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.

“We need to go!” Cormac took his wife’s hand and began pulling her away as his instinct for survival screamed in his head.

Resisting his tug, the dwarven woman turned her head back toward the approaching footsteps that were growing louder with each passing moment. “We need to find Ori!” She managed to rip her hand out of Cormac’s grasp and took off running toward the danger, calling out for her son.

Grabbing his bald head in frustration, Cormac sprinted after his family praying to Bothain that they would find Ori in time. With powerful strides driven by desperation, he caught up to his wife and frantically scanned the area. Every time his wife shouted for the boy, he winced in fear. There was no hiding now. Their only hope of escape was finding their son as soon as possible.

The oncoming footsteps changed from their feeble attempts at stealth to pounding stomps.

“ORI!” Cormac yelled as loud as he could, knowing discretion was no longer necessary. Both of the boy’s parents were spinning to look in every direction, their eyes crazed with the fear of what was coming.

“There he is, Cormac!”

The dwarf turned to his wife and traced her gaze to the southwest where Ori was descending a tall tree. With a profound sense of relief, Cormac let out a whimper at the sight of his son. Until the dark silhouette of a dozen charging orcs appeared behind him.

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.

“Whoa, son. I’ve got ye,” Theiran said as he caught Bitrayuul. It was obvious from the half-orc’s wobbled movements and the slow trail of blood that he had been severely wounded. The dwarf slid his arm around Bitrayuul’s waist to steady him as they continued to make their way through the winding tunnels toward Tarabar.

With each painful step, the half-orc grew more and more weary, floating in and out of consciousness. The multiple wounds he had suffered refused to clot, leaving him with little time.

“Hold on. Ye just keep holdin’ on, lad. We’re almost there.”

After a long while of slow progress, Theiran could hear trolls ahead. “Oh, Bothain ye be crude!” He looked around for somewhere to hide Bitrayuul. Nothing, just bare stone in a tight tunnel. Resuming his progress, the councilman decided the half-orc would be safer with him. Holding Bitrayuul in one arm and his hammer in the other, Theiran prayed that only one troll lay in their path and not a dozen.

Cautiously, the pair stepped closer to the noise. The senator tightened his grip on his weapon and reconsidered his decision to keep his nearly unconscious companion with him. “Bah, we made it this far!”

Theiran turned the last corner ready to face whatever awaited him. His expression turned to confusion, then suppressed laughter as he witnessed the source of the sounds. A handful of trolls were trapped in agony beneath collapsed stones, unable to die. “Son, is this yer doin’?” he turned to Bitrayuul, only to see the half-orc was completely unconscious—or dead. The dwarf gave him a shake, but no response came. Then another. “Bothain’s beard . . . Wake up, lad!”

No response came.

Disregarding his own safety, Theiran tenderly laid Bitrayuul down on the cold stone. He looked at the wounds on his savior’s shoulder and forearm. Luckily, the gash on the half-orc’s forearm had finally started to staunch the flow, but the same could not be said for the grievous wound near his neck.

“Bothain, help him!” the dwarf prayed. Never did he ever expect to beg his god to save the life of one with orcish blood. But Theiran knew that Bitrayuul had gotten the wounds in his rescue. A rescue for a dwarf.

Theiran let out a string of curses as he inspected the half-orc’s shoulder more closely. It was already starting to fester and the senator held no supplies that could offer aid. He put his hands on Bitrayuul, uncertain of how to proceed.

Do I just drag ye home? Keep ye still and try to find some way to cauterize the wound? Bothain, HELP ME!

The dwarf was starting to grow frantic. He had seen dozens die before. Friends, allies, enemies. Some in his grasp, some from afar. But this one tugged at his heartstrings relentlessly. The calm and collected senator found himself nearly in tears as he pounded his fists on Bitrayuul’s torso.

“Breathe, ye damned fool!”

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.

“Don’t ye go too far now, Ori!”

“Bah, let the lad have fun. It’s been a decade since he’s stretched his legs outside.” The dwarf slid his hand into his companion’s as they padded easily through the woods. He took in a deep breath, feeling the cool, open air in his lungs.

Catching a glimpse of her husband’s eyes closed in bliss, the dwarf woman smiled. “It’s good to see ye outside the wall. I don’t know why ye stay, Cormac. No one’s come knockin’ save a few human merchants in the last few hundred years.”

Cormac smirked weakly. In truth, the loyal defender agreed with her, but such was his duty. He slowed his march and looked at her before breaking into a thin smile. The dwarf had always wondered why she had chosen him above all others. There were plenty of other suitors for her to choose from—many with more lucrative paths than that of a gatekeeper in the Shield—especially one as beautiful as she. Yet, she had chosen him.

Letting out a heavy sigh, Cormac ran a hand through her thick, auburn hair. “We’ve had this conversation before, love.” Her eyes closed as she felt the warmth of his hand against her cheek.  “It be my duty. Whether anything has happened from outside the gate or not, someone has to keep watch. There be whispers that I may be in line for Captain, someday. Then I’d be doin’ much more than just starin’ at this pretty forest from afar.”

Kissing his hand, the dwarf woman simply smiled in silence. There was more she wished to say—as always—but knew it was a battle to never be won. She turned away and started walking again.

Cormac felt his stomach tighten with her lack of words. He knew his choices were not favored by his wife, a fact that pained him greatly. But what choice did he have? He was nearly four centuries old already. Over two-hundred years had been spent atop the wall, putting in his time. Now, with opportunity to climb the ranks at his feet, how could he consider walking away? For what purpose? To become a craftsmen? A merchant? No, Cormac knew he was suited for little else than the dutiful watcher—as did she.

“Where is Ori?” the woman asked, breaking her husband’s concentration. The look of concern on her face proved she had been scanning the woods for many moments with no sign of their son.

Looking in each direction, Cormac saw nothing. “Bah, he’s probably just waitin’ behind a tree to spook us. Ye know how the lad is, he loves his antics.” He put a comforting hand on his companion’s shoulder and smiled with reassurance.

His wife was less convinced, though she tried to force herself to relax. “Yer probably right.” Her expression turned into a genuine smile as she recalled her son’s past attempts of humor. “He does love his pranks, sure as stones.”

Together they walked, hand in hand, listening to the crunch of the fallen leaves beneath their boots. It wasn’t until they had taken near a dozen steps before Cormac stopped in his tracks.

“What is it, love?” Her concerned gaze followed his eyes to the ground in confusion. After a few moments in silence she finally realized why he had stopped.

The sound of leaves crunching from multiple footfalls could be heard.

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 doubts he had felt before we gone, replaced by the intense lust for bloodshed. Fangdarr’s roaring swipes carried out over his victim’s terrified screams and blinded him to their pain. There was only the kill. The thrill of the hunt.

Fury and rage drove his axe faster and faster as he chased down the townspeople. He paid no attention to their feeble attempts at defense—or even the lack thereof by the women and children. There was no time for thoughts, no morality. Only the insatiable need for more. More. It didn’t matter how deep his axe cleaved or how much of his vitality it had restored, Fangdarr always felt an unquenchable thirst.

From the other end of the village, Raz’ja too relished in his sport. Though he maintained the clarity to keep an eye on his feral companion and watched with glee. The troll smiled wide in self-appreciation. He knew his wisdom in aligning himself with Fangdarr would pay off, but witnessing the orc in his element put to shame even his high expectations.

Fangdarr charged onward. The trail of bodies left in his wake formed a bloody path from the town’s entrance through to the center. It did not take long for even the guards to abandon their courage and take flight with the citizens. Yet the orc followed.

A man donned in his proud guard’s uniform tripped in front of the rampaging orc and screamed in fear. He quickly returned to his feet and frantically sprinted away toward a nearby building, the invader close behind. Opening the door, the guard rushed inside to seek a hiding place in his desperation. His eyes grew wide as he saw a frightened woman or child behind every corner. The shocked expression on his face was no match for their own, however, as he ran up to the nearest child hiding behind a piece of furniture and pushed her out of the way to take her place.

Fangdarr entered the room just as the man had shoved the young girl into the open. A thousand warnings raised in his mind to stop. His conscious begged him in his mother’s voice. This is wrong, Fangdarr. Stop. Do not hurt them.

But he couldn’t listen. There was only the hunt. Without hesitation, the orc swung his axe through the child that stared up at him in fear and confusion. Her face never changed even as his weapon cleaved it in half.

Fangdarr bent down to tear the ears off the girl’s severed halves and tucked them into his nearly bursting pouch.

Not a single moment of hesitation was given by the orc before he turned his axe toward the man whimpering behind the piece of furniture. Whether he cried out of fear for himself or in remorse for the fate he had imposed on the child, it mattered naught. He pressed his face against the wooden floor and knew his life was forfeit. He could run no longer. He waited for what seemed an eternity for the blinding light of death to take him with the orc’s axe.

Just as the orc was about to paint the floor with the guard’s blood, a woman charged out from her hiding place. Fangdarr turned his attention toward her, thinking to intercept her lunging attack. But it was not he the woman was after. He halted his swing mid-air to see the woman, tears streaming down her face, wielding a small pronged utensil. She dove toward the man on the ground and began stabbing into his skull relentlessly, crying out in rage and pain. After the cowardly man beneath her was gurgling his own lifeblood, she rose to her feet and charged Fangdarr.