The Rape of Morne - Part 2 (Updated 2/26)
- Thread starter Sepulchrave II
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Lazybones
Adventurer
Ser author, verily doth your fame spread beyond these hallowed halls:
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Warrior Poet
Explorer
Been away too long ...
Thanks again for this story. It's gold.
And now Divertimento ... oh, dear ...
Thumbs up!
Warrior Poet
Thanks again for this story. It's gold.
And now Divertimento ... oh, dear ...
Thumbs up!
Warrior Poet
Sepulchrave II
Legend
The Night Before
"Last season’s style looks good upon you, Mostin," Waide said drily, adjusting his cravat.
The Alienist scowled. "It’s a shame that you’re too fat to do justice to the current one." His dislike for the other Wizard was based mostly on their all too-similar temperaments (Waide was as tight-lipped and pedantic as Mostin himself) – combined with Waide’s disdain for all non-transmutive spells and processes.
Waide smiled thinly. "Thus endeth summoning in Wyre. How do you feel about that, Mostin? What will you do with yourself?"
Wait until you venture outside of the proscribed area before I unleash the Pseudonaturals on you, he thought. He shrugged. "I’ll get by. This is only one small part of one small reality."
"Quite so," Shomei interrupted. "We are still waiting for Hlioth and Daunton. Would you care for some refreshment, Waide?"
"Hlioth? That mad old crone won’t come. She’s long past it. I’ll have a herbal infusion, thank-you"
"She will come," Jovol said smoothly, entering the drawing-room.
"Where is Tozinak?" Waide asked. "I assumed that he was to be included."
"He is. He is currently experimenting with object-identification."
A small credence table nearby shifted into a more recognizable human form, spilling the drinks which sat upon it onto the floor. The ever-shifting features of Tozinak appeared beneath his characteristic hooded yellow cloak. He bowed dramatically, and when he rose, he had grown a long beard and his skin had changed colour.
"So we are going to Hell, then?" He asked brightly.
"Not exactly," Mostin said. "Although close enough. Gihaahia abides in the blasted regions abutting Avernus."
"Ahh, an exile," Tozinak nodded sagely.
"It is more complex than that," Shomei said irritably. "In any case, there will be eight of us: You, I, Mostin, Mulissu, Waide, Hlioth, Daunton and Jovol."
"Eight is an inauspicious number," Tozinak said. "Seven or nine would be better. What of Griel?"
"He is unnecessary," Jovol said. "Eight will be enough."
"And you are sure that we have sufficient power to accomplish this?"
Mostin nodded. "Shomei and I have both inspected Jovol’s calculations. We should have no problems. Gihaahia is vastly powerful and ancient, spawned in a forgotten aeon between a Prince of Hell and a Goddess of Nothingness. But we can bind her."
"Are we opening a Gate, or shifting straight there?" Waide inquired nervously.
"I would suggest an Astral Spell," Mostin offered, "although someone other than I will have to cast it." He was in no particular hurry.
Jovol shook his head. "I will Dream us there."
Mostin raised an eyebrow. "Isn’t that rather unreliable?"
"Not at all," Jovol replied. "And it is much more discreet. It will only take a few minutes.
"And casting the spell?" Waide asked. "Will she just stand there while we bind her?"
Mostin groaned. "Where is your sense of adventure, Waide? You’re so boring. In answer to your question, no. Which is why we will cheat. Jovol will create a temporal bubble before we encounter her – we will not be in the same time-stream."
"That is a sensible precaution," Tozinak nodded.
"Trust me," Jovol said. "It will all be very anticlimactic. The only other thing I should mention is this: we will all sustain backlash from the spell, with the majority of it falling on me. And each of us will invest a small portion of our personal reservoir in addition – again, I will bear the brunt."
"Wait a minute…" Waide began.
"You are so selfish," Mostin chided. "Have you no thoughts for posterity? Can’t you see beyond your own small world? Great magic suffers because of atrophied minds such as yours."
"What is ‘small’ for Jovol, may be more than I can render!"
"Tish!" In fact, although the Alienist himself was distraught by Jovol’s request, the chance to criticize Waide’s reluctance in front of those others present almost made up for it.
**
Eadric rode through the streets of Morne with a dozen of his most stalwart followers, appalled at the scenes which he witnessed. The bulk of the Templars, Ortwin and Iua – together with the circling Nwm and his two eagle companions – were left to deal with the chaos around the south gate and the mustering grounds within the city’s tall walls. Identifying who was affected by the compulsion was near impossible, and as Ortwin clobbered random people over the head with the pommel of his scimitar, he wondered how long the mass subdual would take.
Fortunately, Nwm intervened. With a spell that made many of the Paladins and Clerics shake with the memory of what had transpired on the Nund meadows, the Druid conjured a writhing mass of poisonous vines which entangled the limbs of those present. More than three-quarters of the crowd were pinned, and many succumbed to the paralyzing effects of the burgeoning vegetation.
The work of the Temple knights was made considerably easier – the vines covered an area of more than two acres – and at the Druid’s command, they next wrapped and bound around five hundred of Morne’s hapless citizens. Seeing the success of the conjuration, Nwm squawked and flew in search of other pockets of conflict, preparing to cast as many entangle spells – and variations thereof – that he could muster. He was joined in the air by both Ortwin and Iua, taking advantage of the perspective that it offered, and grimly observing the wreck of the Temple quarter – from the air, the pattern of death and violence seemed to radiate outwards from the Fane itself.
Night was falling. The Temple compound itself was eerily quiet. Several outbuildings had been torched, and they burned steadily. Dust still hung thick in the air from the recent collapse of the Great Fane’s south face. The bodies of Templars – many of those few dozen who had remained in Morne – were scattered across the blackened lawns and terraces. Eadric ordered his followers to attend to those few that were still breathing – but only after they had been bound or restrained. He dismounted and, followed by Brey, Sercion and Tatterbrand, passed through a blackened door into the sacristy.
Heaps of torn and shredded chasubles lay within, and vessels lay strewn around. More bodies – priests and acolytes – lay in unlikely postures, where they had struck each other down with ceremonial staves or swords when the spell had taken effect. Before they exited into the ambulatory, Brey’s sharp eyes caught a movement beneath a pile of heavy vestments – he said nothing, but gave Eadric a meaningful look and flicked his eyes towards the robes. The Paladin drew Lukarn, cautiously approached, and pulled the coverings aside. The rather pathetic figure of the Bishop of Hethio was revealed, quivering uncontrollably. Upon meeting Eadric’s gaze, he made a number of ineffectual warding motions.
"I am doomed," he groaned. "The Adversary has come for me."
"Get up," Eadric commanded.
"Leave me, Devil. Get you gone." He brandished a pendant displaying an eagle at the Paladin.
"GET UP. You reek of taint," Eadric said, grabbing the Bishop’s hair, and dragging him towards the door. "You are an assassin, a liar, a manipulator and a coward."
Hethio screamed in pain as he was pulled along. "Will you sacrifice me?"
"No indeed, Eminence," Eadric spat. "I will take you to see God – which is neither more nor less than you deserve. Why you were spared from this is beyond my understanding. I assume that he has some purpose for you, so I won’t sentence you to death. But be warned – I am in a very, very bad mood."
So Eadric, Brey, Sercion, Tatterbrand and the – albeit reluctant – Bishop of Hethio made their way to the chancel and the Archiepiscopal throne. The Paladin recalled his premonition of the scenes along the Temple corridors. The reality was a thousand times worse than his vision could have possibly suggested.
*
Nine thousand dead, Nwm thought to himself as his mind reached outwards and took a grim tally. He groaned.
A vine mine contained an episode of looting and violence in the Street of Goldsmiths, but by the time that the Druid had circled the city for the third time, he saw that most of the outbreaks were localized and involved only a few people. Tagur had committed soldiers from the defense of the city to arrest any others who were under the effects of the compulsion, and Nwm turned his hand to dousing the flames within Morne. Again. Periodically, he would commune with the Green in an effort to locate any other demons, but they were either out of his range or warded from his inner vision.
The Satyr and the Duelist descended into the outer courtyard of the Temple compound, where Jorde was directing the restraint and healing of any survivors of the Wave of Hate. Even Ortwin, a staunch opponent of Temple policy and activity since long before the current crisis had begun, found the scene depressing and unnerving.
"Where’s Ed?" The Bard asked.
"The Ahma has gone to seek the Sela," a Paladin replied gravely.
"Where’s Tramst?" He asked irreverently.
"The Sela is most likely within the chancel," the other answered with more earnest piety than Ortwin thought necessary.
The Bard turned to Iua and grinned. "Wanna go and see a god?" He asked flippantly. "Its okay – he’s harmless. His head stooge is a old friend of mine."
Jorde sighed. He, at least, was used to Ortwin’s idiosyncrasies. "I think, perhaps, only the faithful should be permitted within for the time being."
Iua was about to say something, but a look of ecstasy combined with contrite horror passed across Jorde’s face. "Yes, Lord," he mumbled to himself. "Forgive my presumption."
Ortwin raised an eyebrow.
"The Sela will receive you before the throne," Jorde explained nervously. "He apologizes that the main gate to the Fane is in ruins, and suggests that you use the entrance through the vestry."
"Quite right," the Satyr said facetiously, staring at the wreck of the South Transept. Inwardly, he swallowed, and wondered whether it had been such a good idea after all.
**
Tramst sat beneath the immense symbol of Oronthon – the Eagle-and-Sun which reared in the centre of the Fane. Large chunks of masonry lay scattered within – ornate carvings which had fallen from the ceiling and shattered the pews and cracked the smooth flags of the floor. Yet more bodies lay there, and aside from a handful of Temple officiants and lesser clergy, the Sela was alone. The few present seemed enrapt in some mystical state. Somehow, the Proxy seemed even more mortal and even less divine than before.
Eadric approached tentatively. Despite his best efforts to stop it, his mind swam with questions. How could you allow? Why did you? Why did you not? What was the purpose? He grimaced and tried to make the queries go away.
Do not repress the doubt in your mind, Ahma. You know better than that.
I wish there had been another way.
Do you mean, "Was there no other way?"
(Ruefully).Yes, Holiness.
Not all Truths are unequal, Eadric. Consider this question: What if Graz’zt acted as the unwitting agent of a wrathful Oronthon, dispensing ire and justice upon those who defied his will?
Is that so?
That is one interpretation. Here is another question: Presently, an Eagle flies above Morne. Where it acts, those who suffer from the madness are restrained and can do each other no harm. What if this is the mercy of Oronthon, bringing succour to those who deserve it?
I understand, Holiness. The fact that it is Nwm does not diminish the fact that certain people will perceive it in a certain way.
It is no less true, in fact: the Sophists would claim that Uedii and Oronthon are one and the same. Equally, it is true to some that you are the agent of the Adversary. You brought ruin upon the Temple. Your desire for a demoness signalled the death-knell for Orthodoxy. Have you accepted that truth yet?
(Wrily).That is harder.
Why, if the Adversary is an aspect of Oronthon?
That is only one of many conflicting truths.
Ahh, saizho, Ahma.
What must be done now, Holiness?
There are still loose ends to be tied up. Events are not resolved. When they are, we begin the process of rebuilding. First we must deal with tomorrow: it will bring yet more pain.
I still have yet to see my role in this, beyond vague ideas.
The Magistratum will be consolidated into one body – the names ‘Mission’ and ‘Inquisition’ will no longer be employed. ‘Temple’ will become the catch-all term: it is a trend well-underway, in any case. The troops in Iald have already been ordered to disband. Eisarn is withdrawing back to Morne. I need to speak with the Royal Council. I will need your diplomatic savvy.
I promised disestablishment.
They will have it.
(Embarrassed). I vowed to the Uediians that I would strive to end indentureship, and the Temple would recompense them.
Our coffers are not limitless, but I will honour your promise first.
I am also concerned of reprisals from the secular aristocracy directed against Hullu’s faction.
Sihu will not act: she is devout, if misguided – this can be corrected. Tagur is an ally.
Tagur is a rationalist, Holiness. As much as I respect him…
I have shown Tagur. It was he who ordered the gates open for you.
(Surprise). And Foide?
Foide will remain a problem.
There is also the issue of Trempa. Soraine’s death will leave a gap, and squabbling nephews will soon begin their maneuvering.
You could claim the Duchy. You have the support.
I have neither the time nor the inclination to administer it. My spiritual position would also be compromised by temporal concerns. Given the effort that I have made to separate the two, this might be interpreted as somewhat hypocritical. I would have supported Ryth, if he had made a claim.
You may yet be forced to intervene, to prevent more bloodshed. Such is the weight of responsibility.
(Confession). You have granted me time to act, Holiness. I purpose to assail Graz’zt. I have yet to determine how this is best accomplished.
(Amusement). That is a formidable task. If you ask for my blessing, I cannot give it: vengeance and retribution are not within my purview. Are they yours?
I don’t know. Perhaps.
*
Tramst turned to look at the Bishop of Hethio, who stood between Brey and Sercion. Each of the great Templars held an arm of the clergyman, whose eyes had remained closed and whose lips had muttered fervent prayers during the silent exchange between Eadric and the Sela.
A brief communion occurred. Tramst made an offer.
In doubt, and fear, and spite, and self-hatred, the Bishop declined.
A look of sadness passed across the face of the Sela. "Let him go," he said aloud to Brey and Sercion. "Depart, Hethio. Go where you will. At any time, you may approach me again. I do not judge, I merely teach."
But as the Bishop departed in haste from the chancel, Tramst spoke to him again. "You may be disappointed if you return to your see, Hethio. Your palace will be mortgaged, and your estates dissolved: I would hate to burden you with material concerns when your spiritual welfare is at stake."
Hethio grunted. Oronthon’s Proxy turned his attention to Sercion and Brey.
"When the Ahma departs, it would behoove you to remain. There is much that you need to un-learn."
Somewhat daunted, both Templars bowed.
As Eadric exited, picking his way through the rubble and smashed benches, he encountered Ortwin and Iua, both of whom, apparently, were walking towards Tramst. A quizzical look crossed the Paladin’s face.
"Hi Ed," Ortwin said. "Just thought we’d come and take a peek. I’ve never met a god before."
Eadric sighed. In matters religious, would Ortwin never be anything but a casual tourist?
**
What is this place? Mostin wondered, as phantasms floated past his vision for what seemed like hours. Half-formed dreams and reflections, insubstantial yet strangely real. Trees, roads, skies, a vaporous castle, a silver void. He looked around himself.
They didn’t seem to be moving – he, Jovol and the others – although the dreamscape changed in a pattern that he could not quite discern. After a period of intense turbulence, where scenes and sounds manifested in rapid succession, he felt that he had descended into someone else’s nightmare.
ANGERPAINDEATHPAINTORTUREVIOLENCE. CRUELTYLOATHINGMALICESPITEUGLINESS. BURNINGHATREDWITHOUTEND.
Such hatred. It staggered him. His mind span as he strove to maintain his focus. He shot a concerned look towards Tozinak, who of the others there was finding the current strands of consciousness hardest to deal with.
"It will pass," Jovol assured them. "It is merely an echo of an event long past, or one which happened in another time – depending on your perspective. Dream remembers all potentiality – realized or not, past, present or future. Parallel, perpendicular, or extending into an infinity of dimensions."
"What is/was/will be the event?" The Alienist asked, careful not to frame his question in the language of conventional linear time.
"That also depends on your perspective," the Ogre grinned. "The Prime Nodality. The beginning of dualism. The birth of the dialectic. The planting of the seeds of knowledge or damnation."
"The Fall," Shomei said.
"If you subscribe to that particular paradigm," Jovol nodded. "For the moment, we should adopt it whatever our respective world-views: it is relevant to our situation. Let’s just assume that it’s provisionally correct, and act accordingly. We are on the fringes of Hell."
"And Devils dream?" Mostin asked incredulously. "I’ve never seen one sleep, and I’ve known a few."
"Everything dreams," Jovol answered.
"Twaddle," Shomei muttered.
"But why do we feel the ripple here and now?" The Alienist pressed.
"There has been a sympathetic vibration, which hearkened back to an aspect of the Original Nodality."
"Ahh, Graz’zt."
Jovol nodded, sighed, gestured, and modified the passage of time.
*
In her abysm, where she had dwelt for untold aeons, brooding in bitterness and corruption, she stirred. Unlike those who had their place in the Adversary’s grand, despotic regime, she was an outsider – too potent to overcome, too alien to harness. A monstrosity conceived between a fallen Seraph and a forgotten deity who predated existence. Shadows swarmed about her. The fire that burned – within her and around her – both tortured and assuaged her.
The inkling that she had was vague and indistinct, but nonetheless present. A threat, certainly – although from what was impossible to say. It had been an age or more since Devils had attempted to woo her or eliminate her. Instinctively, she wreathed herself in void and vanished, shedding hatred and malice in waves which pulsed from her form. She pulled four Pit Fiends to herself from Hell’s deepest layer, and waited.
It was to no avail. In their temporal bubble, linked by Rary’s Telepathic Bond, the Wizards acted in uncanny coordination – an organic unit, from which potency flowed. In her Fiendform, Shomei’s eyes pierced the darkness. Their collective sight dispelled the veil of Invisibility.
Gihaahia, and her attendant Devils, appeared frozen in time and space. Jovol spoke the words, and raw power coursed through them all. Mostin’s head span ecstatically, and he resisted the urge to giggle.
The backlash was terrific, causing the Alienist’s skin to crack and his teeth to rattle in his head. Blood vessels across Jovol’s temples, down his neck, and along his arms ruptured, spraying blood over the other Wizards. He groaned, and pulled open the portal to Dream again.
The cabal vanished back into the unconscious world.
Gihaahia noticed nothing until it was too late. She would be called to the Prime, and serve the entity called Claviger.
Strange, she thought. It almost felt like some form of compulsion – not that she had ever experienced one. There were, after all, no compulsions capable of affecting her.
*
And so it transpired, as Jovol had either foreseen or determined – when a Wizard is an actor in his own visions of the future, who can judge whether it is ordained or not? Mostin, Shomei, Mulissu, Waide, Hlioth, Tozinak and Daunton submitted themselves to the Ogre’s direction, and wrought a spell that would change the future of magic in Wyre.
In that moment, when Gihaahia – scarce less than a demigoddess in her power – was bound to the Claviger, Mostin experienced first-hand his own theories of Will, and the power to make it manifest. It was true. Anything was possible. Anything.
Henceforth, the Claviger would reside in a cave in the weathered hills of Mord, south of Morne. Its location would be unknown to those who were not initiated – arcanists of sufficient power and reputation – but would exist as a rumour amongst those who aspired to be counted among the great.
Those Wizards who were vexed by dilemmas regarding their actions could approach the Claviger, and ask it for guidance. In its faultless interpretation of the Injunction, the Claviger would relay its adjudication in a sombre voice, issuing from the tablet upon which Jovol’s words were scribed.
Occasionally, those who spoke with it would encounter a small child in the chamber – this was generally considered to be the Claviger itself, and was interpreted as a favourable omen by the lucky petitioners. Less often, a woman of singular beauty would relay the Claviger’s stern remonstration to those who, for their own ends, attempted to interpret the letter of the Injunction against its spirit. This was known to be the Enforcer, whose manifestation was recognized as a dire warning, or worse.
Even with his own great foresight, Jovol could not have guessed that a Mystery cult would eventually develop around the site. The need for religion is incomprehensible to most Wizards, and despite Jovol’s friendship with celestials, and his concern for the welfare of Tramst, he was no exception.
As for those Wizards who, in fact, violated the Injunction, they would feel the wrath of the Enforcer in measure to their transgression. This was determined by the Claviger, which possessed a near-omniscience with regard to all things magical. Punishments ranged from confiscation of minor items from the Mage’s possessions, through subjection to a symbol of insanity in the event of a more major breach, to summary execution in the most serious of cases.
The first to fall to the Enforcer would be Jovol himself, when, in order to prevent a larger catastrophe, he slew the mage Kothchori.
"Last season’s style looks good upon you, Mostin," Waide said drily, adjusting his cravat.
The Alienist scowled. "It’s a shame that you’re too fat to do justice to the current one." His dislike for the other Wizard was based mostly on their all too-similar temperaments (Waide was as tight-lipped and pedantic as Mostin himself) – combined with Waide’s disdain for all non-transmutive spells and processes.
Waide smiled thinly. "Thus endeth summoning in Wyre. How do you feel about that, Mostin? What will you do with yourself?"
Wait until you venture outside of the proscribed area before I unleash the Pseudonaturals on you, he thought. He shrugged. "I’ll get by. This is only one small part of one small reality."
"Quite so," Shomei interrupted. "We are still waiting for Hlioth and Daunton. Would you care for some refreshment, Waide?"
"Hlioth? That mad old crone won’t come. She’s long past it. I’ll have a herbal infusion, thank-you"
"She will come," Jovol said smoothly, entering the drawing-room.
"Where is Tozinak?" Waide asked. "I assumed that he was to be included."
"He is. He is currently experimenting with object-identification."
A small credence table nearby shifted into a more recognizable human form, spilling the drinks which sat upon it onto the floor. The ever-shifting features of Tozinak appeared beneath his characteristic hooded yellow cloak. He bowed dramatically, and when he rose, he had grown a long beard and his skin had changed colour.
"So we are going to Hell, then?" He asked brightly.
"Not exactly," Mostin said. "Although close enough. Gihaahia abides in the blasted regions abutting Avernus."
"Ahh, an exile," Tozinak nodded sagely.
"It is more complex than that," Shomei said irritably. "In any case, there will be eight of us: You, I, Mostin, Mulissu, Waide, Hlioth, Daunton and Jovol."
"Eight is an inauspicious number," Tozinak said. "Seven or nine would be better. What of Griel?"
"He is unnecessary," Jovol said. "Eight will be enough."
"And you are sure that we have sufficient power to accomplish this?"
Mostin nodded. "Shomei and I have both inspected Jovol’s calculations. We should have no problems. Gihaahia is vastly powerful and ancient, spawned in a forgotten aeon between a Prince of Hell and a Goddess of Nothingness. But we can bind her."
"Are we opening a Gate, or shifting straight there?" Waide inquired nervously.
"I would suggest an Astral Spell," Mostin offered, "although someone other than I will have to cast it." He was in no particular hurry.
Jovol shook his head. "I will Dream us there."
Mostin raised an eyebrow. "Isn’t that rather unreliable?"
"Not at all," Jovol replied. "And it is much more discreet. It will only take a few minutes.
"And casting the spell?" Waide asked. "Will she just stand there while we bind her?"
Mostin groaned. "Where is your sense of adventure, Waide? You’re so boring. In answer to your question, no. Which is why we will cheat. Jovol will create a temporal bubble before we encounter her – we will not be in the same time-stream."
"That is a sensible precaution," Tozinak nodded.
"Trust me," Jovol said. "It will all be very anticlimactic. The only other thing I should mention is this: we will all sustain backlash from the spell, with the majority of it falling on me. And each of us will invest a small portion of our personal reservoir in addition – again, I will bear the brunt."
"Wait a minute…" Waide began.
"You are so selfish," Mostin chided. "Have you no thoughts for posterity? Can’t you see beyond your own small world? Great magic suffers because of atrophied minds such as yours."
"What is ‘small’ for Jovol, may be more than I can render!"
"Tish!" In fact, although the Alienist himself was distraught by Jovol’s request, the chance to criticize Waide’s reluctance in front of those others present almost made up for it.
**
Eadric rode through the streets of Morne with a dozen of his most stalwart followers, appalled at the scenes which he witnessed. The bulk of the Templars, Ortwin and Iua – together with the circling Nwm and his two eagle companions – were left to deal with the chaos around the south gate and the mustering grounds within the city’s tall walls. Identifying who was affected by the compulsion was near impossible, and as Ortwin clobbered random people over the head with the pommel of his scimitar, he wondered how long the mass subdual would take.
Fortunately, Nwm intervened. With a spell that made many of the Paladins and Clerics shake with the memory of what had transpired on the Nund meadows, the Druid conjured a writhing mass of poisonous vines which entangled the limbs of those present. More than three-quarters of the crowd were pinned, and many succumbed to the paralyzing effects of the burgeoning vegetation.
The work of the Temple knights was made considerably easier – the vines covered an area of more than two acres – and at the Druid’s command, they next wrapped and bound around five hundred of Morne’s hapless citizens. Seeing the success of the conjuration, Nwm squawked and flew in search of other pockets of conflict, preparing to cast as many entangle spells – and variations thereof – that he could muster. He was joined in the air by both Ortwin and Iua, taking advantage of the perspective that it offered, and grimly observing the wreck of the Temple quarter – from the air, the pattern of death and violence seemed to radiate outwards from the Fane itself.
Night was falling. The Temple compound itself was eerily quiet. Several outbuildings had been torched, and they burned steadily. Dust still hung thick in the air from the recent collapse of the Great Fane’s south face. The bodies of Templars – many of those few dozen who had remained in Morne – were scattered across the blackened lawns and terraces. Eadric ordered his followers to attend to those few that were still breathing – but only after they had been bound or restrained. He dismounted and, followed by Brey, Sercion and Tatterbrand, passed through a blackened door into the sacristy.
Heaps of torn and shredded chasubles lay within, and vessels lay strewn around. More bodies – priests and acolytes – lay in unlikely postures, where they had struck each other down with ceremonial staves or swords when the spell had taken effect. Before they exited into the ambulatory, Brey’s sharp eyes caught a movement beneath a pile of heavy vestments – he said nothing, but gave Eadric a meaningful look and flicked his eyes towards the robes. The Paladin drew Lukarn, cautiously approached, and pulled the coverings aside. The rather pathetic figure of the Bishop of Hethio was revealed, quivering uncontrollably. Upon meeting Eadric’s gaze, he made a number of ineffectual warding motions.
"I am doomed," he groaned. "The Adversary has come for me."
"Get up," Eadric commanded.
"Leave me, Devil. Get you gone." He brandished a pendant displaying an eagle at the Paladin.
"GET UP. You reek of taint," Eadric said, grabbing the Bishop’s hair, and dragging him towards the door. "You are an assassin, a liar, a manipulator and a coward."
Hethio screamed in pain as he was pulled along. "Will you sacrifice me?"
"No indeed, Eminence," Eadric spat. "I will take you to see God – which is neither more nor less than you deserve. Why you were spared from this is beyond my understanding. I assume that he has some purpose for you, so I won’t sentence you to death. But be warned – I am in a very, very bad mood."
So Eadric, Brey, Sercion, Tatterbrand and the – albeit reluctant – Bishop of Hethio made their way to the chancel and the Archiepiscopal throne. The Paladin recalled his premonition of the scenes along the Temple corridors. The reality was a thousand times worse than his vision could have possibly suggested.
*
Nine thousand dead, Nwm thought to himself as his mind reached outwards and took a grim tally. He groaned.
A vine mine contained an episode of looting and violence in the Street of Goldsmiths, but by the time that the Druid had circled the city for the third time, he saw that most of the outbreaks were localized and involved only a few people. Tagur had committed soldiers from the defense of the city to arrest any others who were under the effects of the compulsion, and Nwm turned his hand to dousing the flames within Morne. Again. Periodically, he would commune with the Green in an effort to locate any other demons, but they were either out of his range or warded from his inner vision.
The Satyr and the Duelist descended into the outer courtyard of the Temple compound, where Jorde was directing the restraint and healing of any survivors of the Wave of Hate. Even Ortwin, a staunch opponent of Temple policy and activity since long before the current crisis had begun, found the scene depressing and unnerving.
"Where’s Ed?" The Bard asked.
"The Ahma has gone to seek the Sela," a Paladin replied gravely.
"Where’s Tramst?" He asked irreverently.
"The Sela is most likely within the chancel," the other answered with more earnest piety than Ortwin thought necessary.
The Bard turned to Iua and grinned. "Wanna go and see a god?" He asked flippantly. "Its okay – he’s harmless. His head stooge is a old friend of mine."
Jorde sighed. He, at least, was used to Ortwin’s idiosyncrasies. "I think, perhaps, only the faithful should be permitted within for the time being."
Iua was about to say something, but a look of ecstasy combined with contrite horror passed across Jorde’s face. "Yes, Lord," he mumbled to himself. "Forgive my presumption."
Ortwin raised an eyebrow.
"The Sela will receive you before the throne," Jorde explained nervously. "He apologizes that the main gate to the Fane is in ruins, and suggests that you use the entrance through the vestry."
"Quite right," the Satyr said facetiously, staring at the wreck of the South Transept. Inwardly, he swallowed, and wondered whether it had been such a good idea after all.
**
Tramst sat beneath the immense symbol of Oronthon – the Eagle-and-Sun which reared in the centre of the Fane. Large chunks of masonry lay scattered within – ornate carvings which had fallen from the ceiling and shattered the pews and cracked the smooth flags of the floor. Yet more bodies lay there, and aside from a handful of Temple officiants and lesser clergy, the Sela was alone. The few present seemed enrapt in some mystical state. Somehow, the Proxy seemed even more mortal and even less divine than before.
Eadric approached tentatively. Despite his best efforts to stop it, his mind swam with questions. How could you allow? Why did you? Why did you not? What was the purpose? He grimaced and tried to make the queries go away.
Do not repress the doubt in your mind, Ahma. You know better than that.
I wish there had been another way.
Do you mean, "Was there no other way?"
(Ruefully).Yes, Holiness.
Not all Truths are unequal, Eadric. Consider this question: What if Graz’zt acted as the unwitting agent of a wrathful Oronthon, dispensing ire and justice upon those who defied his will?
Is that so?
That is one interpretation. Here is another question: Presently, an Eagle flies above Morne. Where it acts, those who suffer from the madness are restrained and can do each other no harm. What if this is the mercy of Oronthon, bringing succour to those who deserve it?
I understand, Holiness. The fact that it is Nwm does not diminish the fact that certain people will perceive it in a certain way.
It is no less true, in fact: the Sophists would claim that Uedii and Oronthon are one and the same. Equally, it is true to some that you are the agent of the Adversary. You brought ruin upon the Temple. Your desire for a demoness signalled the death-knell for Orthodoxy. Have you accepted that truth yet?
(Wrily).That is harder.
Why, if the Adversary is an aspect of Oronthon?
That is only one of many conflicting truths.
Ahh, saizho, Ahma.
What must be done now, Holiness?
There are still loose ends to be tied up. Events are not resolved. When they are, we begin the process of rebuilding. First we must deal with tomorrow: it will bring yet more pain.
I still have yet to see my role in this, beyond vague ideas.
The Magistratum will be consolidated into one body – the names ‘Mission’ and ‘Inquisition’ will no longer be employed. ‘Temple’ will become the catch-all term: it is a trend well-underway, in any case. The troops in Iald have already been ordered to disband. Eisarn is withdrawing back to Morne. I need to speak with the Royal Council. I will need your diplomatic savvy.
I promised disestablishment.
They will have it.
(Embarrassed). I vowed to the Uediians that I would strive to end indentureship, and the Temple would recompense them.
Our coffers are not limitless, but I will honour your promise first.
I am also concerned of reprisals from the secular aristocracy directed against Hullu’s faction.
Sihu will not act: she is devout, if misguided – this can be corrected. Tagur is an ally.
Tagur is a rationalist, Holiness. As much as I respect him…
I have shown Tagur. It was he who ordered the gates open for you.
(Surprise). And Foide?
Foide will remain a problem.
There is also the issue of Trempa. Soraine’s death will leave a gap, and squabbling nephews will soon begin their maneuvering.
You could claim the Duchy. You have the support.
I have neither the time nor the inclination to administer it. My spiritual position would also be compromised by temporal concerns. Given the effort that I have made to separate the two, this might be interpreted as somewhat hypocritical. I would have supported Ryth, if he had made a claim.
You may yet be forced to intervene, to prevent more bloodshed. Such is the weight of responsibility.
(Confession). You have granted me time to act, Holiness. I purpose to assail Graz’zt. I have yet to determine how this is best accomplished.
(Amusement). That is a formidable task. If you ask for my blessing, I cannot give it: vengeance and retribution are not within my purview. Are they yours?
I don’t know. Perhaps.
*
Tramst turned to look at the Bishop of Hethio, who stood between Brey and Sercion. Each of the great Templars held an arm of the clergyman, whose eyes had remained closed and whose lips had muttered fervent prayers during the silent exchange between Eadric and the Sela.
A brief communion occurred. Tramst made an offer.
In doubt, and fear, and spite, and self-hatred, the Bishop declined.
A look of sadness passed across the face of the Sela. "Let him go," he said aloud to Brey and Sercion. "Depart, Hethio. Go where you will. At any time, you may approach me again. I do not judge, I merely teach."
But as the Bishop departed in haste from the chancel, Tramst spoke to him again. "You may be disappointed if you return to your see, Hethio. Your palace will be mortgaged, and your estates dissolved: I would hate to burden you with material concerns when your spiritual welfare is at stake."
Hethio grunted. Oronthon’s Proxy turned his attention to Sercion and Brey.
"When the Ahma departs, it would behoove you to remain. There is much that you need to un-learn."
Somewhat daunted, both Templars bowed.
As Eadric exited, picking his way through the rubble and smashed benches, he encountered Ortwin and Iua, both of whom, apparently, were walking towards Tramst. A quizzical look crossed the Paladin’s face.
"Hi Ed," Ortwin said. "Just thought we’d come and take a peek. I’ve never met a god before."
Eadric sighed. In matters religious, would Ortwin never be anything but a casual tourist?
**
What is this place? Mostin wondered, as phantasms floated past his vision for what seemed like hours. Half-formed dreams and reflections, insubstantial yet strangely real. Trees, roads, skies, a vaporous castle, a silver void. He looked around himself.
They didn’t seem to be moving – he, Jovol and the others – although the dreamscape changed in a pattern that he could not quite discern. After a period of intense turbulence, where scenes and sounds manifested in rapid succession, he felt that he had descended into someone else’s nightmare.
ANGERPAINDEATHPAINTORTUREVIOLENCE. CRUELTYLOATHINGMALICESPITEUGLINESS. BURNINGHATREDWITHOUTEND.
Such hatred. It staggered him. His mind span as he strove to maintain his focus. He shot a concerned look towards Tozinak, who of the others there was finding the current strands of consciousness hardest to deal with.
"It will pass," Jovol assured them. "It is merely an echo of an event long past, or one which happened in another time – depending on your perspective. Dream remembers all potentiality – realized or not, past, present or future. Parallel, perpendicular, or extending into an infinity of dimensions."
"What is/was/will be the event?" The Alienist asked, careful not to frame his question in the language of conventional linear time.
"That also depends on your perspective," the Ogre grinned. "The Prime Nodality. The beginning of dualism. The birth of the dialectic. The planting of the seeds of knowledge or damnation."
"The Fall," Shomei said.
"If you subscribe to that particular paradigm," Jovol nodded. "For the moment, we should adopt it whatever our respective world-views: it is relevant to our situation. Let’s just assume that it’s provisionally correct, and act accordingly. We are on the fringes of Hell."
"And Devils dream?" Mostin asked incredulously. "I’ve never seen one sleep, and I’ve known a few."
"Everything dreams," Jovol answered.
"Twaddle," Shomei muttered.
"But why do we feel the ripple here and now?" The Alienist pressed.
"There has been a sympathetic vibration, which hearkened back to an aspect of the Original Nodality."
"Ahh, Graz’zt."
Jovol nodded, sighed, gestured, and modified the passage of time.
*
In her abysm, where she had dwelt for untold aeons, brooding in bitterness and corruption, she stirred. Unlike those who had their place in the Adversary’s grand, despotic regime, she was an outsider – too potent to overcome, too alien to harness. A monstrosity conceived between a fallen Seraph and a forgotten deity who predated existence. Shadows swarmed about her. The fire that burned – within her and around her – both tortured and assuaged her.
The inkling that she had was vague and indistinct, but nonetheless present. A threat, certainly – although from what was impossible to say. It had been an age or more since Devils had attempted to woo her or eliminate her. Instinctively, she wreathed herself in void and vanished, shedding hatred and malice in waves which pulsed from her form. She pulled four Pit Fiends to herself from Hell’s deepest layer, and waited.
It was to no avail. In their temporal bubble, linked by Rary’s Telepathic Bond, the Wizards acted in uncanny coordination – an organic unit, from which potency flowed. In her Fiendform, Shomei’s eyes pierced the darkness. Their collective sight dispelled the veil of Invisibility.
Gihaahia, and her attendant Devils, appeared frozen in time and space. Jovol spoke the words, and raw power coursed through them all. Mostin’s head span ecstatically, and he resisted the urge to giggle.
The backlash was terrific, causing the Alienist’s skin to crack and his teeth to rattle in his head. Blood vessels across Jovol’s temples, down his neck, and along his arms ruptured, spraying blood over the other Wizards. He groaned, and pulled open the portal to Dream again.
The cabal vanished back into the unconscious world.
Gihaahia noticed nothing until it was too late. She would be called to the Prime, and serve the entity called Claviger.
Strange, she thought. It almost felt like some form of compulsion – not that she had ever experienced one. There were, after all, no compulsions capable of affecting her.
*
And so it transpired, as Jovol had either foreseen or determined – when a Wizard is an actor in his own visions of the future, who can judge whether it is ordained or not? Mostin, Shomei, Mulissu, Waide, Hlioth, Tozinak and Daunton submitted themselves to the Ogre’s direction, and wrought a spell that would change the future of magic in Wyre.
In that moment, when Gihaahia – scarce less than a demigoddess in her power – was bound to the Claviger, Mostin experienced first-hand his own theories of Will, and the power to make it manifest. It was true. Anything was possible. Anything.
Henceforth, the Claviger would reside in a cave in the weathered hills of Mord, south of Morne. Its location would be unknown to those who were not initiated – arcanists of sufficient power and reputation – but would exist as a rumour amongst those who aspired to be counted among the great.
Those Wizards who were vexed by dilemmas regarding their actions could approach the Claviger, and ask it for guidance. In its faultless interpretation of the Injunction, the Claviger would relay its adjudication in a sombre voice, issuing from the tablet upon which Jovol’s words were scribed.
Occasionally, those who spoke with it would encounter a small child in the chamber – this was generally considered to be the Claviger itself, and was interpreted as a favourable omen by the lucky petitioners. Less often, a woman of singular beauty would relay the Claviger’s stern remonstration to those who, for their own ends, attempted to interpret the letter of the Injunction against its spirit. This was known to be the Enforcer, whose manifestation was recognized as a dire warning, or worse.
Even with his own great foresight, Jovol could not have guessed that a Mystery cult would eventually develop around the site. The need for religion is incomprehensible to most Wizards, and despite Jovol’s friendship with celestials, and his concern for the welfare of Tramst, he was no exception.
As for those Wizards who, in fact, violated the Injunction, they would feel the wrath of the Enforcer in measure to their transgression. This was determined by the Claviger, which possessed a near-omniscience with regard to all things magical. Punishments ranged from confiscation of minor items from the Mage’s possessions, through subjection to a symbol of insanity in the event of a more major breach, to summary execution in the most serious of cases.
The first to fall to the Enforcer would be Jovol himself, when, in order to prevent a larger catastrophe, he slew the mage Kothchori.
Jeremy
Explorer
............................................wow
Good lord... What are you Sep? No one does stuff this good anywhere...
I love it. Jovol survives the backlash of the spell only to sacrifice himself again for yet unknown consequences of Kothchori's probable future actions. I don't suppose we'll eventually get an account of that particular exchange?
Thanks much for the update. It was exquisite.
Love your work as always.
Good lord... What are you Sep? No one does stuff this good anywhere...
I love it. Jovol survives the backlash of the spell only to sacrifice himself again for yet unknown consequences of Kothchori's probable future actions. I don't suppose we'll eventually get an account of that particular exchange?
Thanks much for the update. It was exquisite.
Love your work as always.
,
Ancalagon
Dusty Dragon
Lazybones said:
Not just there... coments on Nutkinland is what made me begin to read this story hour (or should I say continue, I had abbandoned it during the long hiatus in the first thread)
And bravo for this post! The irony of Jovol faling to his own creation is... wow.
Ancalagon
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