Apostles of Doom

“Orange juice and vadter,” Beya told him as she noticed him staring at the liquid.

“Vadter?” Fer-Rog asked.

“It means ‘little water.’ By itself, it looks exactly like water. However, it’s a distilled spirit with a very high level of alcohol content. So high, that in many places they drink it in little glasses; hence the name ‘little water.’ ” Beya grinned.

“Where is that sleepy-headed son of mine and his shield-mate?” Orcag demanded. “We can’t very well toast this decision without them!”

“They will be here,” an older orc told Orcag. “They over-indulged last night and did not return until early this morning. They both appeared to have been sat upon by a giant!” The older orc laughed, as did Orcag.

A groaning noise came from a door on the other side of the room as two orcs in fine if horribly disheveled clothes came stumbling into the room, shielding their eyes from the fierdlight.

“Aggfred! Snoggard!” Fer-Rog and Rupert both shouted at the two orcs, who cringed at their loud bellows.

“You’ve met?” Orcag asked the two apprentices, surprised by their recognition.

“Yeah, we played drinking games at Headsmasher’s all night. We had a blast!” Fer-Rog exclaimed.

Orcag looked at them closely, then turned to look at Aggfred and Snoggard, slightly sourly. He then turned back to Rupert and Fer-Rog. “Did you two bow out early?”

Fer-Rog and Rupert blinked in surprise. “No, we won!” Rupert said.

Orcag turned back to his son and sighed, shaking his head, but said nothing, gesturing the two very glarghvosted orcs to take their seats. He took his own and waited for the two youths to get into position for the toast. Orcag gestured and everyone stood and reached for their glasses.

“This is a glorious day in Ithgar. Beya Fei Geist and her unusual friends bring great tidings, along with a great mission. Lord Tommus, the heir to Orcus, has relit the Flames of Doom! We are now on the path to the Restoration of Glory, and the first step will be relighting the Doom of Ithgar so that we shall have direct and permanent access between Ithgar and Mount Doom!”

Everyone in the room cheered, raising their glasses in preparation.

“On this great adventure to begin the Restoration of Glory, I have committed the resources of the Deathfinger clan, to be spearheaded by my son and heir, Aggfred, and his shield-mate, Snoggard. They, along with a band of Deathfingers, shall accompany Lord Tommus’s designated representative in Ithgar, Beya Fei Geist, to the Doom of Ithgar!” Orcag proclaimed to loud cheers.

“And so to my friend, Beya, her tribe, our D’Orc allies and our own band of warriors, we drink to success!” Orcag shouted before downing the orange juice and vadter in a single gulp.

Fort Murgatroid: Midmorning

Arch-Diocate Iskerus woke to the tweeting of birds he could not immediately identify. The scent of freshly plastered walls was easily identifiable, along with other scents he associated with large grassy plains. He could also feel the warmth of morning fierdlight upon his face and neck, as if coming through a window.

That was not right. He was, or should be, in a tent in the cleared region around Freehold. He opened his eyes to take in his surroundings and blinked. He was, indeed, in what appeared to be a sparsely furnished small bedroom with freshly limed walls and new, hewn-plank flooring.

He was lying on a small wood frame bed with what felt like a grass and feather mattress. There was a small table and chair in the room, currently above his head from his prone position. A washing bowl and large clay water pitcher were sitting on the table.

A second chair containing his outer clothing, neatly folded and appearing far cleaner than it had been in a quarter-month, was a few feet away. His short sword, dagger and other accouterments lay on top of the clothes. He realized he was wearing only his standard undergarments, in the state he would have expected.

To his right a few feet away was a wall with an un-paned window, with shutters wide open to allow the morning light in. On the opposite wall from the window was an open door leading to a hallway, which also appeared to be freshly plastered.

Iskerus frowned. Where was he? What had happened and why wasn’t he in his tent? He tried to remember what had happened last night. He had been doing his regular mirrorings, delayed in the case of the high pontificate due to Prince Kristof’s disappearance. He had researched claims from Verigas about a potential Dream Sending. He’d taken a walk to clear his head; there was something he’d been troubled by.

Iskerus sat up suddenly on his bed, remembering what had happened. He had run into strangers in his camp who’d been stealing barding, and around the corner had come Saint Hilda of Rivenrock! The saint that Verigas claimed to have received a sending from — the same woman who had been pretending to be a healer in Freehold!