Apostles of Doom

True, Lilith had never had good relations with Orcus, but Tom was not Orcus. Having known Orcus and having met Tom, he was sure of that. Yes, there might be some similarities, including physical appearance; however, Tom was way too relaxed, too casual, too completely insufficiently paranoid to be Orcus. Actually, way too un-paranoid to even be a demon prince, Sam reflected.

However, this little freezing trick clearly demonstrated that Tom was a peer. The most burning question being, where had he come from? Had he been hiding out in the hinterlands? There were numerous rogue demon princes and their followers out there; but he was fairly certain he knew of most of them.

Tom, on the other hand, had suddenly appeared no more than two Court months ago, and started really shaking things up in the last few weeks. Sammael rotated to look at the smoking volcano cone. Unless Tom had been hiding here at Doom, preparing the D’Orcs and the volcano until he was ready to reveal himself. From what he gathered, Doom had only restarted a few days ago. How it had restarted was a mystery, but Sammael certainly recognized the mace that Tom was wielding. That would be key, he was sure.

No one knew what had happened to the Wand of Orcus after the avatar of Tiernon had slain the demon prince. The general assumption was that it had been taken to Tierhallon. However, the probability of a rogue demon prince from the hinterlands being able to sneak into Tierhallon and retrieve the Wand of Orcus seemed a bit too far-fetched.

Sammael’s eyes narrowed in thought. It was interesting how Lilith had managed to learn about Mount Doom restarting and get two thousand-plus demons and a Chaos Maelstrom together so quickly. He’d had no clue that the volcano had restarted until he’d talked to Lilith’s toady at Hellsprings Eternal.

Of course, he had not been giving his full attention to things in the Abyss; his never-ending battle with the Demiurge continued to occupy way too much of his time. One had to wonder if it was worth the battle for such a mana-depleted set of worlds. It was however, enjoyable, a pleasing way to pass the millennia. The low-mana environment meant he and his agents had to use human proxies and had to rely on subterfuge and misdirection a great deal more than usual.

He shook his head. That was neither here nor there; the problem at hand was that Mount Doom was awake and the balance of power in the Abyss was preparing to shift. He looked back to the battlefield. The D’Orcs had pulled back from Lilith’s embattled demons. They were now surrounding the very battered demons, rather than being mixed among them. Sammael shook his head. The demons did not seem to be regenerating very well. It appeared that Tom was somehow draining excess mana out of the region, which would impede regeneration.

Mount Doom

Lesteroth arched his aching back; he had finally been able to get Bellyachus’s head removed from the demon’s rear end. It had been rather disgusting, truth be told, but poor Bellyachus was in such pain — his horns going in and out had been rather damaging. The worst part was that regeneration didn’t seem to be working too well, so they were all just standing there dripping blood and demon goo, vainly trying to reattach their limbs as the D’Orcs disengaged and moved to surround them.

He had no idea what was about to happen, but the fact that they were not regenerating was not a good sign. Lesteroth’s stomach twisted with anxiety. At least Bellyachus was so focused on his excruciating pain that he did not have time to worry about his likely nonexistent future.

From the front of the demons, behind the heavily armored and armed D’Orcs now surrounding them, a large figure rose. Lesteroth was not quite sure if the demon was standing up from a kneeling position or growing. He recognized him as the demon that had frozen the Abyss; he was very much your classical-style demon. Insanely huge human muscles on the upper torso and arms; spiky, scaly goat legs; nasty spade tail; giant bat wings. Monstrous black horns and wickedly long claws. Pretty much your classic demon pretty boy. Some demons have all the luck! Lesteroth cursed to himself. The guy was like demonic perfection.

“Servants of the Jilted Bride!” the demon shouted. Half the army — or half of those still capable — hissed at that statement, not so much from anger as from fear. The Jilted Bride was the NEVER-spoken name of Lilith. Well, not actually a name; more of a title, in fact, or an epithet. There was no better way to guarantee one’s own horrible, terrible, unpleasant death than to use that title.

“I am Lord Tommus, Master of Doom,” the demon thundered. “You are in my domain!”

Yeah, the ice and snow have made that rather obvious, Lesteroth thought to himself. Being snarky in his last few moments of life was the only comfort he had left.

“Therefore, your lives and souls are forfeit to me!”