The Heavenly Host

Tal Gor was standing by the wagon that Fel Nor had rented and was directing the packing of foodstuffs. The glargh merchants were going to deliver the glargh barrels to the wargtown. While this was going on, a large orc dressed as a chieftain of some tribe Tal Gor didn’t recognize, approached him.

“Who are you and what are you doing here?” the chieftain demanded loudly.

“I am Tal Gor El Crooked Stick, Chief Shaman of the Dark Lord Tommus in Astlan.” So, maybe he was giving himself a new title, but since he was the only shaman of Lord Tommus on the planet, he figured it would be okay.

The chieftain snorted and sneered. “And who are your ugly compatriots?”

The chieftain was definitely intimidating, but Tal Gor knew he could show no fear. “They are my hunting partners, the immortal D’Orcs of Mount Doom, servants of my master, Lord Tommus. And who are you to question me?”

The chieftain gave him a huff and another nasty sneer. Tal Gor could smell glargh on the man’s breath. Clearly he was in his cups. “I am Gal Trog, Chief of the Arrow Clan.”

Tal Gor had not heard of the Arrow Clan; maybe it was one of the newer clans? “I am not familiar with your clan; however, if your tribe and your shaman wish to swear allegiance to Lord Tommus, I am sure others will soon know of your tribe,” he said with more confidence than he felt.

“Swear allegiance? To some unknown lord? I think I’d rather pound you into the ground a couple times,” Gal Trog threatened, raising his fist.

“I am not sure you want to move your arm further. Unless you wish me to rip it off and shove it up your soon to be greatly enlarged anus,” Virok hissed as he suddenly appeared behind Gal Trog. His claws locked on the chieftain’s upraised elbow.

Gal Trog turned his neck as much as his collar plate armor would allow and then twisted his eyes up and to the side to look into the blood-red eyes peering from Virok’s thin, pale gray face. The chieftain swallowed audibly. Virok was nearly a foot taller than the large chieftain.

Vespa came up behind Tal Gor. “Tell your tribe to prepare. Lord Tommus, Master of Mount Doom, has claimed his rightful place as the heir to Orcus and shall tolerate nothing less than complete obedience to his will.” Gal Trog’s eyes darted back and forth between Vespa and Virok.

“Understood,” he finally said. Virok released his grip on Gal Trog’s arm.

The chieftain lowered his arm and glanced briefly towards Tal Gor and nodded before sidling off and out of the crowd of D’Orcs and Crooked Sticks that had converged on the wagon. Within moments, he had vanished into the rather noisy crowd, all of whom were now talking about Lord Tommus and Mount Doom.

Tal Gor chuckled. “Well, hopefully that will stick with him.”

“If it does not, I will stick him with his arm, as promised,” Virok replied somberly.

∼

Tom was walking down one of the many hallways in Mount Doom, contemplating a nap. Between turning on the electrical system, retrieving the Etterdam party, launching two more hunting parties and providing the baseline power for the complex, he was getting a bit worn out. He wondered if he would need to go back to his old cave just to nap and rest up without having to compete with Mount Doom for mana.

He was going to need to get more D’Orcs, or demons or any sort of living creatures into Mount Doom if he was going to get it to a self-sustaining state. The problem was, he had no idea how to make D’Orcs, and even if he did, it did not seem particularly ethical. If an orc died in the course of war or other circumstances and he brought them over, that would be one thing; but killing orcs just to make D’Orcs was no more ethical than what Lenamare had done to him.

Perhaps he could get some demons to move in? Maybe they could provide support services for the D’Orcs so they could focus on training and getting ready for battle. Battle? He was thinking about getting ready for battle? Tom shook his head; he had to be honest, that was exactly what he was thinking. Between Lilith and Tiernon, one of them would eventually come a-calling and he wasn’t sure he could talk either of them out of their plans for war.

Or did he want a war? That was probably what was disturbing him. If he admitted it to himself, he sort of wanted to wage war against his enemies. He suspected it was that whole demonization of his thought process that he had been worrying about a few weeks ago when he had popped that soldier and been so uncontrollably violent. He hated to admit it, but the violence and the battle felt energizing at times. Being around a bunch of battle-lusting D’Orcs probably was not helping either.

Speaking of which, down the hall he noted a second D’Orc hauling a bunch of large pieces of metal equipment down a cross corridor. When he reached the corridor, he turned right and followed the D’Orc.