Orcblood Legacy - Honor

by Bernard Bertram

  The chieftain, now informed of his impending doom, frantically backed away from Fangdarr. Knowing onlookers would never tolerate surrender, Vrik had to give the impression that the fight would carry on. He had to hope, against all odds, that he could win. He slowly circled the large orc, his legs propelling him around the ring, though he was mentally immobilized in fear. How could he possibly defeat this invulnerable challenger?

  Fangdarr stood still as rock, simply waiting. Perplexed spectators considered his actions; however, he didn’t keep them waiting for long. With the chieftain’s dance around him slowing, Fangdarr walked toward the smaller orc in powerful strides. Vrik tried to circle around him more, but the insanely large orc just kept up his progression toward the fretful leader.

  In no time, Fangdarr caught up to his squirrelly opponent and placed a hand firmly over his head. The chieftain gave a yelp of surprise and started kicking about rapidly, hoping to break the orc’s strong grip on his face. But it was no use. Fangdarr lifted the orc high into the air, his single hand still planted over the small orc’s face. His mighty grip tightened. For moments, nothing seemed to happen outside of a few muffled screams from the trapped chieftain. Then, a loud crunch could be heard as Vrik’s skull shattered beneath the challenger’s grasp. Blood spewed between Fangdarr’s fingers, bathing him in its deep hue.

  All fell silent. Such a feat of strength had never been seen among the orcs before. Not even Brutigarr had the strength to crush the thick skull of an orc. Within moments of entering the village, Fangdarr had already proved himself capable of swallowing his father’s formidable shadow and birthing his own legacy. The young orc roared vigorously.

  The silence broke as every orc cheered their new chieftain. Though it was unspoken, they knew he would lead them to glory and conquest. Fangdarr raised his blood-soaked arm in triumph, still holding the fallen chieftain’s lifeless form. Another roar, another cheer. He didn’t even need to speak; his actions had proven him worthy.

  The mighty orc walked toward his new chambers as chieftain of the clan. He entered alone, refusing to be followed, and looked around the tent. What he saw irked him more than a bit. In every corner of the room sat a severed dwarf head on a pike, still bloodied from the day it had been obtained. He respected—and adored—his heritage’s barbarism and savagery, yet, the trophies reminded him of his mentor. A pang of anger and guilt cut into the pit of his stomach.

  Fangdarr was aware he could never show any weakness if he wished to remain in such high regards. But he also knew he wouldn’t be able to look at the dwarves’ disembodied heads for very long. He scooped together the four trophies and threw them through the flap of his tent. Curious onlookers looked up to the tent for an explanation. Fangdarr walked out of his dwelling, a scowl on his face. “Me orc! Dwarf company forbidden!” he exclaimed to the gathered crowd. At that, a howl of laughter and applause came from the orc contingent. He had handled it well, appeasing his new followers, but internally his gut sank as he watched the lifeless heads of those who reminded him of his adoptive father roll through the muck.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CONQUEST

  Two years of successful raids, conquests, and dominance epitomized Fangdarr’s leadership. In that short time, the Zharnik clan had accomplished more than the fifteen years Brutigarr had led them. Now, rather than just being a small village between the Lithe Forest and the Tusk Mountains, the clan had extended its reach into both.

  The Lithe Forest was a relatively peaceful environment, except of course when a trade caravan traveled too close to the orc’s land, or when Fangdarr decided it was a good day to raid an unsuspecting village. The forest stretched from the base of the Tusk Mountains—named so for their infestation of trolls —all the way to the western human lands. It connected the dwarven city of Tarabar, which was built directly into the face of the Tusks east of the orc lands, and the human’s capital, Wiston. Many small human villages lined the western border of the Lithe, sitting at the edge of Maelstrom Coast.

  Dwarves and orcs always had their ongoing disputes—a byproduct of proximity and a deep historical enmity for one another. Conflicts had often erupted between the two races, despite the fact the dwarves only wished to dig their holes and search for their precious ores. The orcs were of no concern to them until their merchants set out for Wiston to trade valuable armor, weapons, and exquisite jewels to the humans. Orcs knew well that the artisan smiths of the dwarven clan forged the most superior steel—all the motivation necessary to attack the caravans.

  On the other hand, the structured communities of humans were much farther away from the other races. Many leagues of thick forest separated them from their trading partners—an unfortunate disadvantage for trade, but one that provided a great deal of safety from the Zharnik orcs, that is, until Fangdarr became chieftain. The orc had a large pair of boots to fill in his father’s place. He was also the youngest chieftain yet, having seen only twenty-two winters. His youth allowed him to make rash decisions that older chieftains would have been afraid to make. Nevertheless, he led his people proudly to battle, and as a result, his clan had more wealth than ever.

  Growing up away from a proper orc community, Fangdarr had much to learn about its tradition, and he did so very quickly. His mother, Vrutnag, had raised him with intelligence, and Tormag had taught him to fight with his head first. So Fangdarr decided to do something that no other orc chieftain had dared to do. He recruited. The determined orc knew that his clan could grow immensely in strength with more numbers to its ranks. As a result, he had joined forces with Raz’ja, the ruler of the trolls.

  Raz’ja had a feline’s wit and the savagery of an ogre. When Fangdarr had approached the potential ally, he had not been daunted by the thousands of trolls staring at him as his own feats were both known and respected. Troll and orc shared a loathing for humans and dwarves, so Raz’ja needed no coercion to join Fangdarr’s plan for conquest. Likewise, the orc knew the powerful asset he was gaining with the alliance. Trolls were agile and brutal. But their true strength was in their numbers. In their hiding place in the Tusk Mountains, they had a massive force of the vicious and vile creatures.

  Trolls were also very hard to kill. Their race was blessed with a distinct ability that—when paired with their overwhelming numbers—could best almost any foe. Trolls regenerated monstrously fast. Grievous wounds that would fell a warrior of another species healed on their own, and even completely severed limbs grew back within moments. Their only weakness was fire. A cauterized wound prevented their capability to heal.

  The alliance with the trolls is what allowed Fangdarr to expand his territory and creep ever closer to the dwarves and humans until one day, he thought, he could overcome them both. He was not yet ready for a war. But his numbers were growing, and his troops were eager to be rid of their despised adversaries—the goodly races, they were called.

  The mighty orc leader sat in his chambers studying maps of the land and learning strategies to attack either race. As he carefully looked over every detail, looking for some weakness his forces could exploit, he sighed. Raiding trade caravans out in the open was simple enough but attempting to pillage a capital city with proper defenses was another.

  Tarabar, the dwarf city, was obviously the closest, taking away the need for more rations for the army. Yet, the city was almost entirely underground, sheltering it from attacks. It was an impenetrable fortress hidden within the mountain. There was only one way into the city, and the gate that stood in their path was covered in dozens of guards and mounted ballistae. Not to mention the entry was a solid plate of thick, dwarven steel. A simple battering ram could never hope to pose any threat.

  Therefore, the human capital seemed a much better approach. Wiston was comprised of a large castle, behind a large gated wall and with a dock in the rear. However, that city, too, had been built in an easily-defended position. The capital lay on a peninsula among the Maelstrom Coast with the sea at its back. Neither orc nor dwarf had access to water route
s, so the humans had used the sea to form a trade alliance with the elves of Jesmera, an island not far off the coast. As such, attacking the humans could draw retaliation from the wicked and powerful elves. Humans were easily conquered when on their own, but with elven allies by their side, the venture seemed almost hopeless.

  Fangdarr sighed and dropped the maps. He was stuck. His people expected conquest from him, especially after his two years of success. All that was left to do was conquer a race. Yet, it was much more difficult than any of his followers could imagine. Stress bit into his shoulders and Fangdarr closed his eyes to settle his mind. Just then, he heard screams outside his tent. He rose from his seat and raced outside, Driktarr in hand, to see what had caused the commotion. At first, he couldn’t tell why his people were screaming. Then he followed their eyes to the sky and saw it. The dragon flew over the village once more.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CREPUSCULUS

  Circling high above the village, the dark-scaled drake roared at the scampering and screaming orcs below. Then the dragon tucked its outstretched ebony wings and dove toward the village. A moment before it crashed into the ground, its wings spread wide open, filling with wind. In its suspended state, the monster opened its maw and spewed forth a deep purple liquid, showering a dozen orcs. Once the acid connected with their skin, flesh and muscle began to melt away. Shrieks of pure agony and terror wailed from each as they helplessly watched their own bodies drip to the ground. Slowly, the tantalizing plague crept further and further along their extremities, eating away and leaving naught in its wake.

  Fangdarr watched in horror as the mighty beast liquidated his companions before his eyes. For the first time in two years, the brave chieftain had fear in his eyes. His mind flickered to the tales his mentor had preached to him about the mystical wyrms and drakes. Fangdarr recalled the havoc the dragons could wreak. Now, he watched as his people faced that very devastation. No. He must remain focused. He steeled his resolve. The determined chieftain began shouting orders to orcs amidst the chaos. “Archers! To your bows!”

  A group of archers started frantically firing at the drake. Helpless eyes watched as their arrows bounced off the tenebrous scales protecting the dragon. One of the archers shouted the obvious to his chieftain, “Arrows no work!”

  Fangdarr gripped Driktarr tightly in his hand, cursing his luck. He hated not being able to fight a winged foe. “Get inside!” he yelled to his panicked followers. The villagers hurriedly crashed into each other amidst the chaos and terror, but after many moments and another assault from their foe, the orcs of the Zharnik clan managed to scramble inside their homes. After all the surviving orcs were safely in their homes, Fangdarr watched from outside his tent as the dragon circled a few more times. Though his people had hid, he could not be seen hiding within his tent. His people, despite the real threat taking place, would never allow such a show of cowardice.

  Fangdarr started walking slowly toward where the beast was slowly hovering above the village, a spear’s throw off the ground. The drake took notice. The orcs peeked from their hidden shelters at their leader trudging forward, not a shred of fear in his step. Fangdarr made eye contact with the dragon, now circling him with purpose. It seemed just as curious of his actions. Fangdarr raised his heavy axe at arm level, pointing to the shadow that taunted him.

  A proud roar came from the orc chieftain as he slammed the blade of his weapon into the earth. His target did not miss the insulting gesture. Its bright, purple eyes became dangerously thin as it hissed at the impudent orc. How dare a mortal being challenge such an awesome force as the drake? Fangdarr caught the threatening glare and roared once more in defiance. He would not be subdued. Death was more suitable than standing idle while his people fell helplessly around him.

  Black scales glimmered in the dull light as the dragon jerked its head toward the chieftain, spewing a beam of its plague-like breath toward the orc. Fangdarr’s feet remained planted. He did not even flinch as death came toward him through the air. The purple, gelatinous liquid fell just short of his position. A warning shot. The drake’s eyes narrowed once more. It gave a deep hiss of annoyance and another spew of acid over a nearby tent before turning toward the mountains.

  Before the monster had even gone from view, the chieftain was being swarmed from all sides. His people flooded out from their holes to praise their fearless leader. Fangdarr showed no outward emotion, but, inside, pride swelled his chest. He was now a god amongst his people. Surely his feats would be spoken of through the ages, long after his bones had faded to dust. After finally getting his admirers to return to a state of calm, the chieftain instructed his followers to observe the damage that had been done to the village. Luckily, the acid had not connected with too many structures. However, at least thirty orcs lay dead on the ground, some still corroded slowly into nothingness. It seemed that conquest would need to wait. They had a more immediate foe. Though it would be a daunting task, he was grateful at least that, for the time being, he would not need to worry about the seemingly impossible tasks of overtaking a foreign city.

  Fangdarr ordered troops to clear the streets of the dead and to fetch the town shaman. Shortly after, Vruul, the orc shaman entered his chambers. “You ask for me?” he asked.

  The disgruntled chieftain looked at his follower, expecting him to know why he had sent for him. “What was that?” he asked, pointing to the mountains where the terrible dragon had come from.

  Vruul seemed a bit confused before remembering that Fangdarr didn’t grow up in the village. “That Crepusculus, chieftain. Shadow dragon. It attack every ten years. Maybe more.” He spoke as if waving the matter away. Fangdarr glared at him, showing it was no small issue.

  “We kill it,” the chieftain demanded.

  The shaman looked up at his chieftain, hesitantly, an incredulous and confused look in his eyes, “Y-yes, chieftain. But how we do it?”

  Fang pondered the question for a moment. He had an idea, but he wasn’t sure how it would turn out. Finally, he grunted, “Me brother.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ACCUSTOMED

  Bitrayuul stared out the window of the diminutive—yet luxurious—stone cabin shared between Tormag and himself, staring at the empty darkness of the cavernous city. Six years with no sign of his feral brother, though, his conquests did not go unnoticed. The realm was full of stories about the Zharnik clan and their ferocious leader. In the meantime, Bitrayuul and Tormag had left the forest and moved to Tarabar where Bitrayuul had earned the respect of the dwarves and had even become a general in the Dwarven Regime, under Tormag, whom had returned to his former position as commander of the army.

  That night, an outlandish nightmare found its way into the mind of the half-orc. In the throes of sleep, Bitrayuul dreamt that his brother’s campaign for conquest brought him to the gate of Tarabar—a horde of bloodthirsty orcs at his rear. However, it was not the war he feared. Rather, his brother’s foolish and greedy hand extending too far for him to survive.

  He now sat entranced at the window, reminiscing on the illusions that haunted his slumber. The nightmare remained imbedded in his shrouded mind, taking hold of every thought—a haunting wraith tainting all it touched. Vivid images of waves of orcs crashing into the near-impenetrable gate of Tarabar and the inevitable slaughter to follow.

  In the midst of battle, he saw Fangdarr holding his beloved, enormous greataxe, standing in the center of his horde, barking commands. Next, he watched as the determined orcs used their advantageous strength to slowly push open the gate that protected the city he had come to love. Warriors poured in as if they were water breaching a dam. First, a trickle, then a stream, then an explosion of destruction—an endless flow of enraged beasts cutting down any dwarf unfortunate enough to get in their way. Merely twigs hoping to stem the crashing tide.

  The battle raged on. Orcs and dwarves lay lifeless amongst each other. Some say that, in death, all races are equal, and from his vision, Bitrayuul understood what they meant
. As bodies piled around one another, it could not be told what blood belonged to whom. Bitrayuul watched as his dwarven allies cut down his own kind, as he himself was forced to do to stop his own kind from cutting down his friends.

  In the chaos, Bitrayuul became separated from Tormag and hoped for his safety. However, all his thoughts of others instantly fell silent when he saw Fangdarr approaching him, Driktarr covered in gore, a wicked grin on his face. The dismayed look on the half-orc’s face could not even begin to do justice to the fear that ripped through his gut.

  “Brother, it been too long,” Fangdarr growled. Each word was spat out in disgust. The orc was already covered in the carnage from dozens of fallen dwarves, and the toothy scowl that exposed his bottom fangs showed he had no desire to stop.

  Too stunned to move his lips, Bitrayuul just stared hopelessly—mouth wide in disbelief—as his lost brother returned to him. However, Fangdarr’s motives for returning were much different than he ever considered possible. Step by barefoot step, the devious orc’s progression showed no sign of relenting. It was not long before Fangdarr stood arm’s distance from his kin, weapon in hand.

  Just as their inevitable fight was to begin, Bitrayuul caught a sudden intense expression cross Fangdarr’s face. Uncertain as to whether he should strike, the half-orc general waited cautiously, discerning whether his brother was attempting a trick.