Orcblood Legacy - Honor

by Bernard Bertram

  But the orc’s odd twitch was no trick. A dwarf had interrupted their battle before it could begin. He had attacked suddenly, too fast for either of the orcs to react. Before they knew it, the diminutive creature holding tight a pair of daggers had burrowed into the small of Fangdarr’s strong back. Cutting his way in, he quickly laid waste to Fangdarr’s insides until the blades pierced through the front of the orc’s torso.

  Gore exploded over Bitrayuul—blood, shattered ribs, shredded organs, everything and anything that lay within the abdomen of Fangdarr the orc. Bitrayuul could only watch in bewilderment as his brother dropped to his knees, and the dwarf that had lodged himself into Fang wiggled his way out from the orc’s innards. His victim fell slowly as the fire that burned in the yellow eyes of history’s most magnificent orc extinguished in a heartbeat. Bitrayuul could not peel his gaze away. Memories pierced his mind as flashbacks of his mother’s brutal murder came in full force. Was this his fate? To watch all he loved perish barely out of his grasp? A feeble, trembling hand extended with unease toward the fallen chieftain. Tears welling in his eyes, mouth, quivering, unable to form words, he was completely immobilized. His gaze drifted to the assailant who had massacred his kin.

  The dwarf did not have a drop of blood on him. Not a single hair was out of place. In fact, he seemed quite tidy. As he looked up at Bitrayuul, he spoke to him clearly. Yet, it was not the gruff voice of a dwarf. It was the gentle voice of his mother:

  “Wake up, Bitrayuul, your brother needs you.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  REFLECTION

  Fangdarr stood in his tent considering what else he would need for his journey. He had not seen Bitrayuul or Tormag in over six years. But that did not mean he had no knowledge about their whereabouts. It had always been a possibility that he might return to them, though this was not the reason he expected. The shaman begged Fangdarr to take a few guards with him, but the chief refused. His brother had taken up with the dwarves of Tarabar with Tormag. If he brought along any orcs, they would surely be cut down before he ever had a chance to speak with his brother. No, it was best he went alone.

  Vruul was in the chamber helping his chieftain prepare as well as readying himself for the duties that would fall to him while Fangdarr was absent. “Great chieftain, what if you no come back?” he asked his courageous leader.

  “Then you be chieftain.” Fangdarr knew if he never made it home, his orcs would seize the opportunity to send a party after him and rid him of his life, so a successor may take his place. However, Fangdarr knew that Vruul idolized him as a god and would never hope to uproot his rightful place at the pinnacle of their clan.

  The elderly shaman seemed a bit uneasy at the idea of taking the reins, further confirming Fangdarr’s predictions. “Y-yes, great chieftain.”

  With all the preparations made and his loyal axe strapped across his back, the mighty orc proceeded out of the village gate—Tarabar his destination. It was going to be an interesting reunion with his brother.

  The orc was on his own again. He had forgotten how much he loved the open air and sense of adventure. He cursed himself for having remained cooped up in the confines of his tent for the past two years. Carrying on through the thick forest, Fangdarr took in the sounds of nature. It all reminded him of his mother and his time with Bitrayuul. He realized that this journey was more than just a task to rid his village of a dragon. It would finally settle the case in his mind about whether he made the right choice in leaving his family. His typical heavy groaning sigh slipped past the two bottom fangs for which he had been named.

  The great orc had already covered a lot of distance that day, but his destination was still days away. Before he left, Vruul had requested that he take a wolf to ride, but Fangdarr rejected the notion. It had been too long since he had walked through the forest alone without a war party marching behind him. He wanted to cherish what solitude he could.

  As the sun faded on the horizon, Fangdarr considered whether he should sleep or not. Indeed, he was exhausted from his trek, so the orc decided to rest. It was a strategic decision. If he was ambushed, he wanted to be ready for the fight.

  Little sleep came to the mighty orc the first night. However, he awoke in the morning feeling revived and certain he could fight any number of foes. Ready to begin his journey anew, he stomped out his fire with the bottoms of his heavily calloused feet, and onward he pressed.

  Time drained by with the sun pounding on his back. Beads of sweat formed at the top of his neck and inched down his muscled shoulders before accumulating in the arch of his lower back. Fangdarr continued walking. It seemed that was all he could do. He didn’t have a bow to hunt game—nor did he need one. Rations of dried meat and bread already filled his pack.

  As the sun set on the second day, Fangdarr stopped to set up camp. He chomped on a piece of dried meat as he calmly gathered sticks, leaves, and other kindling for a fire and prepared his minimal camp. He had already travelled half the distance to the dwarven city, leaving him on the very edge of the Orclands—the portion of the Lithe still claimed by his clan. Humans and dwarves alike used to claim the vast majority of the wood, leaving only a small portion to his clan. However, Fangdarr had pushed the orcs to greatness, extending their reach further and further and driving out the other races. Half of Lithe Forest was now recognized as his domain. Knowing he had been responsible for driving out the outsiders—as they were considered among orcs—brought a smile to the chieftain’s face. He completed his necessary tasks and lay on the ground next to the fire. The crackle of flames and smell of open air set him at ease as he drifted off to sleep.

  Normally, Fangdarr’s dreams were lustful remembrances of battles won and foes slain. But being in the woods in solitude brought a lighter mood to his slumber, full of peace and gentle memories of his childhood—playful days with Bitrayuul and himself sparring, hunting, and swimming. Had he truly lost his innocence? It had been so long since these memories of his past graced his sleep. His dream-self embraced his mother with vigor, as if he knew he would never see her again. The details of her face had blurred slightly due to his waning memory of her. He looked at her with tears in his bright, yellow eyes, only making his vision more hazy. Vrutnag’s image grew more and more muddied with each passing moment, but her voice still comforted him. That was something he would never forget. The soft, eloquent dialect of his orcish mother, so contrary to their race, yet so fitting for her kind-heartened persona. A hand ran over his younger-self’s head. Bliss. Pure bliss.

  The sound of a twig snapping woke the slumbering orc, his hand already on Driktarr’s shaft. His eyes darted in every direction, searching for the source of the noise. Seconds turned to minutes as he waited in silence. Whatever had made the noise—if indeed there was something out there—must have been gone by then. He shook his head at the absurdity of his reaction and lay back down with his axe handle in his grip.

  Just when the orc’s head hit the ground, a loud rustle came from a nearby bush. As Fangdarr sat up, a large black bear lumbered on top of him. The mighty orc, not caught fully unaware, growled as the bear’s strong jaws clamped around his left forearm, though he showed no sign of pain. The pair made eye contact with each other, and Fangdarr scowled at the bear for being so foolish. “No bite me, bear,” he grumbled. As if it understood the orc’s meaning, the bear clamped its jaw down harder.

  With the bear still holding tight to his forearm, Fangdarr stood up, tugging the bear onto its hind legs. Now upright, the orc shook his arm violently, hoping to shrug the beast off. Instead, he suffered more shredded flesh and muscle. The bear readjusted its hold on the orc’s arm and groaned with discomfort. Whether it was from the shaking or the taste of his arm, the orc could not be sure. Orcs were not known for being terribly tasty. Failing to shake off the bear, Fang attempted an alternative. He raised his right fist and began pounding the bear in the face.

  After a few strong blows, the bear finally released its hold. It sat staring at Fangdarr, left eye
full of blood, clearly wounded both in body and pride. “I said no bite me,” the orc repeated accusatorily. The bear moaned in pain but didn’t run. It seemed to be waiting for its foe to finish it off. Fangdarr looked at his mangled arm, and then back at the powerful bear. “Strong bear,” he said, lifting his axe. He knew his axe would heal his arm once it tasted blood, so he lifted his axe with his free hand and aimed for the bear. Once again, his yellow eyes met with the brown eyes of his opponent.

  Fangdarr saw the same emptiness in the bear’s eyes that he hid within his own. He lowered Driktarr to the ground and approached the bear. As he stepped toward it, the beast growled and began backpedaling, confused as to why the orc was approaching. Fangdarr, in all his might and insatiable bloodlust, reached his hand out to the bear and rubbed the top of its furry head. The bear now looked ever more puzzled. Was this orc not going to kill it? The bear didn’t know whether to resist or accept the rustle gratefully. It chose the latter and, in so doing, even gave a hum of pleasure.

  The orc looked at his arm and, pointing to it, spoke to the bear again. “No bite.”

  The bear lifted its eyes from the torn arm and back up to Fangdarr. It gave a small moan of approval to the orc then looked back at the wound it had given him. Lowering its head, the bear licked the wound a few times then took a step back. The strong orc gave a hearty chuckle at the unexpected gesture. Lightly grabbing the beast’s head for steadiness, Fangdarr looked at the eye he had beaten. It was still covered in blood and a bruise could be felt forming under the skin. From a loop on his leather kilt he produced a knife, and once more looked at the bear.

  “No move,” he said softly, compassion in his voice. The bear, now visibly relaxed, allowed Fangdarr to take control. Remembering what his mother had taught him, the orc brought the knife to the bruise and cut a line underneath it, draining the blood. The bear whimpered a bit at the pain, but after a few moments it blinked open its eye and energetically shuffled forward, nuzzling Fangdarr’s face with its wet nose.

  The orc laughed aloud and happily took the nuzzling. “Bear have family?” he asked, almost expecting an answer, but the bear remained silent. Fangdarr pondered for a moment. “You come with me, bear. I take care of you,” said the orc, eager to have a companion, if only for the remainder of the journey. “You need a name.” He thought to himself, thinking up possible choices for his new ally. His mind shuffled through typical barbaric names. Ripper, Gouger, Shredder, all the names in the book for something that had just mangled his arm. Then he laughed out loud and said, “Eh, I call you ‘Bear’.”

  The bear did not seem to understand anything Fangdarr was saying, but it graciously accepted the attention it was receiving. Then it lay itself down on the patch of ground where the orc had been sleeping and began to doze off. Fangdarr laughed to himself again, thinking of how ridiculous the events of the night had been. He looked at the resting bear and then again at his wounded arm. “I be back, Bear,” he said and started off into the woods.

  Bear woke up first the next morning, and walked over to its new ally, thinking to clean his wound. Yet, when it looked at the wound, it was completely healed and all that remained was a horrendous maw-shaped scar. Bear sniffed at the scar, wondering how the orc had healed so fast. Fangdarr rolled over grumpily after being awoken by his new friend. “Bear, your nose cold,” he said, shivering as he spoke. He slowly got to his feet and rustled the bear’s head in greeting.

  Bear nudged his forearm again, and Fangdarr understood that the bear could not understand how his wound had healed. “Oh,” he chuckled, “axe heal me when I kill.” He pointed to the edge of their tiny encampment where a young deer lay crumpled and bloodied. The orc chieftain walked over to the dead animal and used Driktarr to cleave it in half. Tossing his axe aside, he scooped up the back half of the animal and dropped it in front of Bear. “This for you,” he said, a smile creasing his lips. His companion chomped down merrily on its meal and Fangdarr watched his formidable companion with contentment.

  He was surprised at how quickly the beast had taken to him—even if he had spared its life—but who was he to question the mind of a beast? His clan had plenty of loyal wolves that had been tamed from their lives in the wilderness. Animals were complex creatures, to be sure. In the end, Fangdarr could care less as to the reason for his companion’s trust, but he was certainly glad to have it.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  REUNION

  Fangdarr and Bear approached the gate of Tarabar two days later, their journey finally at its end. The orc’s gaze shifted to the dozens of dwarven guards lining the massive gate embedded in the base of the Tusk Mountains. Fangdarr could not help but get distracted by the beautiful craftsmanship of the intricate runes etched into the thick, steel walls ahead. By all the accounts he had heard, the dwarves believed the barrier to be protected by the magic of their deity, Bothain. Fangdarr lifted his eyes to the vigilant sentinels atop the towering structure. They all stared at him with hate and confusion. One of the guards peeked over the edge to get a better look at the curious orc and his pet. “Say orc, what’re ye about?” he asked.

  “I come for Bitrayuul and Tormag,” the orc stated firmly.

  “Oh? Who be askin’?”

  “I am Fangdarr.”

  The dwarf considered what to do for a moment before moving out of sight to talk to his comrades. Many moments passed before he returned with another dwarf at his side.

  The new dwarf seemed to be of a higher status than the first. His bald head was paired with a neat, unbraided beard. He called out to Fangdarr from atop the wall. “Me name’s Cormac, I be the captain of the Shield. We guard this gate for our king. What’s yer business here, Master Fangdarr?”

  “I here to meet brother, Bitrayuul,” the orc replied, beginning to grow agitated that he had to repeat himself.

  “That’s a mighty big axe ye got with ye, orc. Surely ye know that orcs don’t like dwarves. Ye willing to give it up if we let ye in?”

  Fangdarr growled quietly. He was not fond of a dwarf carrying Driktarr. However, circumstances were against him. Still, maybe he could find a way to keep it. “Bitrayuul likes Tormag . . . so not all orcs bad.”

  “Aye, that he does. Do they know yer comin’?”

  “No, dwarf,” he replied, then added with much reluctance, “I need help.”

  The captain disappeared behind the walls, drawing another groan from the impatient chieftain. He rubbed Bear’s ear for reassurance. Despite their violent first meeting, the bear had remained loyal to Fangdarr. It even hunted for him when directed. A formidable ally indeed.

  The large orc sighed as he debated turning back. Suddenly, the enormous steel doors groaned with protest as they began spreading, and Cormac walked through the opening and approached Fangdarr. He was a bit taller than most dwarves, with an eye patch covering his left eye, giving him a distinct level of intimidation. Orc and dwarf met the other’s gaze, mutually sizing each other up for a possible threat. The captain seemed odd to Fangdarr. No weapons were visible on his person, but he had a large shield buckled to each forearm. However, these were no simple bucklers. Both shields were curved, extending from over his hand to his bicep. He could tell by their scale shape that they were capable of deflecting blows with ease. A thousand miniscule scratches could be seen along the curved steel, giving merit to the quality of the dwarven artisans. Just beyond the hand-straps at the bottom of each shield was a hand’s length sharpened blade that Fangdarr knew had seen the inside of many foes.

  “Well, if ye won’t give up yer axe, ye’ll need to follow me,” said Cormac. “I’ll take ye to yer brother.”

  Fangdarr nodded in agreement, happy his axe would remain with him. The pair, with the addition of the orc’s animal companion, headed into the great city of Tarabar, home of the dwarves. The orc’s eyes shined with amazement at the beautiful city. Once past the barrier, the large doors closed behind them. His eyes shifted to adjust to the darkness as the last light of day dissipated with the booming th
ud of the doors. Luckily, orcs—like dwarves—had excellent sight in the dark. In addition, Fangdarr noticed the occasional torch outside of the carved-stone dwellings. Cormac noticed his expression and said, “Spectacular isn’t it? Built right into the face of the mountain.”

  “It great city,” the awed orc replied.

  “Indeed, it is lad, but, meself, I’ve always liked the outdoors. There are times when I’m jealous of ye orcs livin’ out in the woods.”

  That drew the chieftain out of his trance. “Really?” he asked the dwarf. This was one curious dwarf indeed. Cormac simply nodded and continued leading the orc down the path. All the dwarves in the city were surprised at Fangdarr’s appearance. In truth, Bitrayuul had become a part of the community, but another orc among the city was not exactly typical—particularly this orc who was over twice a dwarf’s height, extremely muscular, and had a grizzly bear nearly as large as him walking beside him. Murmurs had already begun spreading throughout the undercity of Tarabar. By the time the trio had arrived at Tormag’s home, many dwarves were standing outside of his door. Most were yelling for the orc to leave, others were just curious as to why this orc had come to see Bitrayuul. Not everyone in the city was convinced he was not an infiltrator.