The Heavenly Host

Darg-Krallnom chuckled. “I am very relieved that threat is gone. How did you manage to find it?”

Tom smiled. “The knight — my hostage? After I defeated him and his soldiers and chose to show him mercy and spare his life, he shoved it into my stomach.”

Darg-Krallnom’s eyes widened again. Tom smiled. “The knight had cheated in battle, so I too went outside the rules. I intercepted his god’s mana streams to his priests and used Tiernon’s own mana to cleanse the wound and reverse the blade.”

Darg-Krallnom inhaled, closing his eyes for a moment, and then reopened them. “Of course, as the prophecy said — you come with mana from heaven!” He chuckled. “We have often wondered what that meant, but it is now clear. It literally meant mana from heaven.” The D’Orc commander shook his head in amazement.

“I am not aware of this prophecy; where did it come from?” Tom asked.

Darg-Krallnom blinked. “Well, we assumed that you revealed it to the shaman who spoke the prophecy.” He seemed surprised. Tom might have stepped into it.

“When was this?”

“About 100 years Abyss time after your death, My Lord.”

“And the shaman?”

“He was a shaman of the Nart tribe of Etterdam, the same tribe as Arg-nargoloth. A very respected shaman named Tiss-Arog-Dal. His prophecy revitalized the very disillusioned tribes of Etterdam and quickly spread throughout the localverse and the Abyss,” Darg-Krallnom explained.

“Tiss-Arog-Dal?” Tom asked, somewhat suspicious of the name. It sounded a little too much like someone else’s name.

“Yes. As I said, a very respected shaman.”

“Is there any record of anything unusual about this shaman?” Tom asked.

“Unusual? You mean more unusual than normal for a shaman? They are all a bit off-balance.”

Off-balance; well, that fit. “I mean physically? Anything odd physically? Any deformities?” Tom asked.

Darg-Krallnom seemed puzzled by the question. “Not that I’m aware of, but I never saw him. By the time I heard the prophecy, the shaman had passed away. Why?”

Tom shook his head. “No reason; just trying to put some pieces together.” Tizzy was adamant that he could not shapeshift, so he could not have been this shaman. Had Tizzy perhaps had a son with an orc woman? Alternatively, was Tizzy feeding the shaman information, or was the name Tiss-Arog-Dal completely coincidental and Tom was just getting paranoid? To be honest, Tizzy really did not seem to have the sort of attention span necessary for even formulating a prophecy, let alone guiding one over thousands of years. However, Tom could not help remembering how pleased Tizzy had been when he had mastered the Rod of Tommus.

“Not to change the topic, My Lord...” said Darg-Krallnom respectfully. Tom gestured for him to continue. “Would it displease you greatly if the younger folk were to come out onto the platform and take in the rain and steam?”

Tom gave him an odd look. “They want to come out in the pouring rain?”

Darg-Krallnom nodded. “None of the D’Orcs born in the Abyss have ever seen rain before, or water, for that matter.”

Tom shook his head and looked around. Sure enough, there were D’Orcs peering anxiously out of various tunnels, entry points and balconies. How stupid of him. They were apparently scared to come out and disturb him while he was brooding.

“Everyone! Come out and enjoy the rain! Whether you have ever seen it or not, come on out and enjoy the rebirth of Mount Doom!” Tom bellowed and gestured for the D’Orcs to come out.

The waiting D’Orcs cheered and began spilling out onto the volcano’s platform.

∼

“M’lord, you have a visitor requesting an audience,” Bartholomew announced from the French doors to Randolf’s terrace. He stressed the word “visitor” rather oddly.

Randolf glanced to Crispin across the table. They were enjoying their afternoon tea and cucumber sandwiches. Crispin shrugged.

“Does this visitor have a name?” Randolf was puzzled, as typically the lord chamberlain would announce the visitor’s name and title.

“I am afraid I did not ask,” the lord chamberlain replied abashedly.

Randolf raised an eyebrow; this was a highly unusual lapse on the chamberlain’s part. “You forgot to ask?”

“I’m sorry, Your Lordship, but I did not think of it as having a name,” Bartholomew answered.

“It?” Crispin asked. “You are referring to the archimage’s visitor as an it? My, that seems a bit contemptuous, even for you, Bartholomew.” The djinn grinned; he loved tormenting the chamberlain.

“I have no better word, Your Lordship.”

Randolf shook his head. “Very well; show him in.”

The chamberlain turned and left the doorway.

“This should be amusing. He seemed rather in a flap,” Crispin noted.

In a few moments, Bartholomew returned and announced, “The sword Ruiden, Your Lordship.”

Randolf frowned at the very odd title, then his eyebrows shot up when he actually saw the guest. It was a metal golem.

“What in the seven realms?” Crispin muttered from the other side of the table as Ruiden entered the terrace.

Bartholomew turned and left.