Apostles of Doom

Iskerus gasped and dropped back on the bed, causing it to move slightly on the wood flooring. Beragamos Antidellas, the foremost Supreme Archon of Tiernon, had also walked around the corner of the tent! He had stumbled upon a saint and one of the greatest avatars of his religion, stealing barding from his camp!

Iskerus stared at the ceiling above him, the fresh plaster and large wooden log beams supporting the ceiling barely registering. Could that have been real? That sort of thing did not happen; Tiernon most certainly did not work in mysterious ways!

His mind reeled, trying to grasp at some answer as to what he was sure he had witnessed, as well as trying to figure out where he was. This place was nothing at all like Tierhallon or any of the less fortunate places one might end up spending eternity in his religion. This place seemed like some sort of outpost or something.

“Ah. You are awake,” a calm, pleasant-sounding voice said from the open doorway.

Iskerus turned to look at the voice and did a double take. He blinked again to try and clear his vision. Had he become completely divorced from reality? There was a young man, or rather, what appeared to be a half-orc, standing in the doorway, wearing what were clearly robes and vestments of Tiernon, albeit rather unusual ones.

The half-orc’s garb was something out of the history books. Or perhaps a hybrid version. In part, they appeared to be those of a chaplain, but the stole and cincture were those of an Apostle of Tiernon — something that had not existed in Astlan for at least a thousand years, if not more.

“Who are you? Where am I? Iskerus demanded awkwardly as he tried to rotate and sit up quickly.

The half-orc smiled in a very friendly, paternal manner; something that Iskerus naturally recognized immediately, having used it more times than he could remember. “I am Teragdor, servant of Tiernon, and you are in the chapel house of Fort Murgatroid, on the border of Murgandy.”

Iskerus shook his head. “Murgandy?” He tried to remember where Murgandy was; it took a moment. “You mean Murgandy as in to the east of the Cythanian Federation?”

“Yes, just south of The United Federation,” Teragdor agreed with a smile.

“That has to be a thousand leagues from Freehold! How long have I been unconscious?” Iskerus asked in shock.

“As I understand it, you passed out in your camp. Saint Stevos simply eased you into a deeper sleep and they brought you here shortly after the third hour. It’s now just after the seventh hour.” Teragdor gave him a reassuring smile; at least, Iskerus assumed that it was supposed to be reassuring. The young man was half-orc, so it was a bit hard to be sure.

“Saint Stevos?” Iskerus asked, trying to buy time to process this.

“Saint Stevos Delastros, Patron Saint of Travelers of the Border Forests and my personal patron.” Teragdor nodded. “He was the one aiding Danyel, the Rod member on our team, lug the barding from the tent where it was stored.”

“Your team?” Iskerus asked, suddenly suspicious.

“Our team.” Teragdor nodded, seemingly implying it was also Iskerus’s team. “I am not at liberty to say much more for now. I don’t want to influence your deposition.”

“My deposition?” Iskerus asked, concerned.

“Deposition, debriefing. I would not read too much into my choice of words. Saint Hilda and few of the others simply want to interview you about recent events. I am told you should think of it as an informal, off-site, Intercession debriefing. Nothing more than that.”

Iskerus’ stomach churned. Nothing more than that. As if that wasn’t quite a great deal in and of itself. There had not been an Intercession in generations; they were quite rare, albeit very well documented. It was this fact that had put entire camp on pins and needles; the dread of an Intercession and all that it entailed.

“You were told?” Iskerus asked, trying to get a handle on this and perhaps who had informed this cleric.

Teragdor nodded. “At breakfast this morning, Stevos filled me in on the details of the meeting in Tierhallon after they brought you here.”

The half-orc’s words were nearly meaningless to the Arch-Diocate. This cannot be happening. Iskerus very clearly heard what the priest was saying, but it was so far beyond comprehension. Tierhallon was having meetings to discuss him, Iskerus, and saints were having breakfast with chaplains on the other side of the continent and…

Teragdor frowned, as if just thinking of something. “Oh, it will be a bit unusual in that Saint Timbly of Cossembly might sit in.”

“Saint Timbly of where?” Iskerus asked, puzzled; he had never heard of any such saint.

Teragdor nodded. “He is one of Torean’s saints here in Norelon.”