The Heavenly Host

The wine was getting to him; he found himself chuckling again. Yes, the enchantress was incredibly old-looking, but she would have been dust if she had actually seen the things discussed. Jenn glanced at him and his chuckling. She was smiling, having a good time even as he was. Probably the wine affecting her as well.

It was odd, in the soft candlelight of the room, to look at Jenn there smiling and think of her as the weed-wrangling wizard who had changed his career trajectory so much. She had been a most pleasant traveling companion for someone who had tried to strangle him when they had first met. She was also quite attractive in this light. Strange that he had never really noticed that before. Again the wine. He smiled brightly at her.

He was about to say something, probably stupid, when an urgent knock came at the door. It was late in the evening, the servants came and went silently; who would be knocking?

Dresdech, their local host and Seamach’s principal contact, rose to answer the door. He opened the door a small distance; Gastropé could not see who was on the other side.

“Bastien? You are a mess! You seem to be a complete wreck. What is the matter?” The concern in the elf’s voice was clearly discernable.

Gastropé saw Trevin sit up in surprise and look to the door from her wine glass. The enchantress seemed to find the breech of alvaren composure as shocking, if not more so, than Gastropé.

Gastropé could just barely hear the exhausted Bastien on the other side of the door. “I come straight, without stopping, from Murgatroy at my great-grandfather Neelon’s request.”

Dresdech shook his head. “What is the matter? He is not ill, is he?”

Bastien still seemed out of breath, or quite tired. “He is fine; however, he bade me to bring this urgent message to the Principality and the Grove.”

Dresdech blinked, clearly taken by surprise. “Come in. Come in. It is an ominous coincidence that we are here speaking Grove business this very evening. Trevin D’Vils is here.” He gestured for Bastien to come in.

A younger-looking elf entered, clearly disheveled and dirty with wild, windblown hair from a hard ride. His eyes glanced to Seamach, Bealach and Captain Ehéarellis, seeming relieved to see them and giving each a nod. His eyes traveled briefly over each of the aetós with a nod, and he managed to not wince at the sight of the dwarves.

When Bastien’s eyes finally lit on Trevin D’Vils, the alvaren ranger bowed deeply and gave her a bright smile. “Mistress D’Vils! Seeing you is a pleasure I have not had in over eight hundred years!”

“At your half-millennial! I recall, Bastien. It was a grand event. Your grandfather and great-grandfather were both so pleased!”

Gastropé blinked and turned to Jenn to see her already staring at him. Trevin was over eight hundred years old? Jenn mouthed something to him. “I take it back, she looks quite good for her age!” was what he thought she said. He could barely suppress a drunken giggle. He had to though, because this was clearly serious.

“What dire news brings you in such haste, good ranger?” Trevin asked Bastien.

“Yesterday, in Murgatroy, a party of twenty orcs flew in.” Bastien began.

Danfaêr, also tipsy, exclaimed, “I can assure you, Bastien, orcs do not fly!”

Bastien shook his head and retorted, “They do, Danfaêr, if they are on D’Wargback!” There were gasps from around the room. “Twenty orcs on D’Wargback, along with twenty D’Orcs!” Bastien added. The alvar all gasped; they seemed truly taken aback and upset.

“Dorks?” Jenn asked.

“What are dorks?” Gastropé followed up.

Trevin closed her eyes for a moment. “Not dorks; D’Orcs, pronounced D(uh) O(rcs). Depending on who you ask, they are either Demon Orcs, Dark Orcs or sometimes Death Orcs.”

Gastropé glanced at Maelen, who was looking extremely pale and sickly and looking in turn at Elrose. Elrose really could not actually look pale, but he did seem a bit ashen. Gastropé looked around the table; all the alvar were looking particularly nauseous. He did not think elves were supposed to have such reactions. The dwarves seemed more muted, with mixed reactions. The aetós also looked more neutral.

“What are they, though?” Jenn asked again.

Trevin shook her head, lost in thought at her own words and their implication. She sighed. “They are, or were, the agents of the Lord of the Underworld, the Damned Prince, Orcus.”

“Orcus? What or who is Orcus?” Gastropé asked.

“A vile being we thought dead four thousand years ago,” Captain Ehéarellis said. He looked to Bastien. “Neelon confirmed that these were indeed D’Orcs and D’Wargs?”

Bastien nodded. “I dragged him out onto the roof deck so he could see them wandering about the city.”

“Neelon is an expert on D’Orcs?” Darowin, one of the dwarves, asked.

Captain Ehéarellis gave a wry smile. “He spent the first half of his life, four thousand years, dealing with D’Orcs and D’Wargs up until Orcus was thought slain in Etterdam.”