Orcblood Legacy - Honor

by Bernard Bertram

  “What are you?” Fangdarr asked incredulously. In truth, it was obvious. The elf was some sort of magician—something the chieftain was not overly familiar or fond of.

  “He is a necromancer—a warlock, if you will,” came the reply from the side. It was a voice Fangdarr had never heard before, though it rang oddly familiar. The orc and his companions turned their heads to see a female elf standing beside them, watching the necromancer. All caught by surprise, they backed away. Elves were known to be tricky creatures, only caring for their own lives. Too well did they know the relationship between elves and dwarves and orcs were not friendly.

  Fangdarr looked around in confusion, making sure all of his friends were safe. As he inspected the area, the orc started to panic. “Where Bear?” he asked of Bitrayuul.

  “I am Bear, Fangdarr,” responded the elf woman. The orc looked up at her in confusion, clearly refusing to believe the elf was a bear. His bear. But her hair was black, matching the color of Bear’s fur exactly. In addition, while the necromancer donned robes, this elf wore only simple leather clothing. “Well, my name is not ‘Bear’,” she continued, “It is Aesthéa.”

  “Yes, yes. Perhaps this is not the time,” came the frustrated call from the elvish necromancer, still launching spear after spear.

  The orc chieftain and his companions were completely bewildered. After all this time, Bear was an elf? Fangdarr could hardly believe that he could have been so blinded by the trickery of an elf!

  It was Cormac who cut off his thoughts. “Aye, lad. We need to take care of that dragon, don’t ye doubt.”

  Fangdarr broke from his mental irritation to focus on the threat at hand. He managed to make the connection that the warlock had saved him from the dragon’s flames that surely would have brought his end. With a huff of annoyance, Fangdarr agreed. He watched as the necromancer weaved a field of blackness in front of them, blocking yet another stream of flames from Crepusculus.

  You will suffer! Anguish! Torment!

  “It’s time to change strategies,” the elf male stated. The group watched as his robe opened to expose his torso, and his body dropped hundreds of rotting bones to the ground—in total, three corpses worth—revealing the elf’s slim frame. Though slim, he was covered in swirling black tattoos that appeared to move. His skin was painted with the same abyssal blackness of his magic, though it was embedded deep into his flesh.

  With a yelp from Malice, the three corpses began to assemble themselves before rising to their feet. It became apparent almost immediately that they too had once been elves judging by the height of their cheekbones and slim stature. “Go, my brothers! Go, now!”

  All three ghouls rushed to the edge of the cliff before jumping down. The drop was taller than the height of the dragon; the fall would have surely killed any living creature, though, these were not living creatures. They were the raised dead—immortal beings frozen in time, ready to be called upon at their master’s whim.

  Cormac peered over the edge to see the risen warriors sprinting toward the dragon. “By the stones, they’re fast!”

  The dwarf’s allies peeked as well, watching the ghouls climb up the dragon’s coarse, beautiful scales toward its face and wings. The necromancer, confident in his minions, began flinging more spears. Crepusculus growled in rage as the summoned creatures tore the film from its wings, little by little, and scratched at its eyes.

  RAHH! You think these pawns can deter me?

  With a flick of its tail, the beast brushed away the one ghoul on its head. Once it hit the ground, it crumpled back into a pile of bones before immediately reanimating and charging back in. Such efficient fighters, the dead. Roaring in anger once more at the incessant scraping of the summoned minions on its body, Crepusculus spread its wings wide.

  “Ah, finally,” stated the necromancer.

  Bitrayuul and Fangdarr watched the elf in amazement. After all, he was single-handedly holding a dragon at bay. Moments before, their only hope had been to flee. Now, it seemed that winning may actually be possible. With the dragon’s wings spread wide in the air, reflecting the light of the rising sun, the elf smiled. He had been waiting for this.

  Crepusculus kicked off the ground heavily, taking to the air. It rose higher and higher into the sky, now level with their position. I have you now, Elf. Do not think I have never faced one of your kind before, the dragon chuckled under its breath with ground-shaking heaviness. No response came from the necromancer, only a knowing smile in return. With both hands outstretched, a dozen spears rose in the air and pointed directly at the hovering drake. The raging wind from the elf’s magic blew wildly, nearly ripping the robe from his person. The elf’s eyes went wide with madness as he screamed in ecstasy, unleashing his spears.

  The dragon tried to turn in an attempt to dodge the impending magical attack. However, in its ignorance, Crepusculus failed to notice just how much damage the ghouls had already done—and were still doing—to the skin of its wings. Tattered and ripped in a few places, the drake could not get enough control to spin out of the way. Instead, the shadow dragon could only flail about awkwardly in the sky. A dozen crashing sounds came as the spears all made contact. The elf had been aiming for its already-weakened wings, though only half of the spikes hit their mark. The rest crashed heavily into the armored hide of the drake with little effect.

  Slowly, Crepusculus began descending as the wind holding up its wings now blew through the gaping holes that had been ripped by the black magic. The dragon roared in anger. Curse you, Elf! You are too late. I shall be the ruler of this world before long. My acid will melt your precious tree and consume all that you love. It growled in frustration before tucking its wings together more tightly. With them tucked, the dragon could not fly, though the holes were covered enough to allow it to glide away. The party watched as Crepusculus retreated deeper into the mountains.

  Cormac could not help but laugh as he watched the three ghouls jump from the dragon’s back and fall onto the ground far below in a heap of shattered bones. They instantly reanimated and began sprinting back toward their master, though it would take them some time to return. “Whoa, I got to get me some of them! Bahahaha!”

  As the dragon faded from view to retreat to its hole, the assembled warriors visibly relaxed. Fangdarr was the first to approach the necromancer and Aesthéa. His eyes narrowed in reproach as they made contact with the female elf who had been hiding at his side all this time. Aesthéa looked away, unable to endure the orc’s glare as he approached. Fangdarr switched his attention to the male before speaking. “Thank you, elf. I owe you my life.”

  A minor flash of disgust appeared on the warlock’s face. “You are welcome, orc,” he spat through gritted teeth, “though, do not count on the favor to be repeated. This is the first time in my long life to have saved an orc—a fact that does not please me.”

  Fangdarr nodded despite his irritation at the quick prejudice that came from their unlikely savior. The chieftain turned to Aesthéa. No words were necessary. His harsh stare clearly demanded answers.

  “I am sorry for hiding my true self from you. As you can see,” her arms spread to expose her frame, “this is what I am. An elf. I am a druid, which allows me to take on the form of the animal my spirit has become linked to—in this case, a bear. I had t—” she stopped, interrupted by the male elf.

  “There is no need to explain yourself to an orc! Come, you are needed back home.” The necromancer had already begun walking away.

  “No, Elethain!” Aesthéa cried out in protest, stopping him in his tracks.

  He stopped and turned to her. “No? The king demands it. He sent me across the entirety of Crein to come look for you! You were instructed to stay in Jesmera, yet you disobeyed to pursue this orc on your own.” The party inched closer with intense curiosity and confusion. “Oh? You haven’t told them?” Elethain let out a small chuckle at the fact he found amusing.

  “Told us what?” asked Bitrayuul, stepping forward. Malice and Cormac, too,
now invested in the conversation, joined as well.

  The druid sighed in hopelessness, looking to Fangdarr as she spoke. “The elves took note of your expansion, Fangdarr. I asked that we eliminate the threat immediately before it spread further. However, my uncle, the king, refused. Elves do not often concern themselves in the matters of the other races. We are to remain secluded on Jesmera and watch from afar. So, I . . .” she paused and shut her eyes, remembering her actions.

  “You attacked me,” Fangdarr replied.

  Aesthéa nodded in confirmation. “I aimed to eliminate you on my own. Though, I was easily overwhelmed. All we have heard of orcs only told of your brutality, stubbornness, and stupidity—that you were just dumb creatures easily overwhelmed yet imposing when enraged. Once beaten, I expected my life to be forfeit for such a stupid mistake—for being so bullheaded. Instead, you spared me. Cared for me. So, I remained at your side, waiting for an opportunity to return the debt. Meanwhile I could keep a close eye on you and report back to my people.”

  “You saved me. Many times. The debt is paid.”

  She nodded in response. “Indeed, it is. But I have stayed for other reasons.” Her eyes closed lightly as she spoke. “I grew attached. You were not the brute I was told you would be. Nor was your goal one of treachery. You are actively avoiding a war, rather than waging one. I see now that you wish for orcs to simply have a home in the realms and to not be looked down upon.”

  Elethain scoffed at the notion in disgust. Fangdarr and Aesthéa ignored him.

  “Then why you stay hidden? Why not show your true form?” the orc pressed.

  “I could not risk being known as an elf. A party of orcs and dwarves? Hah! I did not think I would be received well. Our races are not known for being fond of one another. In addition, I was acting on my behalf alone. I could not make it seem the elves were involved. Contrarily, they were adamant as to not become involved.”

  Bitrayuul stepped forward. “Wait, wait! You mean this entire time, you could have shifted back to an elf at any time? Used magic? Are druids not capable of manipulating nature around them?” Aesthéa nodded in response, pushing the half-orc to an instant shift to anger. “You could have saved him!” he yelled.

  The druid remained stoic despite the half-orc’s anger. “No, it would not have been possible. I can utilize nature, plants, to be more precise—a gift from Cerenos, the Forest God. Do you see any such nature here?” she responded calmly.

  The half-orc could not hide his tears as the vision of watching his father be murdered by Chakal played again in his mind. “You! You can revive him! Necromancers can bring back the dead, can’t they?”

  “No, orcblood,” Elethain shot back with disdain. “Necromancers cannot simply bring back the dead. There are rituals. Rules. Besides, he was covered in the dragon’s fire. There is nothing left of him to bring back. Even still, I would not bring back the likes of a dwarf at the behest of an orc!”

  Bitrayuul could not contain his anger any longer. The cold superiority of the necromancer had touched one nerve too many. He removed his helmet forcefully and threw it directly at the elf while screaming, “Half-orc! Half!”

  Elethain nonchalantly conjured a clawed hand of black magic thrice the size of his own to catch the helmet. His slanted eyes narrowed with hatred. The abyssal markings on his pale skin began to shift in eagerness. “Careful, orcblood. Do not try my patience.”

  Aesthéa stepped between the two with a hand raised to each. “Now is neither the time nor place. We need to get moving. Trolls will be swarming us soon, and I would rather not be here when they arrive. Crepusculus went east, deeper into the Tusks.”

  “East? I think not. You are returning to your uncle. They may do as they wish,” the warlock replied forcefully.

  “I will not.”

  A wrinkle appeared on Elethain’s fair skin as he scowled. “You will. The king demands it.”

  “Then you shall have to subdue me. My place is here, at least until the dragon has fallen.”

  The elf rubbed his temples in frustration before sighing heavily. “Then you will return home?”

  Aesthéa looked to Fangdarr, though the disgruntled orc quickly averted his gaze. Her head drooped low, shrouding her angular face behind locks of hair. She could not form the words. Doing so would make it real. She faced a struggle she had never known—torn between her duty and her heart. Elethain—and her uncle, no doubt—was deep-rooted in his prejudice. Aesthéa could not make her wishes known, for surely it would only end in disaster. With a nod, the elf confirmed her agreement.

  “Fine, then we set off for Crepusculus.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  TRUTH

  Fangdarr, even more determined to pursue his goal now that it no longer seemed impossible, fell in line behind Elethain. Being led by an elf left a fowl taste in his mouth, but this was the only way. The orc could not deny the prowess of the warlock. Without him, their task would never prove successful. Accordingly, the chieftain swallowed his pride. He turned to see Malice and Cormac following as well, though Bitrayuul remained frozen in place.

  “You coming, Bit?” Fangdarr asked.

  Broken from his angry trance, the half-orc bent to retrieve his helmet. Fangdarr had never seen him so irritated. Without saying a word, Bitrayuul donned his bladed helmet harshly and looked back to his father’s resting place—now only a steaming remnant of ash and tar-like liquid. He moved past his kin in line with the others, too angry to speak.

  The assembled party trudged forward, beginning the search for the dragon’s lair. The sun was well above the horizon now though hardly piercing the gloom of the clouds overhead. Cormac called out to the procession, “Once we’re clear of our last site, we should make camp. It’s been a rough night, don’t ye doubt, and we will need to rest before encounterin’ the drake again.”

  Cormac’s assessment came with no arguments. In truth, they were all exhausted, even Elethain. Once the king had discovered Aesthéa’s insubordinate departure, Elethain had been commanded to retrieve her. As one of the royal advisors, compliance was mandatory. Since then, Elethain had scoured nearly the entire forest in search of the young druid. Torturing orcs and questioning humans had kept the warlock on her trail. It was not until he had come upon their battle with Crepusculus that the elf finally realized she was no longer following Fangdarr, but with him. Though, whether her intention came from her duty to the king or herself, he could not know.

  After walking through the harsh mountain pass for quite a while longer, the group finally stopped to make camp. With luck, they managed to find a secluded location that was both safe from view and the elements alike. Cormac built a fire using kindling that Malice collected while the orc kin prepared the food. The captain produced his favorite cooking tool, the thin sheet of metal that served as a hot plate with which to cook the dried meat.

  Fangdarr handed a skewer of meat to Elethain, though he quickly rejected the offer. “Elves do not eat meat, orc. Except for some,” he said, nodding toward Aesthéa. “Her shapeshifting capabilities are not simply a trick of magic. She is wholly linked to the spirit of a bear, which means she must take on certain qualities, including eating meat. Her skin is even thicker than normal, though it still retains the softness of an elf’s. Luckily,” he added, turning to the young female, “she does not hibernate.”

  “Bahahah! Could ye imagine, Fang? Just walking along one winter and seein’ a sleeping elf, fat for the winter?” Cormac couldn’t help but pipe in with his usual humor. Despite his stoic attitude, even Elethain managed to crack a minimal smile.

  “So, Aesthéa tells me you ran into Chakal, is that so?” the necromancer asked, shifting to a less whimsical topic.

  Almost immediately, a somber silence enveloped the campsite. Only the sound of the crackling fire was heard for many moments, yet Elethain still peered around expectantly. The druid lightly laid a hand on his shoulder and shook her head, signifying it was not a subject to broach. Clearly irritated with the gro
up’s inability to discuss harsh subjects, the warlock disregarded her concern and pressed further. “His presence is known to us, as are his . . . tactics.” Aesthéa could only bow her head in shame at his persistence. Even being acquainted with him in that moment left a sour taste in her mouth. She hated Elethain’s prejudiced nature and complete lack of empathy.

  Despite the incredulous looks the elf was receiving from Malice and Bitrayuul, the elf continued to speak in his matter-of-fact tone. “Chakal was once of Jesmera, as most elves are. He was banished long ago for his murderous antics. We elves are a race of tranquility, especially in our home. That elf is an imposing force, to be sure. His—”