Apostles of Doom полностью

They were about to try and ascend the first orc, create the first new D’Orc in over four thousand years. If they failed, if he failed, it would be a bad omen to everyone. A sign that he was not fit to lead them. Technically, of course, no sign was needed; he was unfit, unworthy to lead them. However, he was trapped by their hope, their expectations; he had to succeed and validate their misplaced faith in him.

Tom found it more than ironic that a month or two ago, he had been wallowing in self-indulgent pity about how everyone expected him to be a horrible monster, and how their expectations were driving him to be a horrible monster. Memories of that soldier in the woods that he had “popped” suddenly raced through his mind. Today, however, he was wallowing in self-indulgent pity about everyone expecting him to be a great hero, a savior.

He shook his head. When the pendulum of expectations swung, it certainly swung far and hard. Whatever happened to just being a normal seventeen-year-old, looking forward to his junior and senior year of high school and then college?

Tom laughed, thinking about college and also thinking about the party after the oath taking at Mount Doom; at least he was getting a more intense party experience then most kids got in college. Orcs partied hard, and so did D’Orcs. There had been drinking and celebration after every oath taking in Nysegard. He had been at parties almost every night since coming here.

If anything, if felt as if those in Nysegard drank more heavily, or perhaps more seriously than those in Doom. In Doom, it has been a truly joyous celebration, they were coming out of a very despondent time. That had been hard and heavy drinking, but with a very light-hearted nature. At least until the morning after; now that battle had been a hangover.

Here, though, in Nysegard, Tom sensed a more cautious, somber and yes, even sober nature to their drinking. He suspected it had to do with knowing that you could literally die the next day, or worse, become undead, cursed with a hunger for animus to appease one’s undying hunger.

Memories of battlefields with ravenous ghouls and ghasts, led by vampires with brilliantly glowing red eyes suddenly swirled across Tom’s mind. A vampyr’s maw wrapped around his forearm, trying to gnaw it off. Tom shook his head. Damn it!

He had come into Nysegard to avoid dreams of such things. He had lain down on his bed after shooing his friends off to their own rooms, and then tossed and turned, kept awake by both the coming ascension and his fear of sleeping and the insidious dreams of Orcus. He had decided to head to Nysegard, where he need not sleep and could review the preparations that were underway for this evening’s ceremony. And yet, the dreams — or at least, the memories represented within the dreams — had followed him.

He had never even heard of a vampyr before, yet he had known with certainty that the ultra-toothy ravenous beast gnawing on his forearm was a vampyr, an alternate strain of vampirism. He shook his head. Vampyrs looked very much like the Fright Night vampires, except they were even more toothy, with two rows of teeth on top and bottom in their unbelievably wide mouths. Far more frightening in appearance and far more unreasonable than normal vampires.

Normal vampires were people, or perhaps un-people? They were intelligent; at least as intelligent as whoever they had been when alive. Vampyrs, however, had far greater, far less controllable hunger; one could only reason with them when they were satiated and in their human form. Tom blinked and thought, How did I know this? This is not standard Bram Stoker sort of knowledge.

“Shit!” he cursed. Enough of this. He could not be allowed to be alone with his thoughts. He leaped into the air and dove towards the side entrance of Mount Doom. It was time to get busy with the day.

Teragdor stood upon the outer rampart of the Citadel’s eastern wall. It was a very impressive stone wall, nearly one hundred and fifty feet high. He had never seen such a massive fortification. The Citadel truly lived up to its name; it was a mighty fortress and city surrounded by concentric walls on three sides, and a formidable wall and incredibly steep cliff to the west that dropped two hundred feet into the rocky sea.

The Citadel’s harbor was a one-hundred-foot wide inlet in the cliff; a giant wall and sea gate blockaded it. The docks were all at sea level and access was through lifts and easily defended passageways within the cliff. Teragdor had not traveled that widely in Astlan, but he had never heard of anything like this there.