Apostles of Doom

That, of course, was why he’d signed up for Lilith’s army; to actually have money. However, much to his frustration, he had been posted to a place with nowhere to spend it. And his contract had been, like all of Lilith’s employment contracts, for eternity or until Lilith terminated one. And of course such termination, should it occur, was very slow and agonizingly painful.

It was quite remarkable that he and his buddies had found a convenient out. Sure, there was always the chance that Lilith would someday defeat Lord Tommus and seek horrifyingly terrible vengeance on those who had betrayed their contracts; however, Lord Tommus seemed quite capable of holding his own against Lilith and her forces. By which he obviously meant himself and his comrades. According to pretty much everyone he’d met that had been posted at Doom’s Redoubt, they were pretty typical of all of Lilith’s regiments.

“Lesteroth Garflog!” A deep, reverberating, thunderous voice startled him out of his reverie. Lesteroth spun in surprise only to fall on his knees in awe. Lord Tommus! Think of the devil! Was this a surprise inspection? He couldn’t believe the Lord of Doom knew his name; at least could not until he remembered they had a link that probably helped the demon prince recall his name.

“Your Demonship! How may I serve you?” Lesteroth quavered, kneeling and bowing his head.

“Well, you can start by standing up and looking at me,” the demon prince said with a chuckle.

Lesteroth stood shakily; he was not at all accustomed to being in the presence of a demon prince. It was more than just a little bit intimidating.

“Your Highness?” Lesteroth asked again, timidly looking at Lord Tommus’s amazingly handsome and noble face.

“I have never been to the DoomSpa before. I need to relax so that I can focus my attention on the four oath-taking ceremonies today. What do you recommend?” Lord Tommus asked.

Lesteroth blinked. The Dark Lord Tommus, his sworn master, the Lord of Doom, a Prince of the Abyss, was asking for his, Lesteroth Garflog’s, advice? What sort of fantasy world have I entered? Lesteroth wondered in confused awe.

Fort Murgatroid: Mid Third Period

Teragdor finished the Ritual of Sanctification on the main altar to Tiernon within the chapel. A group of Tiernon’s and Torean’s saints had done some sort of joint Beatific Sanctuary spell on the chapel itself last night. He had never heard of such a thing; apparently it was a permanent equivalent of the more standard Greater Sanctuary spell, which only lasted for a few hours under the best conditions.

This one, however, was not only permanent, but they’d somehow made the site sanctified to both Tiernon and Torean; again, something he had not even known was possible. One of Torean’s saints, Timbly, had informed him that such joint rituals, at a mortal level, were fairly common within the Holy Etonian Empire, where the churches frequently worked side by side.

Of course, his own sanctification of the altar was a bit of weak tea compared to a super-powered sanctification of the chapel by two groups of saints; however, it was tradition for the priest in charge of a chapel to personally sanctify the main altar.

This main altar was a bit odd in that the chapel had two side-by-side altars, one to Tiernon and the other to Torean. Torean’s altar had been sanctified this morning by Rasmeth, the Torean high chaplain, who had arrived to handle Torean’s religious operations.

Teragdor had watched the sanctification from a pew. It was actually pretty similar to the one he had just finished. After a few moments of prayer after Rasmeth had finished, Teragdor had gone up to his altar to begin. Understandably, he had felt a bit awkward; Rasmeth was of higher rank, a high chaplain versus an itinerant priest, and Teragdor had never actually sanctified an altar in a chapel. He had done so on a few smaller forest altars, and while the ritual was the same, it felt much more solemn to do so in an actual chapel.

Actually, being in a physical chapel was a pretty rare occurrence for Teragdor, given that there were none for several hundred leagues of Murgatory — other than his new one, of course. In the end, it had gone surprisingly well, if he did say so himself. His prayer for confidence and a steady hand had apparently paid off; he’d felt the power of Tiernon flow through him with greater ease and strength than on any of his previous sanctifications. It was most likely because they were already in a sanctified chapel, so its strength supplemented his own.

As he turned and headed down the aisle, he couldn’t help but notice Rasmeth staring at him oddly.

“Is there something wrong?” Teragdor asked the priest. They’d only spoken briefly when the priest had arrived this morning. He was suddenly terrified he’d done something wrong.

Rasmeth shook his head. “No, but I thought you said you were an itinerant priest of Tiernon.”