circle. She was clad in her robe of stars, and while – as always – she bore her rod, a globe now hung from her belt: a sphere of transparent adamant from which Nufrut's head leered. The marilith had passed into Shomei's possession, as previously agreed with Mostin.
Eadric sat nearby upon Contundor, and both steed and rider appeared impassive. The celestial charger had acquired a pair of huge feathery wings, which caused Mostin to feel nauseous every time he saw them: Mostin was profoundly thankful that he and the Ahma were not in the same team. Next to Eadric, in dark antiparallel, the succubus Chaya waited with her mount – a foul-tempered cauchemar which champed restlessly. Mostin studied her briefly: the demoness was naked and scarred, almost bestial in appearance. She bore no weapon, and carried but a single item – a smoking black diamond the size of a fist which oozed necromantic power.
Somewhat removed, displaying his characteristic nonchalance, Ortwin laughed and twirled his scimitar confidently. Koilimilou, perched upon an ecalypse and surrounded by jariliths, ignored him. She seemed even more introspective than normal, and Mostin watched her nervously: was she privy to Rhyxali's plans (which were certain to be other than had been revealed)? Did she possess a measure of genuine affection for Ortwin? It seemed unlikely – neither demons nor sidhe were renowned for warmth in their relations. Could Ortwin be trusted, anyway?
Except for Eadric, we are a gruesome, conceited and selfish bunch. Perhaps he is the moral glue which binds the feys, sociopaths and fiends together.
The Alienist shrugged, and descended. His thoughts reached out to Shomei.
[Mostin]: My fingers itch! How much longer?
[Shomei]: Three minutes, by my reckoning.
[Mostin]: Aren't your bodyguards restless?
[Shomei]: Devils are notoriously patient.
[Mostin]: I am having reservations.
[Shomei]: Good. Apparently your psychosis has limits.
[Mostin]: I am dubious about the quiescence of the spheres. I like retaining the option of instantaneous retreat.
[Shomei]: Mostin…
[Mostin]: Don't worry. I still intend to cast it.
[Shomei]: You'd damn well better, Mostin. Quite a lot hinges upon it. Still, you may have been better contriving the spell with yourself as a mobile locus, rather than designating a static one.
[Mostin]: And lose the opportunity to invoke reality maelstroms? Not bloody likely.
[Shomei]: I suspect that you won't get the chance in any case – you need to physically remove yourself two miles from your casting point.
[Mostin] (Grins): I've already thought of that. I will summon a pseudodjinn. We will wind walk together.
Shomei laughed. "You are ingenious." Then her manner suddenly became serious. "If I should die, Mostin…"
[Mostin]: Do not start this again.
[Shomei]: There are two simulacra at my mansion…
[Mostin]: !
[Shomei]: Together, they comprise most of what I am.
[Mostin]: They are lumps of ice, Shomei.
[Shomei]: You will need to find a way to reify them.
[Mostin]: That is not possible.
[Shomei]: Nonsense. It has merely never been accomplished before. It will be a task commensurate with your ability.
[Mostin]: They lack a Self, Shomei.
[Shomei]: I didn't say it would be easy. One is of me as I was – before Nwm reincarnated me. The other is of me as I am now. (Ironically) They are called Sho and Mei. You will tell them apart by their hair colour.
[Mostin]: This is distasteful!
[Shomei]: It will be your magnum opus, Mostin. The last challenge I set you. I would not leave the world bereft of my acquired knowledge.
[Mostin]: You are more than the sum of your learning. I wish you'd said something about this before.
[Shomei]: Do all creatures have multiple pseudonatural analogues, Mostin? If so, I would start with that premise.
[Mostin]: (Astonishment).
[Shomei]: I have left each with two contradictory impulses: preserve thyself and transcend thyself. Hopefully, the seeds of dialectical consciousness have already been sown. They will aid you in your research – both are familiar with my library. Everything I have is yours, Mostin.
[Mostin]: (Utter amazement). Shomei…
[Shomei]: Sho possesses the key to my astral retreat. I have not used it in some time, for fear of assault. If the current crisis is resolved favorably, it should be safe again. And try to establish a second Triune: three is a good number for productive magical inquiry. Consider Rimilin…
[Mostin]: You cannot be serious!
[Shomei]: You are the most powerful living wizard in Wyre, Mostin. You have a responsibility to act as a check on him.
[Mostin]: That is the Claviger's purpose.
[Shomei]: The Claviger acts within its own circumscribed limits.
[Mostin]: Mulissu…
[Shomei] (Sadly): Look no more to Mulissu for aid.
[SONEILLON]: NOW
Shomei smiled, unrolled a scroll, and opened a teleportation circle to a location previously scried.
Beneath a screen, in a small glade within sight of both the steep tor upon which Irknaan's palace stood, and of Murmuur's diabolic tower, Mostin – together with Shomei and Koilimilou – began to invoke the quiescence of the spheres.
A thought flickered through Mostin's mind: Murmuur's tower is outside of the quiescence. Had it moved? He couldn't recall its exact previous location.
Mere seconds before the spell was completed, tens of thousands of shadow demons began to manifest as Viractuth – Rhyxali's lieutenant – folded a huge area of a distant Abyssal layer, and brought it into vibrational congruence with Afqithan; a massive gate opened to a demiplane abutting Throile, spewing forth Soneillon's horde; and Nhura and her knights and sorcerers – along with compactees and sidhe mercenaries – simultaneously translated en masse from the Plane of Shadow.
The keen-eyed spined devils who circled Murmuur's tower relayed the information to Azazel – their commander-in-chief. Hell's standard-bearer issued an immediate telepathic command to Murmuur: Open the gates.
Titivilus – whose presence never failed to irk Azazel – now stood nearby. Dispater's Nuncio betrayed no sign of emotion
Azazel scowled, and his knights and captains quailed before him. He entered a brief, silent reverie, and communed with his master. He did not doubt that all contingencies had been anticipated.
[Azazel]: What is your command?
[………..]: We will not intervene yet: a measure of uncertainty still exists. Wait. Hold your position until instructed otherwise.
[Azazel]: Yes, Majesty.
*Mostin had originally assumed that Rimilin was Irzho's slave, rather than vice-versa.
