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 innkeeper stared at Tormag with eyes wide in rage. Throwing his soiled rag to the floor, the barkeep stomped over to the unwelcome patrons in a huff, ready to eject them from his establishment. Tormag remained unmoving, even as the angered dwarf grabbed hold of his armor. Bitrayuul just watched in bewilderment at his mentor’s nonchalance for the unfortunate result of his humor.

As soon as the innkeeper had made contact, however, a deep, rumbling horn could be heard reverberating through the great stone city. Immediately, every dwarf—including Tormag and the disgruntled owner—was up on their feet. Each scrambled together their belongings and funneled out of the building. Bitrayuul was pulled by his adoptive father’s strong hand through the doorway, confusion and concern thick in his mind.

Out in the darkened street, dwarves were pouring from every building and alleyway, donning their armor and weapons before rushing off to the southern part of the city. Bitrayuul had never seen anything like it before. It was as if they were all a part of an enormous machine, each quickly falling in line to perform their role—whatever that was, he could not be sure. It seemed obvious there was some sort of threat, judging by the city-wide alarm and the hundreds of dwarves preparing for a battle.

Bitrayuul turned to Tormag, who had not yet joined his fellow dwarves in their task. “Tormag, what’s going on?” he asked, not hiding the concern in his voice.

The old dwarf just stared dead ahead, watching the flowing army of dwarves rush forward in a stream of steel. “Eh, we picked a bad day to return home, lad, don’t ye doubt.”

The foreboding nature of his tone put a chill in the half-orc’s spine and tugged at his stomach. What sort of threat could make even Tormag waver? Could it be the dragons the dwarf had told him of, or a giant? Fear and trepidation made Bitrayuul’s heart pound in his chest. This was not similar to his simple life in the cave within the forest by any means. Waves of regret at wishing to see the world and its splendors began seeping through him, poisoning his eagerness to explore. Is this the real world? he thought, Constant threat of death and the never-ending fear that each day may be your last? The life of simplicity he had lived started to seem much more favorable . . .

Finally, the rampaging torrent of dwarves had come to an end and Tormag took a few steps out into the street, watching them as they went. He breathed in a deep sigh, then started walking toward the dwarven army that had just left, his boots dragging against the stone with dread.

Even more confused, Bitrayuul jogged a few paces to catch up to his mentor, wondering why he had not simply joined his kin before. “Tormag, what’s going on?” he repeated, growing more and more worried with each step.

Far behind the quick pace of those rushing ahead, yet eyes never leaving them, the dwarf kept trudging forward. “We picked a bad day, son,” he started, interrupted by the booming sound of the city’s horn calling out in alarm once more. “It’s Bothain’s Day,” Tormag finished with a sigh as an enormous, intricate hammer could be seen being lifted into the air, far in the distance.

Bitrayuul stared at the interesting object curiously, hardly able to make out the silhouette in the darkness at such a distance. However, a single flaming arrow soared through the air, a beacon among the lightless cavern, before connecting against the shrine and igniting it. The great, flaming hammer high in the air illuminated most of the city in its flickering light, bringing the roaring cheer of thousands of dwarves.

As Bitrayuul and Tormag got closer, they could see each and every dwarf in a chaotic fist-fight around the shrine. The smell of ale was so strong it stung Bitrayuul’s nostrils even from their distance, still half a league away. Armor and fists clashed against one another, mixed with the cheers and shouts of the festive dwarves taking part in their most favored holiday—the anniversary of their deity’s death.

Tormag stopped in his tracks, still a ways off from the crowd, taking in the spectacle ahead. A tear fell down his cheek as he realized he had missed the last few years while remaining with the orcs in their cave. With an inhale that could rival a dragon before spewing fire, the commander yelled at the top of his lungs and sprinted forward to join his comrades.

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.

Its breathing disrupted with the sound of loose stone cracking beneath Fangdarr’s feet. He cursed his carelessness and held impossibly still, waiting for the beast to stir. The orc’s heart pounded within his chest. Every instinct begged him to flee. To run away and find a new dwelling. But Fangdarr did not. He could not. Too stubborn was his pride. Too great his need to prove himself, though no spectators were present to witness. This was his challenge. The true test of strength that he must undergo to know he is fit for this world. At least, that’s what Fangdarr tried to convince himself.

With bravery—or blind arrogance—the orc stepped closer, raising Driktarr high in the air. He disregarded the sounds beneath his feet, thinking only to cull his opponent with surprise his advantage. The stone shards crunched loudly beneath his weight, breaking the enchantment of slumber on the enormous being. As Fangdarr’s axe came down, the monster began to uncurl its limbs.

He did not know what had possessed him in that moment, but his weapon halted a moment before crashing through his victim’s thick skull. The creature looked up at him, concern and surprise in its eyes, wondering at the random appearance of the ferocious orc that sought to bring its end. Fangdarr, despite his self-imagined test for glory and validation, could not bring himself to squelch the life from those dark, gray eyes. For though they belonged to a monstrous creature, he did not feel malice nor hatred toward it, only pity.

Fangdarr lowered Driktarr’s blade to the ground and stared at the creature, as it stared at him. The terrified expression on its face slowly dwindled, replaced by rage. It rose to its full height within the tight confines of the cave, its head nearly scraping the stone above, and eyed the intruder with a harsh scowl. Even at Fangdarr’s impressive size, especially having only seen sixteen winters, the creature dwarfed him. It stood twice his height, with arms as thick as his muscled torso, and a gut doubling his girth. By now, Fangdarr had concluded that an ogre stood before him, as its heavy foot stomped forward, pressing its rage into the rocky floor beneath to show its discontent.

Uncertainty and regret swirled Fangdarr’s mind. Should he have slain the beast as it slept, or face it head on now? The ogre continued to stare at him, as if questioning his presence, though made no move to attack. Fangdarr pondered every action he could take. It seemed unlikely he could best the creature now that it was awake—not within the cave, at the least. He made eye contact with the gray eyes of the ogre. The same eyes that had previously halted his culling strike due to the raw fear that had been present within. Those orbs bore into him with all the demand they could muster.

Fangdarr could not decide the best course of action and time was fleeting with the ogre’s patience. Finally, before his mind could finish the thought, the orc’s mouth blurted, “Hello,” awkwardly. Fangdarr nearly covered his mouth in shock as the words passed his lips. It was too late. In the face of the giant, foul-smelling beast, the only action the orc had taken—after contemplating taking its life—was to greet it.

He watched as the ogre’s eyes continued to see red for many moments. Then, they slowly turned soft and a smile spread beneath, revealing a handful of missing teeth. “Hello!” came the ecstatic reply, much to Fangdarr’s surprise. He had never heard an ogre speak before, but the word came out slowly and somewhat odd, as if the creature’s mind needed time to rummage through its memories on how to speak. The orc wondered if all ogres spoke in such a manner, or if this one was perhaps feeble-minded.

The ogre extended a large hand forward, catching Fangdarr by surprise and forcing him into a defensive position. Its hand remained extended, though its face contorted with confusion, not understanding the seemingly random movement of its guest. “I’m Gub,” it spoke, still smiling, “what’s your name?”

Fangdarr was baffled. Did the creature not realize he had nearly claimed its life? After closer inspection, he believed the answer was obvious. Taking a step forward, he slid Driktarr back into its resting place on his back. His black-skinned hand disappeared beneath the ogre’s as it wrapped entirely around his hand and forearm and shook it roughly. “Fangdarr,” he replied.

Gub clapped his meaty hands together happily and bounced up and down, hitting his head against the low ceiling. After the third impact, the ogre finally looked up, wondering what had fallen on its head and rubbing his skull tenderly. As the ludicrous beast’s gaze fell on Fangdarr once more, it seemed to have forgotten he had ever existed. Its gray eyes lit up with pure joy at the sight of a visitor. Quickly, Gub turned around and started scraping through the small pile of junk it had collected.

“Here go!” Gub exclaimed with excitement, turning back to Fangdarr with what remained of a deer’s skull, though most of the bone had been broken or fragmented.

The orc looked at the ‘trinket’ curiously, then back to Gub’s waiting face, full of childish eagerness. Slowly, he extended his hand and grabbed the mutilated skull and smiled awkwardly to the ogre. He grunted in thanks, as he could not form the words, too lost in confusion at this entire endeavor. Never did he expect to find himself in the company of an ogre—on friendly terms—trading . . . trinkets.

Gub sat and watched Fangdarr hold his new gift with delight etched into every part of his face. Now, he waited patiently, a look of expectation replacing the happiness. Fangdarr caught on eventually—though it took a few moments to discern the odd beast’s desires—and rummaged through the small pouch at his waist. From within, the orc produced a dense, round rock that he had picked up the previous day to throw at birds and knock them from branches. Fangdarr showed the ‘trinket’ to Gub and held it out for the ogre, who’s eyes had once more lit up like the happiest being in Crein.

Fangdarr watched as Gub hugged the small stone tightly against his body, cherishing it as much as a loved one, and gently tucked it beneath the fold of its stomach for safekeeping. With a yelp of surprise, Fangdarr was lifted into the air and pressed against Gub’s chest, who wished to show his newfound friend the extent of his delight. The orc struggled to breath beneath the too-tight squeeze of his ally and gasped for air after being dropped to the ground carelessly.

Breathing heavily, Fangdarr rose to his feet and stared at Gub. “Friend,” he said calmly. One final check to be sure his safety was secured.

Gub flashed his smile once more and breathed a sigh of happiness, blowing gruesome breath into Fangdarr’s face that forced a few blinks. “Friend.”

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.

Poking his head over the last bit of rock in his ascent, Fangdarr peered into the darkened mouth of the cave. It appeared almost villainous. Teeth of stone had been carved over much of the entrance, though seemingly long ago by the wither of the cave’s face. He pulled himself up onto the shallow cliff and looked down to where he had started his climb. It was over twice his height to the hardened dirt. With luck, most trespassers should be repelled by the difficult climb alone—should they notice it at all. It was by sheer chance Fangdarr had glanced upwards, catching glimpse of the shadowed entrance beyond.

As he stood at the brink of darkness, his skin became tighter from the chillness that emanated from within. Fangdarr took a step forward, then another. With each pace the cool air only grew worse, safe from the annihilating warmth of the sun’s light. Not perfect, he thought to himself, but safe. As he took continued deeper into the abyss of the pitch black cave, his fingers sliding along the stone wall and ceiling to guide him, he cursed himself for making such a claim too soon.

Despite the icy cave’s unwelcoming embrace, the orc could hear the rhythmic breathing of a slumbering being further in. He could feel the air around him growing warmer in slight. It was impossible to see the form on the other side of the stone wall, though it had to be large by the amount of heat that could be felt flooding the area.

Fangdarr gripped his axe tightly before taking care to step lightly. Even his heavily calloused bare feet could feel the sting of cold weaken as they made contact with new ground. The orc cautiously peeked around the corner, careful not to scrape against the wall. He nearly gasped aloud in surprise when his eyes could finally pick out the creature ahead, sleeping peacefully.

Based on the form his eyes could see from the emanating heat, he could only assume the monstrosity was some sort of ogre or giant. Never had he encountered either, only the stories of his mentor could help put a name to the hulking mass a spear’s-length away. His mind raced over the few odd tales Tormag had shared. What was the difference between the two? Fangdarr questioned, racking his brain. Finally, he recalled a single discussion:

‘Lad, the thing ye need t’ know about ogres is they be dumber than a stack o’ gnomes. They may be big and can squeeze the life out o’ an orc or dwarf, don’t ye doubt, but they can be bested by playin’ smart. Now, giants, on the other hand, are the worse o’ the bunch from what I’m told. Never seen one meself. From what I hear, ye’ll know one when ye see it. And if ye see it. Run.’

Fangdarr eyed the cave’s large inhabitant with curiosity and concern. It had taken him another two days just to find this place—a delay he did not wish to repeat. His hands clutched the shaft of his marvelous weapon more tightly. He needed this cave.

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.

He was exhausted. It had been days since the night the trolls had attacked him in his camp. Sleep had not come easy since, with his sense always keen on edge, even while drifting to the brink of slumber. Fangdarr’s body was weary and slow. He walked through the forest, aimlessly, as if his feet were thick in muck. The orc had no direction in mind. No end mark of destination.

The lack of sleep weakened his resolve. It was becoming harder and harder to stifle his trapped emotions regarding Vrutnag’s passing. But still he forced them deeper, hidden beneath the growing frustration of his journey alone. He missed his brother and the old dwarf who had become his mentor. He missed the things he had taken for granted. Sleep. Shelter. Warmth. Yet, his stubborn pride demanded he press on and never look back.

Fangdarr walked through the Lithe in a daze as his body begged for sleep, but his mind spewed rejection at every turn. Finally, on the fifth day since the attack, the orc collapsed onto the rough ground.

Waking abruptly, he scanned his eyes groggily around his surroundings. Immediately he was in a defensive stance, expecting some enemy to be on his peripheral. But after many moments, none came. Fangdarr slowly began to collect his thoughts. Last he remembered, he was lumbering through the woods in the early afternoon, just after mid-day sun’s peak. Now, the sun had just started its ascent for the following day, peeking barely above what little of the horizon he could see through the lattice of trees. He cursed himself as he realized sleep had taken him nearly a full day. Never before had he slept so long.

With luck, he had not been harmed during his unconsciousness and Driktarr remained in place across his back. The orc held no faith in the gods but wondered if he had been watched over or simply spared misfortune by luck. In either case, Fangdarr breathed a sigh of total relief as his arms stretched high in the air, no longer encumbered by fatigue.

His renewed vigor had been more than one of body. Now, his mind was set to task. He would not be ambushed nor caught without shelter and sleep until the weight of exhaustion crushed him into the dirt again. Fangdarr needed to find a suitable home.

Traveling farther south toward the mountains, Fangdarr had settled on the decision to find a cave. If he could manage to find one well-hidden, or at least defensible enough to allow him to repel intruders, he would be safe enough. After all, the cave his family lived in for his entire life had never once been discovered. Though, perhaps being between the Zharnik clan and nearby human villages to the north had dissuaded any of either race from trespassing. Part of him urged to consider returning home where he knew it was safe, but he cast the thought aside. It was time for Fangdarr to forge his own path.