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 felt a sharp pain across his forearm. He turned back to regard his foe, silently cursing himself for being too distracted in the middle of a battle. The wound burned against the open air as he lashed out defensively against the troll that had slashed at him. Doing his best to disregard the pain, the half-orc continued to unleash a flurry of blows into his opponent to disable it once more.

The sound of strained cranking clicked slowly far behind him. After what seemed entirely too long, the mechanical weapon let off a loud screech—and with it a blazing orb of fire. The sphere of dried branches had been lit just before launch, igniting the oil that coated the wood and lighting the majority of the cavern. Again the dwarves cheered as their eyes traced that familiar orb, just before watching it crash down into the mass of trolls. Screams of pain echoed through the cavern as nearly a hundred trolls immolated in an instant. As each lit in a burst of fire, every troll spread the flames to those around them in short order.

Bitrayuul watched as the trolls fell to chaos as the inferno quickly jumped from one body to the next like a creeping plague. Another orb quickly flew through the air toward the flank to his left, followed by one to the right. Soon, the entire cavern was illuminated by the sheer number of fires that had spread through the enemy ranks. Even still, Bitrayuul and Tormag were forced to press back against their enemies on the frontline. He was astounded at their fearlessness. Even while their allies died insufferably at their backs, the trolls refused to show any sign of relent. All that mattered was killing the dwarf—or half-orc—in front of them.

“Ah, finally!” Tormag yelled, drawing Bitrayuul’s attention. They each turned their heads to regard a handful of torches being passed through the ranks and toward the frontline. This time, the half-orc did not let his gaze linger for long as he did not wish to suffer another wound for his carelessness. As his body turned frontward, he realized just how right his instincts were as the troll’s desperate swipe cut into his shoulder. Had he not turned around, the blade surely would have sliced through his neck.

Gasping in pain, Bitrayuul’s reflexes pushed his uninjured arm outward to shove away the troll’s trailing attack. As the creature fell back onto its rear, another quickly took its place and lunged forward. However, it did not reach out at the half-orc with its three-fingered hands. Instead, Bitrayuul watched as the troll wrapped its digits around Senator Theiran who was caught unaware. The half-orc tried to grab the troll to aid the old dwarf, but his previous foe was back on its feet and intercepted with another slash of its stone weapon.

Theiran howled in pain as the troll on his back bit down onto his ear, ripping it from his head. When its face came back up, the hunk of flesh sat firmly between its teeth as blood dripped down its chin. The dwarf tried to raise his maul for a swing, but the troll in his front had gripped the weapon tightly.

“Senator!” Bitrayuul called out. Though Tormag and a few other dwarves took notice to Theiran’s entanglement, their was little they could do to help in that moment. Bitrayuul kicked out one of his opponent’s knees and reached out to the troll on Theiran’s back. But he was too late. Five more trolls had already swarmed the dwarf and were pulling him back into their ranks. As if that was their purpose all along, the remainder of the trolls began retreating to the tunnels while keeping the dwarves back. Bitrayuul watched as the senator was dragged toward the tunnel, fighting depserately to stop the vile beasts from gnawing at him.

This is my fault, I have to do something! The half-orc glanced to Tormag but knew his assistance was impossible as he was tied up with a trio of trolls. It seemed no matter which way he turned, every dwarf was engrossed with a foe. Even as over a thousand trolls were made into smoldering carcasses, thrice that number still remained. The shine of steel from fallen dwarves could be seen on the ground, typically sprawled over top of a group trolls.

Gritting his teeth in frustration, Bitrayuul took the torch from the dwarf behind him without hesitation and plunged it flame-first into his opponent’s face. It wailed in agony as the oily substance from its many wounds ignited, burning it both inside and out. Not pausing to ensure the creature was truly dead, the half-orc leapt over it and barreled through another pair of trolls. Only luck and his determined charge stopped their blades from connecting against his skin.

Tormag caught a glimpse of his adoptive son as a dozen trolls took to pursuit behind the towering half-orc. “Bitrayuul, no!” His eyes went wide in fear as he realized where his son was headed—straight toward the tunnel where Theiran was taken.

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 rushed forward with the dwarves as they cried out in unison. His heart pounded in his chest as each pace took him closer and closer to the growing army of trolls that continued to spill into the cavern. Fear begged him to halt his advance, but the army of stout defenders around him had locked him in place and forced him to keep running. There was no way out but forward—through the enemy.

Casting a sidelong glance to Tormag once more, the half-orc saw the vitality in his ancient eyes. The heat of battle was upon them and even the old dwarf was willing to sacrifice all for his homeland. Bitrayuul stared ahead and was met with the reflection of a thousand glowing eyes, narrowed in hatred. This was a rivalry forged over millennia, and it was evident on every fighter’s face from both ends.

What have I gotten myself into?

Though Tormag had trained the half-orc how to fight over the years, nothing could have prepared Bitrayuul for a battle. He watched as the first line of dwarves crashed against the trolls and his eyes went wide as the spray of blood instantly spewed into the air. The half-orc did not know that trolls possessed blue blood. It shined against the torchlight as it travelled in every direction, just as the crimson spray of dwarves’ blood did. But worst was the sounds. Bitrayuul shuddered as the agonizing squeals of wounded trolls filled the cavern, drowning out their loud snarls and hissing. The dull thud of mauls squishing flesh and the crisp slicing of blades cutting through limbs mixed with the shrieks of pain and warcries in a chaotic tempest of noise. And still he advanced.

Gods, how will I survive this?

It was time. Bitrayuul’s line was nearly upon the trolls and he flexed his hands in nervousness. He could feel the push of the dwarf behind him, nudging him forward, even as he was locked in place by the clashing dwarves in his front. The restricted movement only added to his stress. He felt trapped. Trolls rushed around the field, leaping over the pile of fighters in the center and raining down onto those behind—their sharpened stone weapons seeking any bit of exposed flesh to sink into.

There is no end to them!

Bitrayuul was caught off-guard by one of the horrendous creatures launching itself into the air directly toward him. He froze in place, not knowing what to do as the vile monster closed in on him, mouth spread wide in sinister glee. The half-orc raised his arms in front of him defensively, though it was little protection against the pair of sharp weapons in the troll’s hands.

This is it. I don’t know what to do . . .

Shutting his eyes in fear, Bitrayuul waited for his doom. Every instinct told him to flee but he could not. His mind begged him to open his eyes and defend. To remember Tormag’s training. But he could not. Paralyzed by fear, the half-orc waited the final moment, anxiously waiting for the bite of blades as they cut deep into him.

I hope it is painless . . .

He waited, refusing to open his eyes. The press of the dwarf behind him continued, letting him know he was still alive. And still he waited. After what seemed an eternity, Bitrayuul opened his eyes and nearly jumped back in shock. His vision was met with the shattered skull of the troll staring back at him. Its eyes hung limply on bloodied cords from their sockets and the exposed brain of the troll could be seen pulsing from within its broken head. He turned to Tormag, who was busy fighting another troll.

How did that happen?

Bitrayuul looked to his other side and was surprised to see Senator Theiran, gripping a large maul tightly in his hands and swinging away with abandon. Upon making eye contact, Theiran offered a nod before turning his attention back to his opponent. Realizing that he had been saved by the old dwarf, Bitrayuul silently thanked him and steeled his resolve as the troll in front of him began to mend its shattered skull. He punched out with his gauntlets into the creature’s face. Blood squished out past his hands and splattered onto his face with a putrid smell that nearly made him gag. But he kept swinging. Despite the sharpened bones on his knuckles stabbing into the troll’s face, it still quickly started to regenerate the moment his hand was pulled away. It stared back at him with a wicked smile—punctured by a dozen holes—almost laughing at the futility of his blows.

Why won’t it die?!

As he continued to stab the monstrous creature’s face with abandon, his attacks grew more frantic. He did all he could to rid the beast of that grin, but it was pointless. Bitrayuul turned his head to regard Tormag and saw his father in the same stalemate as he. “How do we kill them?!”

Tormag grimly swung a war hammer into his foe’s face for good measure. “Just hold a bit longer! We’re waitin’!”

“Waiting for what?”

The sound of a horn blew from behind them and a cheer rolled through the dwarves. Bitrayuul quickly glanced back to see a large contraption of iron and wood being rolled toward them, six dwarves pushing on each side. A cart was attached to each end, filled with large spheres of twisted wood and dripping with a glimmering black liquid.

“That!”

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.

Nearly a dozen waded through the brush, their enormous forms unhindered by the screen of greenery in their path. Ogres—all nearly an extra half of Gub’s size. Fangdarr watched as a scowl formed on each of their faces as they all stared at the orc. His knuckles were white around Driktarr’s shaft in anticipation. The orc cast a sidelong glance to Gub in hopes of determining if these ogres were friend or foe, but the dumbfounded creature continued splashing in the stream in blissful ignorance.

The first of the ogres to break through eyed Fangdarr carefully, paying close attention to the axe in his hand. His eyes narrowed dangerously until he too stared upon Gub. The leader of the group stepped into the water, its engorged stomach jiggling from the motion. He watched Fangdarr take a cautionary step back in response, spurring the ogre to take another forward.

“Shoo, orcsie,” the ogre grumbled, waving Fangdarr away. The monstrous creature turned its head to the side to two of its companions. “Go git ‘im.”

For a moment, Fangdarr thought the leader meant him. He tensed his legs, ready to spring into action. There was no chance of victory to be had, he knew. Not against ten ogres that he could only assume were fully matured due to their size advantage over Gub. As soon as the pair of ogres walked past their commanding ally, the orc nearly leapt into the air. But—with all the luck in the world—he held his pose for just a moment longer, enough time to see that, in fact, the ogres were walking toward Gub.

An expression of concern appeared on Fangdarr’s face as he realized they were coming for Gub. Instincts kicked in and the orc found himself taking a step toward his ally defensively—something the ogres did not miss.

As one, every ogre in the group began laughing at Fangdarr. “Orcsie think he do sumthin’?” the ringleader asked before replacing his mirthful smile into a disapproving frown. He took another two steps closer, only a few paces from the orc. “We take him. He ours.”

By then, Gub had lost his attention on the sparkling water running over his feet and taken notice of the group of ogres. “Ogres!” he exclaimed with a smile. Jumping up and down in glee and smacking his pudgy hands together, Gub skipped merrily to Fangdarr. “Look, Faydar, ogres!” He chuckled, pointing to the band of monstrous creatures.

Fangdarr didn’t know whether the ogres could be trusted or not, or if they were Gub’s kin or just happening by, but Gub seemed to trust them. The orc also recognized that they could have ambushed and killed both of them without much effort. He nodded in acceptance to Gub and turned to the leader. “We go with you?”

Once again the band laughed at his expense, renewing the wave of humiliation Fangdarr felt. “No, orcsie. He ours. We take him.” With a motion of his fattened head, the ogre instructed his subordinates to continue their task of claiming Gub.

Gub needed no convincing, however, as he lunged forward and wrapped his arms around the nearest ogre in a great hug. The adorable and wide smile on his face was met with an intense look of disgust by his victim whom tried to push away the affectionate ogre. “Eh! Boss this one funny. Ya sure ya wants ‘im?”

Letting out a low groan, the head ogre responded with frustration. “He is ogre. Ogres stick together. We fix ‘im.”

Still caught in the breath-stealing embrace, the other ogre scoffed. Finally, he managed to push Gub away who seemed entirely unfazed and moved to hug the next ogre in line. With a deadness in his expression, that creature simply accepted his fate and waited for the overly long embrace to end. Fangdarr watched as Gub’s smile remained spread from ear to ear as the pair of ogres he hugged grabbed hold of his arms and started leading him toward the group.

“G-Gub?!” the orc called out in plea. He stepped forward, feeling the pit in his stomach expand with every step further they went. Fangdarr waited for his friend to speak on his behalf and request that the ogres take him in as well. After all, they were friends, right? But as Gub simply kept his ignorant smile on his face as the ogres escorted him away, waving back to Fangdarr as if they would see each other soon, the orc felt a profound sense of despondency. He had never felt so abandoned before. Despite their short time together, Fangdarr had thought that he and Gub were friends.

Another bout of laughter escaped from the ringleader as he watched the orc fall into sorrow alone in the stream. That demeaning chuckle pierced through Fangdarr like a spear, reminding him of just how weak and alone he truly was. He forced back his tears with a struggle, refusing to allow his tormentor to witness his vulnerability. But the condescending sneer was enough to break him.

Dejected, Fangdarr abruptly turned and stormed off in the opposite direction—haunted by the incessant laughter at his back. The wind stung his eyes and cheeks as they chilled the wetness that ran down his face. He sprinted as fast as he could deeper into the Lithe, cursing himself for trusting Gub. As hate burned in his heart like a raging inferno, Fangdarr promised himself that he would never cease his hatred for ogres.

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 stepped easily toward his friend, no longer bothered by the sight of the half-eaten woman in Gub’s hands—nor the gory mess the ogre was making of himself. The orc planted his bloodied greataxe into the earth next to the fire pit and took a seat. As he pulled another hunk of meat from the roasted venison, Fangdarr let out a sigh of content. The weather was pleasant, the breeze gentle, and—save for the crunching of Gub’s meal—the forest was silent.

With each passing moment, Fangdarr grew more and more accepting of his choice to leave the confines of his family’s home. He had been outside in the forest many times before, but it felt different now. Untethered and free to do as he pleased, Fangdarr enjoyed the prospect of having none to command him but himself. His eyes glanced back to Gub, whom had just finished the last of his meal and was picking shreds of cloth from his teeth. Despite the sense of liberty, the orc was glad to at least have one friend—even one so dumb as this one.

That night, they slept by the fire, taking advantage of the preparations their human victims had made for themselves. And why should it go to waste? This was Fangdarr’s life now. To salvage, to raid, to hunt. To survive. His mother had raised him to be respectful of other’s belongings. But that was not the orcish way, he knew. And his mother was gone.

For the next moon cycle, Fangdarr and Gub strolled through the surrounding wood with no destination in mind. They stayed together and became close as they hunted, joked, and continued to raid unfortunate humans in their secluded cabins. Fangdarr loved every moment of it, relishing in the freedom and the bloodshed. Not a shred of guilt was felt for those they had murdered in their exploits. Not for humans. Never for humans.

One morning, the pair were lazing around by a stream and simply enjoying the lush beauty of the forest and all it had to offer. They splashed around joyously, scaring away the nearby birds and other critters who had resided too close. “This fun, Faydar!” Gub exclaimed with his almost child-like giggle as he dipped the tips of his fingers into the water’s surface and flicked the liquid toward the orc.

Fangdarr, barely avoiding the torrent of water, kicked back his own series of splashes in response, dousing the sluggish ogre and drawing another laugh. For many moments they continued their light-hearted antics without any care. But it all stopped once Fangdarr heard the shuffling of brush not far off. He quickly shushed his friend and received a confused and blank stare in reply.

Slowly, Fangdarr patted the air and drew his weapon, waiting for their stalker. It was big. Enormous, even. Even the trees groaned in protest as the foreign creature came closer, threatening to rip their roots from the earth. Gub continued his empty expression. It was obvious the ogre could not gauge the severity of the threat that seemed to be approaching. Fangdarr, on the other hand, tensed his body in anticipation.

Finally, their intruder broke through the thick vegetation, pushing aside the dense brush. Not just one intruder, but many.