Follow along each week for Skirmishes of characters of the Orcblood Legacy Series. These are real events that take place during the story’s timeline but are not detailed in the book.

The large half-orc towered above the dwarves that had collected to witness the unusual guest. Stares of fear and distrust could be seen on every face, giving evidence to the dwarven stubbornness and fear of the unknown. Bitrayuul did not miss their gazes, but paid them no mind—too enthralled by the dazzling city before him.

As they continued their walk forward—with more than a few curious dwarves trailing—an old dwarf approached. His beard nearly withered all to gray, yet his head still held life, sprouting brown in contrast as it braided into the dullness of his beard.

“Commander Tormag, ye return!” the elderly dwarf spoke in harsh voice, proving his age. Despite the youth gone from his body, the dwarf carried himself with the composure of a seasoned veteran filled to the brim with experience that commanded respect.

“Senator Theiran, a welcome sight! Glad t’ see yer stones yet t’ break,” Tormag replied with a genuine smile. The pair clasped arms in greeting and butt their heads together in respect, drawing a confused look from Bitrayuul. The half-orc could only assume such was customary, though this was the first encounter he had seen of his mentor and another dwarf of standing.

Theiran returned the commander’s smile in kind, truly relieved to see his old friend well. Once his eyes had shifted to the half-orc, the senator raised an eyebrow. “Friend o’ yers?”

“Aye, he’s mine. Taken as me own, sure as stones. I be seekin’ the council’s blessin’ in keepin’ ‘im by me side.”

Bitrayuul watched intently for a sign of disapproval on Theiran’s face. He knew his presence in the city, amongst the many dwarves who were not fond of sharing their culture, would not be a welcome one. Yet, no evidence against Tormag’s request came. Instead, the senator simply stared in silence for many moments at his old friend—gauging his own curiosities. “Ye certain?” Theiran asked.

Tormag did not hesitate in his reply, nodding with confirmation. “By Bothain’s Hammer.”

“I shall speak t’ the council of such request, else ye be met with quick rejection, don’t ye doubt.” With that, Theiran bowed low and clasped his friend’s arm once more before turning to take his leave. After taking a few steps, the old councilman turned his head back to the pair. “What’s the lad’s name, eh?”

Bitrayuul cut off his adoptive father’s words before they could form, replacing them with his own. “Bitrayuul. I am Bitrayuul.”

Theiran nodded, hiding any thought of discontent at the orcish name that certainly would stir distaste within the Council. As he faded from view, Tormag broke the tension rising in the air. “C’mon, Bit, let’s get somethin’ t’ eat. Me belly be screamin’.”

The dwarf behind the counter—and the other dozen patrons within—all rose as Bitrayuul followed behind Tormag into The Emberforge. Their eyes drilled deep into the half-orc, hands clutching the mining picks and hammers at their belts. This was the first time many a dwarf had seen a half-orc at all, and the first one had ever graced their homeland lacking shackles and wounds.

“Hal thild vant gar’thurim,” Tormag stated to the beady-eyed onlookers. Slowly, the furrowed brows of the dwarven patrons began to wane before each turned back to their mugs. Satisfied, Tormag approached the bar, though the innkeeper still employed his scowl as the half-orc struggled to wedge his large frame between the table and stool beneath.

“What be yer drink,” the disgruntled owner stated more than asked, never removing eyes from the young orc-blooded specimen. His gaze never faltered, even as Tormag offered his request for drink. With a grumble, the barkeep grunted and turned toward the store room to retrieve the commander’s brew.

Bitrayuul watched the dwarf stomp away, his stubby legs thundering against the stone floor with heavy boots. Facing his mentor, he whispered, “Will it always be like this? And what did you say to get the others to back down? Why did it not have the same effect on our host?”

Tormag waved the notions away, in no mood to answer such questions in the midst of those who would catch wind of unfavorable answers. Bitrayuul held back his disappointed frown as the innkeeper reappeared, a single mug in hand.

The mug was slid down the slick bar toward Tormag, stopping perfectly in front of the commander. Tormag peered down at the tankard, then back to the owner. With a smile on his face, he slid the brew slowly in front of Bitrayuul, never breaking eye contact with their host.

The dwarf behind the counter—and a few patrons who were paying attention—quickly turned to anger at the commander’s heinous act. Before they could act, Tormag waved his hand in the air nonchalantly and said, “Eh, ‘scuse me, barkeep? Seems I’ve misplaced mine, could ye fetch another? Many thanks, friend.”

Even as he finished the words, Bitrayuul nearly coughed from gasping so harshly. He could see the owner of the inn go red with anger, nearly fuming from his ears. Despite the fire burning in his stomach, the dwarf kicked open the store room door and stormed in before returning with a half-full small iron cup of water. Nearly all of the contents were ejected from the container as it slid viciously down the bar into Tormag’s waiting hand.

The innkeeper held a wide smirk on his face, proud of his petty act of defiance against the dwarf who had disrespected him. Though, the expression washed away as Tormag lifted the cup to his mouth and drank it all in a single, exaggerated gulp before slamming it to the counter in a flourish.

“Ahh, now that’s good! Barkeep, another!”

Follow along each week for Skirmishes of characters of the Orcblood Legacy Series. These are real events that take place during the story’s timeline but are not detailed in the book.

Bitrayuul’s mouth was agape as the marvelous gates came into view, so vast they could be seen even while still at the edge of the Lithe. His march slowed, taking in the grand spectacle, as Tormag continued without notice.

The doors stood the height of twenty dwarves, lined with sharpened spikes and intricate carvings alike. Tormag had often spoken of the artisanal craftsmanship of his kind, though the gates of Tarabar gave evidence to such claims. The enormous steel barrier protruded only just from the base of the mountain, with much more hidden from view.

Tormag finally caught on to his halted son. The dwarf couldn’t help but smile as he recognized the wondrous stare painted on the half-orc’s face as he admired the beauty of ancient dwarven ancestor’s efforts. The dwarf beckoned Bitrayuul forth, breaking the half-orc’s trance. In short time, they stood outside the gate.

“What be yer purp—” the guard started from his station along the top of the structure, a bucket of oil and torch at the ready. “Bothain’s beard . . . Commander Tormag?” he asked incredulously after recognizing the emblems on Tormag’s worn armor.

“Aye, lad. It’s been a bit, don’t ye doubt,” the absent commander replied. “I’ve been busy these past six years, bahaha!”

More dwarves poked their heads over the short wall lining the path atop the gate and shared their comrade’s excitement at the return of their commander. That is, until they noticed the half-orc adjacent their long-lost ally that had somehow escaped their view.

“Have ye been captured?” the first guard asked hesitantly while staring at Bitrayuul. Each of the guards held their vats of pitch more closely.

Tormag looked around curiously, as if some sort of orc or troll army lay in wait along the forest to prompt such a question. Finally, the dwarf caught on to their meaning and he let out a boisterous laugh. “Bahaha! No, lads. He’s with me.” His hand fell to Bitrayuul’s bicep in reassurance—both for the half-orc and the suspicious guards.

The dwarves manning the enormous gate spoke amongst themselves for a moment before two pairs each retreated within the small holes in the mountain on each side to operate the hidden mechanisms and open the large steel doors. Tormag and Bitrayuul both breathed a sigh of relief as the barrier was pulled apart, allowing them entry.

Bitrayuul was met with nervous stares and thick-fingered hands resting upon weapon hilts as he followed his mentor into the city. The spectacle caught him by surprise, for once the light piercing the opening at their backs closed behind them, the city returned to blackness, save for the lining of hundreds of illuminating torches and lanterns. Grateful for the orcish blood running through his veins, Bitrayuul’s eyes shifted, allowing his view to see much better in the dark. What he had assumed was a city in the abyss, lit by only the sparkle of a few embers lining its streets, had turned to a community of grand proportions.

Now that his eyes could better view the city ahead, the half-orc could only look on in wonder. What vastness hid beneath the strength of the mountain stone! The city stretched as far as his eyes could see—and beyond. Each building was carved from the stone, as if they had been built into the mountain all along, waiting for a sculptor to bring them to life. Small abodes, large edifices, and even great structures sporting crafted statues of dwarves of the past could be seen, only adding to Bitrayuul’s awe.

Tormag clasped a hand against his son’s arm once more. “Welcome to me home, Bit,” he said with a smile as wide as ever.

Follow along each week for Skirmishes of characters of the Orcblood Legacy Series. These are real events that take place during the story’s timeline but are not detailed in the book.

Fangdarr rolled to his side, unable to get comfortable at his makeshift encampment. Sleep had not come easy since his departure from the only kin he had a few nights prior. The young orc had nearly returned to their home countless times, save for his stubborn pride rooting him in place. Instead, Fangdarr swallowed his tormenting emotions, tossing restlessly each night under the thick canopy of Lithe Forest.

A heavy sigh escaped him, staring at the small specs of whiteness poking through the screen of darkened leaves above. Fangdarr closed his eyes, denying the night their golden glow. As he rest, only the sound of breaths with the rise and fall of his chest and the slow sway of a breeze to be heard, the orc replayed the haunting visions of his mother’s headless corpse falling to the ground at the hand of her human tormentors. Even alone in the wood, the proud young warrior refused to express his true feelings.

His memories were interrupted at the sound of rustling bushes nearby. Fangdarr lifted his head curiously. Most likely an animal, he thought. Soon, the steady sounds of footsteps could be heard, though they were light against the soft ground. Were it not for the occasional twig and crunch of leaves, the orc would never have noticed. Fangdarr was already to his feet, Driktarr in hand and eyes scanning the darkness.

Breaking through the dense foliage came a pair of figures Fangdarr did not recognize. Their smiles widened beneath the long tusks protruding from their upper jaw, spread in wicked eagerness. Despite their sinister expressions, their body language showed no threat. Still, Fangdarr remained on the defensive.

“Eh, look what we got here, Gam’ja. It but a wee orc,” spoke the first in an unusual tone. Fangdarr had heard tell of their kind from Tormag, though had never experienced them himself. Now, he was finally able to confirm his adoptive father’s mimicked accent when speaking of them. Trolls.

“Haha, so it is, Bon’zo. He look a bit lost, ya tink?”

Fangdarr tightened his grip. Their vocal flair seemed contradictory to their intent. It was hard for the orc to understand due to the thickness of the troll’s accents. Nevertheless, he asked, “What you want?”

The intruders looked to one another, then laughed in a shrieking cackle that pierced through the quiet forest. Once their humor had ended, Fangdarr could see the pair of crude, sharpened-stone knives in each of their three-fingered hands. Their expressions only looked more severe as the encampment’s small fire cast flickering shadows over the contours of their stretched skin.

Fangdarr did not wait for his assailants to strike first. He raised his axe and howled with vigorous ferocity, charging for the pair. Gam’ja and Bon’zo returned his roar in kind and took to defensive stances. The orc closed the distance quickly, his powerful legs carrying him with long strides. As he approached, the trolls realized his abnormally large stature but gave no pause. They remained fixed on their opponent, daggers held in reverse grips in wait for their prey.

Just as he had done against the men that had slain his poor mother, Fangdarr planted his foot in the last moment and spun his greataxe in a wide horizontal sweep. Bon’zo managed to put up a dagger to block, but the weight of the orc’s weapon was too great when paired with Fangdarr’s impressive strength. Bon’zo’s eyes went wide in immense pain as Driktarr passed through his ineffective parry and continued to cut a deep gash into his dark-skinned torso. Blue blood sprayed from the wound, painting specks against the orc’s own blackened skin, before the troll fell to the ground.

With the momentum of his strike drained, Fangdarr could not hope to cleave through Gam’ja as well. Instead, the troll’s raised weapons intersected the axe as the creature’s head rushed forward quickly behind. Fangdarr stood a head taller, keeping his neck out of range, but Gam’ja’s tusks rent against the orc’s exposed arm and ripped through his skin. The orc growled at the pain, bearing his fangs. With the daggers still entrapping Driktarr, the troll continued to thrash his head, scraping and tearing more flesh on Fangdarr’s arm.

Fangdarr steeled his resolve and kicked Gam’ja’s knee, dropping him and his blades low. With his weapon free, the orc slammed it down on the troll’s skull just as Gam’ja’s wicked expression had looked up to him. Driktarr embedded straight into the forehead of its victim and deep into the troll’s brain. Fangdarr pushed the axe—and the corpse attached to it—to the ground. He planted a foot against the troll’s shoulder as he ripped his entrapped weapon free, spraying blood and flinging brain matter and bone fragments onto the grass below.

Before the orc could even breathe a sigh of relief, he felt a sharp pain in the side of his thigh. Upon looking down to inspect the source, he witnessed Bon’zo’s wide grin paired with another dagger whistling through the air toward his ribcage. Caught by surprise, Fangdarr couldn’t hope to parry the blow. Instead, he twisted his waist as quick as possible in an attempt to prevent the dagger from hitting its mark. The orc’s brow furrowed in pain as he was only partially successful, feeling the sharpened edge of Bon’zo’s dagger slicing across his skin.

Fangdarr threw a desperate but heavy punch into the troll’s face as he leapt back. Bon’zo stood a short distance away, one dagger still in hand. Fangdarr looked at his thigh and pulled the knife free before tossing it behind him. Now, he stood breathing heavily and bleeding from multiple wounds. His black blood glistened in the light of the fire as it slid down his muscled body. The orc looked to Bon’zo and his eyes grew large in shock.

He had not noticed it before, but the wound that he had landed on Bon’zo’s chest had completely healed. Are their weapons like mine? He could not know for sure. In any manner, his own wounds were starting to take their toll. As Fangdarr was about to charge forward in rage once more, he watched in horror as Gam’ja too started to rise. The creature’s shattered skull began mending itself of its own accord, answering the orc’s previous question. It seemed they needed no weapons to heal them, rather they regenerate on their own—even mortal wounds.

How am I to defeat such opponents? Fangdarr did not have time to ponder as Gam’ja instantly dashed forward—even before his wound had fully mended—followed closely by Bon’zo. The orc waited for his attackers this time, remembering the tactics his dwarven mentor had taught him. His rage was insanely difficult to suppress, but Fangdarr trusted in Tormag’s instruction. Driktarr cocked back behind his shoulder, lying in wait.

Gam’ja closed first, both daggers leading the way in hopes to impale his large adversary. Fangdarr held his stance, his plan in mind. The troll exclaimed in victory as he felt both daggers pierce through the orc’s abdomen all the way to the hilt. But such was Fangdarr’s intention. The orc had chosen to disregard the short-sighted leading troll, expecting the all-or-nothing blow. Fangdarr’s target was not Gam’ja, however, but the trailing Bon’zo.

Bon’zo couldn’t hide his own glee upon seeing his ally’s weapons sink into the orc’s body. In his distraction, the troll failed to notice Driktarr sailing downward into his shoulder, cleaving him deeply and launching him back. The troll’s body fell into the small fire of Fangdarr’s camp and instantly immolated in a raging inferno. Bon’zo’s screams of agony pierced the forest as he rolled on the ground in an attempt to extinguish himself. But it was no use. Within a few short moments, the troll’s corpse halted its thrashing yet continued to burn.

Fangdarr was caught by surprise at seeing the troll conflagrate so intensely. As his wound’s began to heal from Driktarr’s enchantment, the orc realized his opponent’s weakness. Gam’ja’s attention had turned to his friend upon hearing the shrieks of pain. As his gaze returned to Fangdarr, whose wounds were now stitching themselves closed—even pushing the stone daggers out from the orc’s abdomen from the magical restoration—Gam’ja went wide-eyed in terror. This time, it was Fangdarr whose face was etched with the sinister grin.

“Aw no, mon. Please, we was just playin’,” Gam’ja begged, dropping his weapons. As the troll backpedaled away from Fangdarr, he tripped over the burning corpse of his friend. Luckily, the flammable oil that had seeped from Gam’ja’s wounds was only on his head, else he would have suffered the same fate of Bon’zo. He continued his begging and pleading as he crawled away backwards.

Fangdarr stomped forward, a ceaseless harbinger of death in pursuit of its final victim. His wounds were now freshly healed, leaving white scars to contrast brightly against his blackened skin. As he approached the helpless troll, Fangdarr realized just how formidable he was, especially at such a young age. He reached the troll, who had backed into the base of a tree and was now whimpering.

Staring at the pitiful creature in disgust, the orc’s hand clasped tightly around the troll’s throat, stifling Gam’ja’s whines as his airway was pressed shut. Fangdarr carried the troll back toward the fire with ease, despite his captive’s desperate wriggling. Holding the troll in front of his face, Fangdarr whispered to Gam’ja, barely audible over the roaring flames that still licked away at Bon’zo’s charred carcass. “Play time.”

Gam’ja’s eyes went impossibly wide in terror and the bulging pressure building in his skull as Fangdarr slammed his face into the fire pit. The orc held the troll down in the insatiable blaze that had come to life, though eased his grip in order to hear the agonizing screams as Gam’ja was forced to endure his flesh searing from bone.