Orcblood Legacy - Honor

by Bernard Bertram

  “Aye, I’ll help ye, lad,” Tormag offered. Bitrayuul did not reject him.

  “I stay here, look after Mama,” Fangdarr said, his eyes never leaving the cloth-wrapped face of his sweet, loving mother. Bitrayuul and Tormag could tell he needed to grieve, even if not outwardly.

  Bitrayuul and Tormag descended the rock face in silence. But as they gathered wood, Bitrayuul thought back to what his brother had done and wondered if Tormag thought like they did that their actions had been necessary.

  “Ye did what ye had t’ do, sure as stones, without lettin’ yerselves get lost from honor. Ye killed what needed killed. Ye lads made me proud t’ see that ye showed the other fella a wee bit of mercy.”

  “So . . . we did ok?” Bitrayuul asked.

  “Aye, ye lads did well.”

  Back in the cave, his family out of earshot, Fangdarr lay his hand in his mother’s. He lamented at how cold her touch was. Lifeless. Empty. All the love and goodness that she was now gone. Still, she would remain a constant in his memories. The lessons she taught, the compassion she showed. Both boys knew the story of their birth night, and not once had Vrutnag ever complained of Bitrayuul’s origin or of her choice to care for him as her own. She showed nothing but love. Fangdarr gripped her hand tightly, hoping against all hope that he would feel her gently squeeze his hand in reply.

  Nothing.

  On the verge of tears, he steadied himself with a deep breath as he heard his family return.

  Later that night, Vrutnag lay burning on a pyre of branches. Bitrayuul and Fangdarr said their farewells to their mother and listened to an old dwarven prayer cast by Tormag. Afterwards, the unlikely company ate dinner in silence, none willing to break the somber mood. After dinner, the teenage orcs sat in their respective rooms, silently lamenting the loss they now had to endure. Accepting she was gone was the most difficult challenge they had ever faced. The boys never knew of their father, except that he had been killed in battle. But Vrutnag had been everything to them—all they had except for each other and the caring dwarf.

  Tormag also mourned in his own way. He had developed quite an intimate relationship with the matron orc over the course of their time together. Neither of the boys knew of it, but she and the dwarf had become lovers. Therefore, he too had lost someone dear to him on that day. Yet, he didn’t have the stomach to tell her sons of the relationship. He simply locked the loss away in his heart as he rocked back and forth in his chair in front of the fireplace, his dry lips closed tightly around his pipe, fighting to choke back his tears.

  Even though he would keep the relationship private, Tormag decided that there were certain things the boys deserved to know—details Vrutnag had never told them. That night, when he felt it was time for them to move on from their torment, he called the boys out of their rooms so they could talk.

  “Boys, there’s things ye need t’ know,” he continued. Fang and Bit looked at him, their interest piqued. Tormag gave a reserved sigh; he hated having to be the one to tell them these things, especially now. “It’s about yer father.” They inched closer, fully riveted. What could the old dwarf know about their father that their mother had not already told them?

  “As you know, yer father’s name was Brutigarr, and he was the greatest chieftain yer clan had ever seen. I don’t rightly know if yer mother told ye that ye were both born on the same night,” he paused, looking to the boys for an answer. They both looked to each other and nodded. “Right, figured she told ye. Well then, did she tell ye weren’t hers, Bit?”

  Bitrayuul looked away. “Yes, she mentioned it to me, and obviously I am half human.”

  “Right ye are, lad. The night ye were born, after yer mother had Fang, she heard tell o’ a prisoner who had given birth. The woman had died in the process, but, Bit, ye were born healthy and right. Didn’t take yer mother long t’ know that yer father, Brutigarr, had raped the poor girl. O’ course, yer mother didn’t take it too well. She had planned on givin’ him a stern talk, if ye catch me meanin’.” He paused to cough and gave an angry scowl as he noticed his pipe was empty. A few moments later he had it packed with a pinch of burnberry and continued his tale.

  The boys were intently glued to their seats, waiting for their mentor to feed them more details. Tormag noticed their longing looks, chuckled at the absurdity of it all, and carried on. “So, anyways, yer mother waited fer him t’ get back from his raid. But, he never made it home, sad t’ say. Turns out he died from an ambush. He killed many good dwarves that day . . .” His last comment trailed off before Bitrayuul asked a question.

  “Wait, how do you know how many dwarves he killed? Did anyone survive the raid and talk of it?”

  “Hold on, lad. First, only one orc made it back t’ the village. Yer uncle, Grazmung. But, he betrayed yer father and watched him die so he could steal yer axe, Fang, and become the new chieftain.”

  “Uncle betray father for Driktarr?” asked an astonished Fangdarr. He growled with anger, perhaps Brutigarr would still be alive if his brother wasn’t such a mongrel.

  “Yep, he sure did. But don’t ye worry, son. Yer mother killed that dog right when he walked into the village. And, obviously,” he pointed to Driktarr, “got yer axe back too.” The knowledge that Vrutnag killed Grazmung pleased the boys. Orcs who ran from battles did not deserve to be called orcs. “So, after yer mother’s mate fell and she killed yer uncle, it wasn’t safe for ye t’ stay in the village. She grabbed both of ye boys and headed out, t’ keep ye safe.” The boys gleamed with pride at their mother’s courage. They knew their mother had left the clan to keep them safe, but never the reason.

  “Wait, Tormag, you never answered how you knew about the ambush. It seems our uncle didn’t have a chance to recount the battle before he was killed. You said there were no other survivors, so how did you know?” pressed the curious half-orc. He was determined to find out all he could about his father. Bitrayuul knew he was a rapist, but many orcs were. The spoils of war were often fought over, according to his mother. Fangdarr nodded in agreement with his brother.

  Tormag gave one final sigh and looked at the ground. A great deal of weariness seemed to show under his old eyes. Resentment surfaced in his voice because of the relationships he now had with the boys and their passed mother as he said what he never wanted to say to them. “I know because I was there. I know because . . . it was me who killed yer father.”

  Chapter Nine

  Exodus

  The boys stared at Tormag in disbelief. How were they supposed to react? This dwarf had taken care of them. Loved them like sons. Taught them as students. Now they found out he had been the one to fell their father. How could it be that the father they had come to know was the reason for the absence of their patriarch? What should they do? Moments of silence passed, none daring to break the tension that had risen between the three. Finally, Bitrayuul spoke. “Why didn’t you tell us before?”

  The dwarf looked up at the young half-orc, grateful that Fangdarr hadn’t been the first to speak. He knew all too well of the larger orc’s temper. He replied slowly and carefully, not wanting to start a dispute he would be afraid to finish. “Didn’t know ‘til yer mother and I spoke o’ yer father’s raid—only a moon cycle or so ago. Didn’t know the orc I killed was her mate ‘til then. All me eyes saw was another orc killin’ me friends. Like I said before, yer father did slay many o’ me kin that day, sure as stones. But I be makin’ no excuses. After we found out the truth, I was ashamed o’ takin’ yer mother’s mate from her. But she knew it in me heart that I was only doin’ what me people needed me t’ do. I was the commander o’ the Dwarven Regime and he was the biggest threat. Sure enough, I had t’ fight him, or me allies would’ve fallen by the dozens under his mighty axe.”

  “What about Fangdarr’s axe? Wasn’t our father wielding it? You didn’t recognize it while you were here?” Bitrayuul asked.

  “There be lots o’ axes, don’t ye doubt, lad. Hard t’ look at the details when it’s swingin’ fer yer h
ead. It be a fine weapon, but in the heat o’ combat, just looked like another big slab o’ steel.”

  Fangdarr listened closely, reflecting on his father’s infamous glory. He was proud to be the son of such a notorious warrior. He always planned to be just as feared as Brutigarr was, perhaps even more so. “How you kill father?” he growled at Tormag, clearly angered at the parts he didn’t take pride in.

  Tormag thought carefully about how to answer. He did not want to risk coming to blows with the disgruntled orc. “He underestimated me, just as ye did in our first fight,” Tormag replied. “Yer father was the greatest warrior me eyes had ever seen. It was my honor t’ fight him.”

  “Honor? Honor! You kill father! On day we born! Father never meet us because of you!” No matter how much the old, diplomatic dwarf tried to avoid it, the inevitable had happened. Fangdarr had taken the news harshly, and who could blame him? He just lost his loving mother, not even a day passed, and now he was hearing how his father had died by the very dwarf whom he had come to love as his replacement. In their pastoral seclusion, the boys had never been forced to experience such a sudden rush of emotions. No constant presence of death and war. Despite their warrior nature, they had grown up in peace. Certainly the opposite would have been true had their mother not exiled her family.

  The weary dwarf gave a sigh of hopelessness. He could never hope to win with the stubborn orc. “Lad, ye have t’ understand, I did what I was needin’ t’ do. Yer own mother, the mate o’ the orc I killed, knew that and she forgave me for what I done.” He looked into Fangdarr’s eyes as he spoke, searching for any glimpse of understanding. “I was hopin’ ye could, too.”

  This time it was Bitrayuul who spoke. “I understand you, Tormag. It wasn’t your fault.” His brother shot him the most distasteful glare he had ever seen.

  “No betray me, Bit. We brothers. We stick together.”

  Even before he finished his sentence, the half-orc was shaking his head. “I would never betray you, Fang. But you must see the rationality behind Tormag’s story.”

  “No! He kill father. You no care? Our father dead now. Where your pride?”

  “My pride is in the acceptance of what has happened, as it should be for you. Who was it that trained you, and taught you to be the orc you are today? It was not our father, it was our mother and our mentor, Tormag.”

  Fangdarr growled once more, flexing his body from the stress. “I leaving now. You follow, or you stay, Bit?”

  Bitrayuul’s gaze lowered to the floor of the cave, looking at the dirt covering his boots. Most of the blood from the day’s chaos had been wiped off from traveling the woods was still there. He thought of his home—how this had always been his home. Bitrayuul and Fangdarr belonged there, together. They knew the land—all their mother had taught them: how to hunt, how to fish, how to survive. The half-orc thought hard about what to do, looking to Tormag for help. He knew his choice. But he was afraid it was one he would regret for the rest of his life. He sighed, “I’m staying, Fang.”

  After one final grimace, Fangdarr left the room, retrieved his devastating axe and a small pouch of leftover meat, and exited the cave. He gave one final look back at his brother. Then, for the first time ever, he left his side.

  CHAPTER TEN

  UPHEAVAL

  Four years had passed since Fangdarr had lost his mother and abandoned his brother and home. Over that time, he passed many uneasy nights in which he regretted leaving and missed having Bitrayuul by his side. However, on his own, Fangdarr had changed greatly. No longer under the tutelage of his elderly mentor, the orc became more savage. He wandered the forest, testing his strength on all different variations of beasts: ogres, trolls, bears, and especially humans. All felt the blade of his axe. He became like his father, relishing in the fires of combat.

  Now, after four years, Fangdarr had arrived at a village of orcs. Faces looked up and heads turned as he entered. To them, he was a stranger, but the weapon he carried, they knew well, even after two decades. This was his father’s old clan, the Zharnik orcs. The gathering orcs tentatively followed his progress through the village until finally he slowed to a stop in the center. Looking around, he met eyes with the others. Peasants mainly, though a few warriors could be seen spread among their ranks. A slight smile spread over his lips. He hoped there was a worthy challenger. Just as the chattering seemed to die off, he exclaimed, with great vigor, “I come to challenge chieftain!”

  Gasps erupted from the crowd. Some roared in outrage, others hollered in joy. Orcs live for bloodshed. As the clamor was at its peak, the current chieftain exited the front of his tent to meet his challenger. Fangdarr almost laughed at the sight of him. The orc was hardly muscular and wielded a mace and shield. Coward, Fangdarr thought. Orcs did not carry shields. Fangdarr was adorned in nothing but his leather kilt. It betrayed a severe lack of respect to carry defensive weapons. How this orc had managed to become the chieftain of his father’s tribe was a mystery to Fangdarr.

  The chieftain spoke strangely, even for an orc. His tone had the hiss of a snake to it. “Who challenges Vrik?” he asked, searching the crowd. Simultaneously, dozens of orc hands pointed to Fangdarr. Vrik looked at his challenger, sizing him up. He could tell that Fangdarr was abnormally large and strong for an orc, but if he had any concern, he did not show it. “What your name, orc?” he asked.

  “Fangdarr, son of Brutigarr. Zharnik clan! I come to be chieftain!” A cheer rolled through the crowd at the mention of the fallen warrior. Brutigarr was a legend among his clan, and by appearance alone, his son seemed to fill that role perfectly.

  Vrik narrowed his eyes at that. “Mighty Brutigarr perish. Battle many years ago. How we know your claim true?”

  Fangdarr grumbled, baring his teeth at the lack of faith in his statement. His angry yellow eyes remained on the less-imposing chieftain as he reached behind his back. With a single hand, he hoisted the giant greataxe slowly over his shoulder and let it fall into the cold ground in front of him. The crowd hushed.

  The chieftain gave a disrespectful clap. “So, maybe you lost son of Brutigarr. And you want to be chieftain. So what?” His tone grew more condescending with each word.

  Fangdarr grew tired of the blatant disrespect he was being shown. His anger was close to boiling. Of course, he knew that was the purpose of Vrik’s insults. “I am fit to lead. I am big enough to lead.”

  The chieftain caught his meaning. His diminutive stature had always been his biggest obstacle in being seen as the leader of the Zharnik clan. He growled at his opponent.

  “We begin, then.”

  Both orcs and their entourage of followers headed to the opening in the camp where the contenders would have room to fight. Nearly every member of the tribe huddled in a ring around them. It was not often a chieftain was challenged. As they prepared for the conflict, Fangdarr watched as the chieftain removed at least a dozen different articles of jewelry: rings, necklaces, charms, everything you could think of. Fangdarr chuckled at his opponent. It all seemed so pointless. Vrik seemed more concerned with his title than his prowess. Nevertheless, Fangdarr could see seasoned warriors in the crowd, all more powerful than the current chieftain. Yet, none had challenged him. There must have been more to Vrik than his size.

  Both combatants stood poised in the center of the ring, and a drum sounded signifying the start of the duel. In Ortuk Malid a challenger had to fight the current leader of the clan in hand-to-hand, unarmed combat. It was no merciful fight, though. Orcs were relentless in their challenges. To be named victorious, and claim the title of chieftain, one must kill the other. As such, any sign of mercy would mean defeat. Mercy. Tormag’s word, Fangdarr thought.

  As the fight began, the orcs surrounding the fight began to rampage, excited for someone to die. Vrik attacked quickly, hoping to catch Fangdarr off-guard. He lunged forward, hand raised for a strike, and Fangdarr stood perfectly still as the chieftain’s attack landed squarely on his abdomen. Not even a flinch. Vrik didn’t slow, launc
hing a flurry of punches at his opponent’s torso. None caused any concern from Fangdarr. However, unbeknownst to Fangdarr, the small orc had been quietly chanting as he threw his punches, almost too quiet to hear. Just as the challenger caught on, Vrik reeled back his fist and it swirled in a greenish-yellow, wispy glow. He is a shaman! This must have been how he came to be chieftain, Fang realized.

  Vrik’s eyes widened in glee. He knew his minute stature gave his opponent a false sense of confidence, enough to give Vrik the time to compel the power of his gods into his fist, imbuing it with magical strength. His elation escalated as his enclosed fist came toward his unsuspecting opponent. Victory was sight. As his fist made contact, Vrik closed his eyes and laughed, knowing Fangdarr would be blown back by the sheer force of his divine attack.

  However, there was no movement. His hand remained in contact with the orc. Confused, Vrik opened his eyes, wondering if Fangdarr had simply died in place. His eyes widened. Fangdarr had the chieftain’s fist clasped tightly in his own. He had completely halted the chieftain’s enhanced attack, countering the strength the gods had granted him! Mouth agape, the chieftain shuddered as he looked at Fangdarr’s grin spread widely on his face. Vrik knew he was outmatched with no chance of survival.