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.

“C’mon, lad, we gotta move!”

Bitrayuul tried to return to his father’s side, but the immediate surge of dwarves all around pushed and shoved him back. Finally, after suffering a dozen bruises as the armored warriors trampled past, the half-orc managed to catch up to Tormag.

“Ye got yer gauntlets and yer bow, right?” the dwarf asked as they were running. When he watched Bitrayuul’s head turn back to the table they had been sitting, it was obvious the half-orc’s large bow had been left behind. “Leave it, son. No time. Put yer gauntlets on as ye run—don’t stab yerself.”

Doing as instructed, Bitrayuul silently slid the leather gauntlets over his hands, careful not to pierce himself with the sharpened bones tied over his knuckles. A dozen questions ran through his mind, but he jogged on in silence behind the horde of dwarves. Many were still drunk and some even stripped of gear or clothing. And yet, they rushed onward to what Bitrayuul could only assume was danger.

They passed through the city as a steamrolling tide. The wide streets of Tarabar allowed them to pass unhindered and flow through the city to their destination. This was not how Bitrayuul had wished to see the marvels held within Tarabar. He glanced at the dozens of forges burning brightly as they blazed rampantly without the smithy to control the flames. For all had joined in defense of the city.

Bitrayuul wondered at such a practice. It seemed odd that nearly every male civilian—and a few females, from what he could tell—had immediately halted their lives to take to the fight. Perhaps they had grown accustomed to such a joined defensive measure from when Bothain had led his people to the eastern Tusks and they struggled to survive. The half-orc could not know. But the tight-knit community made him feel safe.

“We’re nearly there, lad.” Tormag said, breaking his son’s distraction. “It most likely be trolls in the mines. We’re headed t’ the southern network, which be where they break through most.”

The half-orc nodded, but in truth he had no idea what any of that meant. He had never encountered a troll before. Often Tormag had spoken of them due to their ancient rivalry over the mountains, but always with the cautious tale of their wickedness and cunning. Bitrayuul still had so many questions. Unfortunately, it seemed he would be learning by practice today.

As they pushed through a large steel gate, every dwarf waited in grim silence. Their gazes were stern and their brows furrowed. Grumbles and mutterings of trolls ruining Bothain’s day could be heard, only increasing their growing anger. They tightened the straps on their armor and gripped their weapons tightly as the door spread wide enough for the army to pass through. Even now, more and more dwarves continued to form behind them. Thousands were collected, all ready to defend their homeland and shatter some skulls. Drunk, tired, or naked, it mattered naught, for every warrior was prepared to give their life.

The procession stepped forward slowly. No longer did they rush on with abandon. Bitrayuul was amazed at the lack of commands being needed. Their tactics had changed the moment they stepped through the door. From an immediate assembly to a marching formation, they stomped forward, banging their fists or weapons against shields and armor alike. Uniform thumping filled the expansive cavern, letting their enemy know their antics would soon come to an end.

Bitrayuul took it all in. He marveled at such discipline. Such pride and bravery as they moved as one. Even Tormag had taken out his hammers and was clapping them against his shoulders to join in the simultaneous thumping. The half-orc looked down and realized that even his fist was clapping against his chest in unison. A smile unknowingly formed on his face as he felt a part of something greater than himself. None of the dwarves looked at him as if he was an outsider. All stared ahead at those who dared to intrude on their home.

Upon entering the cavern, Bitrayuul gawked at its enormity. It was obvious this was some sort of hub where all southern mines joined together. Along the wall, Bitrayuul could see nearly a hundred dwarf-sized holes—with a few larger ones on the ground level. Each had a thick rope or ladder leading to it, allowing for miners to go in and out as needed. Iron carts were filled with glittering stones and ores alike on one side of the room, waiting for extraction. He remembered that Tormag said the trolls would come through the mines. His eyes scanned each and every hole, wondering which they would come from. It seemed a pointless task to him, for the trolls could only climb through one at a time due to the small height. What was stopping the dwarves from simply plugging the tunnel?

Then, his answer became clear. His father had warned against the cunningness of trolls. Bitrayuul watched the first troll pull itself from the small tunnel, high in the air. Then another from a separate tunnel on the far end of the cavern. Then another. Within moments, nearly every tunnel was spilling a steady stream of trolls. The precession of dwarves halted their advance, but continued their uniform pounding while the rear of the army continued to fill the cavern.

Bitrayuul watched in horror as the monstrous beasts jumped from the tunnels and onto the ground, sometimes shattering bones as they landed. His eyes grew wider still as those same fractured trolls rose to their feet and regenerated their broken limbs as if it had never occurred. Nearly a thousand trolls had spilled into the cavern already with no sign of relent.

Tormag turned to Bitrayuul and offered his final piece of advice. “Whatever ye do, lad, don’t follow them t’ the tunnels.”

Before the half-orc could respond, every dwarf shouted at once and rushed forward.

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 leaned back in his stool. It made him happy to hear the history of Tormag’s people, almost as if he belonged. He looked out at the thousands of dwarves who had come to celebrate that history and the dwarf who had brought them to salvation. A part of him wondered if orcs had anything similar—though he doubted it. Vrutnag had never spoken about any orc holidays. Whether that was due to their lacking or her disinterest in sharing that part of the orcish culture, Bitrayuul could not be sure.

Frowning as he realized the mug in his hand had already been drained, Tormag checked his surroundings. His eyes lit up as he saw an unconscious dwarf two tables over with a frothing mug still growing warm in his limp hand. Without a word, the commander quickly left his seat to retrieve the drink and sat down with a wide smile.

“Aren’t you already drunk, Father?” the half-orc asked with a raised eyebrow as Tormag poured the entire mug into his throat in a single swig.

Slamming the empty cup down, the dwarf let out a loud exhale of contentedness. Before he spoke, Tormag abruptly belched loud enough to wake the nearby dwarf he had stolen his drink from. Disregarding the confused searching of his neighbor, Tormag replied, “Aye, that I be. Ye orcs ain’t had no ale or nothin’ in yer cave. I got six years t’ make up, don’t ye doubt! Bahaha!”

Bitrayuul blinked at him with concern. Other than the small sip of ale he had in the bar prior—and a few stolen drinks during the celebration—he had never experienced inebriation before. In truth, he had gotten quite a buzz of dizziness through the day, but nowhere near the point of drunkenness. “Isn’t it . . . bad? To get so drunk?”

“Bahaha! Normally, probably so! Humans and elves can’t hold their drink. Not sure about orcs, t’ be honest.” Tormag seemed to ponder for a moment, then chuckled at his imagination’s illustration of a drunken orc. “But dwarves, lad, are different. We love the drink. Our bodies can stomach more without spittin’ it back out. Let’s us drink longer. They used t’ say that the water ye would find in caves weren’t safe t’ drink, so they made ale. I’m guessin’ that’s just some trick by a brewmaster t’ help sell his wares, but, by Bothain’s Hammer, it worked.”

The half-orc joined in the laughter with his adoptive father, and further still as Tormag left his seat once more to retrieve another ale. The dwarf had told him plenty of stories about the games his kin would play while drinking over the recent years. Each ended with more and more tales of fun and bonding that made Bitrayuul quite jealous. He yearned for that. Tales of his own. Tales of fun, tales of adventure, all of it. It was true that the half-orc cherished his life in the cave with his mother and brother, but always he strived for more. There had to be more.

Without hesitation—and drawing a confused stare from Tormag—Bitrayuul lifted himself from the small stool and strode to the nearest unconscious dwarf he could find with an ale in his hand. As he sat back down, Tormag’s face was spread into a smile. The dwarf raised his cup and clinked it against Bitrayuul’s in cheer. Together, they lifted the mugs to their mouth and poured the sweet yet bitter liquid down. Like his father, Bitrayuul slammed his empty cup to the hardwood table and let out a loud belch that put Tormag’s to shame. They laughed once more and let their cheeks spread to smiles. Though the drink was thick, its pleasant aid was unneeded to keep their moods light and happy.

As they each stood to start the search for a filled flagon anew, an alarm blasted through the city, startling every sleeping and unconscious dwarf around. Bitrayuul turned to Tormag, “Another celebration?” He realized the falseness of his assumption by the grim expression painted on the dwarf’s face.

“No, lad. It’s not.”

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.

Oh, that savory smell. It made Fangdarr’s mouth wet in eagerness with each step they took. His stomach groaned impatiently as if clawing relentlessly in search of sustenance. The orc cautiously picked his way through the trees while Gub trundled in a direct path onward. After a few dozen paces, the small cabin came into view.

“Gub, wait!” Fangdarr harshly whispered from behind a tree to the lumbering oaf. It was no use. Already the ogre had his hands extended forward as he leaned into his quickened pace, breaking through the last bit of brush outside of the home.

Fangdarr tensed from his hiding spot, expecting the sound of screams to soon follow. But when none came, he slowly relaxed and started padding closer—his stomach leading the way. He poked his head around the corner of the cabin window. Empty. Letting his hunger get the best of him, Fangdarr rushed over to the fire where Gub was already voraciously chomping on the leg of a stag that had been roasting over the flames.

The ogre patted the ground beside him, inviting his friend to join in on the meal. Without hesitation, Fangdarr ripped the other haunch off the cooked beast and sank his teeth in. The sweet and juicy meat pressed against his tongue with a rush of ecstasy after such a long delay since his last meal. Before the first mouthful had even slid down his throat, the orc eagerly took another bite. His eyes closed with contentedness.

By the time the orc had opened his eyes, Gub was already licking his fingers clean. To Fangdarr’s surprise, the ogre had managed to completely consume the entire leg—bone and all—in just a few bites. Gub gave a gap-toothed smile with juices dripping down his chin as he reached for the hanging meat. Before his hand connected, an arrow whistled through the air and dug itself into the ogre’s forearm.

Fangdarr rolled to the side in an instant and hid behind a tree. His instincts proved fruitful as a second arrow landed in the dirt where he had been sitting. Gub, on the other hand, was staring at his arm dumbfounded as to what had occurred. The stupid creature continued to stare at it—despite Fangdarr’s shouts urging him to take action—even as a second arrow pierced his chest.

Now, Gub was angry. It took a moment for the pain to register in his sluggish mind, but once he understood that he was being attacked, the ogre was up on his feet with a ferocious snarl. Fangdarr peeked his head around the tree he had tucked himself behind and could see two humans pointing their wooden bows at his ally. Roaring as he charged, one shifted their attention to him while the other, a woman, remained fixated on Gub’s advancing form.

The arrow whizzed toward the orc, clipping him in the left shoulder but hardly slowing him. Too great was his rage to care for such a thing. As he closed the distance, Fangdarr drew his enormous axe, growling as he raised it high.

Gripped by fear at the oncoming enraged orc, the man ahead fumbled with his bow awkwardly. With luck and quick wits, the man managed to withdraw a small knife after dropping his bow. As Driktarr came crashing down through his shoulder, the blade managed to cut through his assailant’s side and slice the orc’s kidney. The pain would have been enough to drop any to their knees, but Fangdarr felt no pain in that moment. There was only rage and the sheer intense rush of victory as he watched the splash of blood splatter against the man’s face. He could feel the axe drink the man’s vitality and stitch together the grievous wound that had been inflicted. The man looked on in horror in that final moment and watched the arrow in the orc’s shoulder crawl out and drop to the ground. What little light there had been in the victim’s eyes slowly faded as Fangdarr ripped his blade free from the man’s torso, pulling organs with it.

Though his rage was subsiding, Fangdarr turned to Gub and the remaining woman. He expected her to have been able to easily outsmart the ogre and keep out of reach while still firing off a few shots. However, his expectations of her skill were too high. As he turned his head, the orc caught the vision of horror on the woman’s face as Gub lifted her from the ground and pulled her toward his waiting maw.

Despite her incessant struggling, it was hopeless. She shrieked in terror until the moment her head disappeared within the stretched jaws of the giant creature. Fangdarr nearly shuddered at the crunch of bone as Gub crushed down on her skull. Even worse were the sounds as the ogre chewed nonchalantly on the woman’s lifeless corpse, blood dripping in streams down his exposed chest.

Torn between the triumph of victory and the thought of the innocent couple that had only sought to defend what was theirs, Fangdarr felt a wave of guilt and regret surge through him. Yet, he looked down at the newly formed scar across his side and smiled. This was it. This was what it meant to be an orc, he knew. He recalled the men that had chased down and decapitated his mother despite her innocence. These humans were no different than she and were met with the same brutality. There was no need for guilt. This was equality.

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 creature walked through the wood with grace. It slowly patted at the ground, exposing the more exquisite and rare plants tucked beneath the fallen leaves. As it grazed ignorantly, Fangdarr waited patiently behind a tree with his bow in hand.

Suddenly, the orc heard a twig snap at his rear, followed by the loud swishing of brush being pushed aside. Immediately he turned to see the simple and brutish ogre he had befriended the day prior.

“Gub! Shh!” Fangdarr urged, motioning desperately with his hands to the senseless beast. Before Gub even had a chance to flash his toothy smile, the orc was already staring wide-eyed at his prize as it dashed in the opposite direction.

“OH! Faydar, look! Deer!” Gub shouted at the top of his lungs in uncontainable excitement. If the creature had not already rushed off, it certainly would have by the ogre’s subsequent pounding on the forest floor with his eager hops.

All the orc could do was shake his head in frustration. How does this creature survive out here? It scares away all the food! Choosing to force himself back to tranquility, Fangdarr let his simmering rage dissipate and instead walked over to Gub—still flailing in wild joy.

“Gub, we need food,” the orc begged, bringing an end to the ogre’s smile. “Where you find food?” Already Fangdarr was starting to regret befriending the massive oaf. He watched Gub’s face turn from confusion, to glee, to perplexion, then fear, and finally denial all in a short span of time. How he wished he could hear the jumbled and slow thoughts of this creature.

Finally, Gub’s eyes lit up. “Food! I know where,” he responded in his usual slumped and sluggish tone. Without hesitation, the ogre took off running to the east. His long legs accelerated him quickly, though his awkward form and excessive gut slowed him to Fangdarr’s speed, allowing the orc to catch up quickly.

Together they ran, dashing through the woods for what seemed half the day. Finally, Gub skidded to a halt abruptly nearly causing Fangdarr to crash into him. Breathing heavily from such an extended trek, the orc scanned the area. He expected to see some sort of indicator that their meal was nearby—a trail of smoke, a fresh carcass, anything. But all Fangdarr could see was exactly what had surrounded them before they even left. There was naught but trees, stones, and brush.

“Where food, Gub?” Fangdarr asked after catching his breath. The burning in his legs was intense, though his stubbornness refused to allow him to sit.

The ogre turned to him and gave a yelp of surprise as if he had no idea who Fangdarr was or how he had appeared behind him. “Who you?!” Gub yelled, tripping over himself and crawling away desperately.

Fangdarr stood completely confounded at the ogre’s reaction. “Gub . . . It’s Fangdarr. You remember?” No matter his words, no recognition came from the poor disturbed creature. The orc could see the same fear staining the gray orbs of his newfound friend as their first encounter, renewing the pity that was felt. As Fangdarr took a step closer, Gub whimpered and continued to crawl backwards before backing into a large tree. His profound fear only grew upon the realization that he was seemingly trapped against this advancing demon.

How can he not remember me? We just spent half the day racing through the forest to find food! The orc rubbed his temple in thought, frustrated at the inconvenience of dealing with such an imbecilic creature. Quickly, Fangdarr fell on an idea. “Gub, lift your stomach.”

Afraid and confusion only continuing to grow, the ogre stared at Fangdarr with concern. Though, after the orc made a motion to lift his own stomach Gub followed suit. With his enormous gut free from its sticky seal against his waist, the round stone tucked inside fell to the ground. Gub immediately picked it up and inspected it with a smile, thinking he had just found a king’s crown in the muck.

Fangdarr waited for the realization to strike. Yet, many moments passed before the orc came to his own awareness that the ogre may never make the connection. He sighed at the hopelessness of his ploy and started to consider his options. Too tired and hungry to make the return journey back to their cave, there was little choice remaining. Fangdarr eyed his surroundings and knew he was unfamiliar with his location. Gub’s aimless path through the forest seemed to lead them to parts unknown, with no landmarks in sight.

“Faydar!” the orc heard a moment before he saw Gub scrambling to his feet and charging over.

Preparing for the inevitable assault of mass that he knew would be pressed around him, Fangdarr flexed his muscles as the ogre lifted him into the air in joy. Despite his efforts, the air in his lungs was pressed free as Gub gripped him tightly in his embrace. “G-Gub . . . down . . .” he could barely force out.

With luck, the ogre dropped him to the ground and smiled as Fangdarr crashed to the ground gasping for air. “Friend!” Gub held the small stone up for the orc to see, finally making the connection between the two, before tucking it safely beneath the fold of his stomach once more. “Friend,” he repeated and nodded to himself, that stupid smile on his face not diminishing in the slightest.

As if remembering their purpose for coming this way, Gub started walking off and leaving Fangdarr in the dirt to collect himself. The orc rose to his feet with a groan, regretting more and more his decision to befriend such a mindless brute. Nevertheless, he followed Gub through the wood—what choice did he have? After a few hundred paces, Fangdarr could see smell it. That succulent smell flooded his nostrils and replenished his hope. Meat.

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.

Huffing with exhaustion, Tormag rolled to his side with a groan, disregarding the pained grunts from the dwarves beneath him. “Where ye at, Bit?” the aged commander called out to the withering crowd of drunken and bruised warriors. His eyes scanned the masses, wondering why it was so difficult to find a half-orc in a sea of dwarves, especially when Bitrayuul was twice their height.

“I’m here!” came the muffled reply from a few paces away. Surely enough, a tan-skinned arm pierced through the sheet of sprawled dwarves layered over top of the half-orc, waving frantically.

Tormag crawled over top of his kin slowly. He would have apologized, but this was the expectation of Bothain’s Day. Once Tormag had reached his adoptive son, he rolled the sleeping, fatigued, or unconscious warriors away that lay over his trapped companion. Energyless rebuttals of discontent came from most of the dwarves as the commander pushed them aside, finally clearing enough room for Bitrayuul to rise to his feet.

The pair stood amidst the thousands of resting dwarves, breathing heavily themselves. The festivities had lasted all through the night—at least, Bitrayuul assumed it was night—and left nearly the entire city battered. “Dwarves sure throw a party, don’t ye doubt,” Tormag said with a laugh.

“I guess so?” Bitrayuul responded. His eyes were fixed on the enormous steel hammer still burning in the air above. “How does it burn so long?”

Tormag didn’t need to look to know what his pupil was asking about. “Dwarves be pretty handy with tools, sure as stones. There be a line that runs through and feeds from an oil supply. Burns through nearly a hundred barrels o’ the stuff, I reckon, but Bothain’s Day only comes once a year.”

The mention of Bothain reminded the half-orc that he had questions he wished to ask regarding the subject of their devotion. “Tormag, Bothain is a god, right? I remember you telling us about him in small details back home, though not often.”

Raising a rugged hand to his bearded chin and giving a deep scratch, Tormag considered how much to divulge of his culture’s beliefs and heritage. He had never mentioned much during their time in the cave out of respect for Vrutnag. The dwarf’s last wish was to interfere with anything she might have taught them about their beliefs.

“Eh, Bothain ain’t technically a god, but he be considered one,” Tormag explained with a bit of reluctance. Bitrayuul raised an eyebrow in confusion, pressing the dwarf for further details. With a low sigh, Tormag continued. “He was just a dwarf, like the rest o’ us. Except he was the one behind all this.” His arms spread wide to take in the whole city. Thousands and thousands o’ years ago, we dwarves were livin’ in the mountain caves, no better than trolls—save fer our boundless handsomeness and a bit o’ civility, don’t ye doubt!”

Slumping down onto a stool, Tormag took a seat at a table away from spectators and eavesdroppers who may not be fond of their history being shared with one of orcish descent. Bitrayuul slowly slid onto the adjacent seat, hardly able to squeeze his tall frame beneath the boards.

“Anyways, we were at war with the trolls over claims to the mountains. The Tusks, they’re called, because of the infestation o’ trolls that reside in ’em. Dwarves have been here all along, just keep t’ ourselves. Our kind hid out in caves, fightin’ t’ survive. The troll’s numbers were limitless. They rooted out most o’ me ancestors. Bothain was the leader o’ the clan at the time. It was he who kept dwarves together, kept ‘em fightin’, and gave ‘em hope. Originally, dwarves resided in the southern wall o’ the Tusks. He convinced everyone t’ leave their homes and migrate here, t’ the eastern wall. Many disagreed, don’t ye doubt!

“But he kept nudgin’. And as more dwarves continued t’ die, he needed t’ nudge less and less. Eventually, the clan was convinced. There weren’t many left, save a thousand or two, perhaps. He led ’em quietly through the mountains. They called it the Stoneprint Path, last I remember.” Tormag’s voice turned somber as he recalled the tales of his ancestors. “It be long gone now . . . Stones change over time and the beatin’ they take from the elements tends t’ wash history away.”

Bitrayuul listened intently, taking in the story with riveted attention. “What happened next? Did they build Tarabar?” he asked with excitement.

Tormag spread a small smile across his cheeks at the half-orc’s eagerness. “Bothain first had our people carve a tiny path deep into the mountain—one that could easily be closed off should the trolls discover them. With luck, they went unnoticed for a few years—enough time t’ get the steel doors built. Once those were up, they were safe. Trolls may claim most o’ the mountains, but they’re worse diggers than gnomes, sure as stones. Sure, they can swing a pick, and eventually they managed to slowly intersect our many tunnels, but Bothain had plenty o’ time to get Tarabar up and runnin’. Forges were always aglow, hammers always pounded, and bellies were always full. He passed on from this world our king and savior, over thousands o’ years ago. On this day.”