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 orc stepped out of the room on unsteady feet, his chest rising quickly from the exertion. After the brutal event had passed, the shroud of fury dissipated from his mind. Fangdarr knew what he had done. He could feel the stench of its immorality rising through his stomach as it tensed. The disapproving glare of his deceased mother hounded him, only adding to his shame. 

With new clarity, the orc stared around the room and saw the gory scene he had created. The corpse of a small child—a child!—lay in a pool of her own blood, mixed with the man next to her. Fangdarr felt as if he could hardly remember what had happened. In his enraged state, he had done unimaginable things. Horrid things. The events replayed in his head and he held back tears as he realized just how monstrous he had become. 

Then, Raz’ja stepped inside with his wicked grin that only spread wider upon sight of the carnage within. The sensitivities Fangdarr was feeling fled immediately, replaced by a toxic necessity to show no vulnerability. That hurt him more than anything else, knowing that for a brief moment he had felt the painful reality of what he was becoming, only to force it away at the first risk of exposure. All the atrocities he had committed against undeserving victims were simply waved away, denying them the respect they should have been given.

And yet, despite knowing the horror he had wrought, Fangdarr, too, could not help but return Raz’ja’s smile. 

Bending low, the orc gripped the man’s ears tightly and placed a heavy foot on the back of his skull. With one quick tug, they came free in his hands. He raised the bloody ears toward his pouch slowly but paused. Without a word, Fangdarr turned and strode back into the other room. Raz’ja tilted his head curiously as the sound of a woman’s whimpers and sobs passed through the house. The troll chieftain grew even more curious as Fangdarr returned to the main room, no longer holding the man’s ears. 

Seeing his ally’s puzzled expression, the orc simply stated, “Her kill. Her ears.”

Raz’ja’s brow furrowed in disappointment and for a moment Fangdarr thought they would engage in a conflict then and there. But as quick as it had come, the troll’s scowl turned to humor and he burst into hysterical laughter. Finally catching his breath, Raz’ja patted his own overflowing sack of ears on his belt. “Let’s just hope you have enough,” he responded with deadly certainty. 

Fangdarr looked down to his own pouch, blood dripping from the soaked leather as it bulged with the ears of those he had killed. He recalled each and every kill in an instant. “It is enough.”

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 eerie silence in the cave only worried Theiran more as he listened intently for any sign of life.

“C’mon! Fight, lad!” Shaking the half-orc frantically, the senator hardly noticed the sound of footsteps approaching from behind. By the time the scuffling steps were upon him, Theiran had barely managed to turn around, his weapon loose in his grip from despair. If trolls had wished to seal his fate as well, then so be it.

But as his eyes lifted, it was not the wicked, yellow gaze of trolls he met. Instead, over a dozen dwarves stared at him in disbelief. Tormag, spearheading the troop, rushed forward first and headed straight for his adoptive son. “Bit? Wake up, Bit. We’re here now, lad.”

When no response came, the old commander turned to his friend with a curious expression. “W-what’s wrong with him, Theiran?” Tormag turned back to the half-orc, this time noticing the wounds and answering his own question. Before the senator could even respond, Tormag was already muttering in defiance. “No, no. He can’t be. His blood’s still warm.”

A hand fell upon the dwarf’s shoulder. Tormag looked up to see Theiran’s eyes wet, as his were. “He saved me life. I ain’t even knowed him. I figured I was lost to the trolls, but he came. Yer boy came.”

Though distraught at the consequences of such actions, the commander couldn’t help but force a small smile through his anguish. Aye, that was him, he thought. The one who’d charge into a tunnel of trolls just to save someone he hardly knew. His gaze drifted to Bitrayuul’s petrified face. And it cost him everything . . .

All fell silent. Even the dwarves who had accompanied Tormag on his rescue mission—those who had held naught but discontent for Bitrayuul—held their heads low in respect. And shame. Each endured their self-tormenting thoughts that had they been more open-hearted, perhaps they would have followed the half-orc into the tunnels to save their senator, and spare Bitrayuul’s life in turn.

One such dwarf refused to allow such inactivity to harbor shame any longer. She pushed her way through the group from the rear, drawing confused looks. Though she was suited with a cloth robe lined with iron and a mace still dripping with the blood of trolls, her somber expression turned to steel as she pressed forward.

Kneeling next to Tormag, she inspected Bitrayuul’s wounds. The ancient commander was too lost in his grief to even pay her any heed. Until her hand fell upon his. Their eyes met, and with pure sympathy she stated, “I can save him.”

Tormag sat perplexed, not registering her words. “Y-ye what?” Perhaps he didn’t hear her right? But how could those words have been spoken? He looked down at his son once more, seeing his wounds still slowly oozing blood. Still pumping blood. A flicker. That’s all that remained.

The female dwarf removed her hand from Tormag’s with a smile. As with every other dwarf in that tunnel, none expected to be owing so much to an orcish creature when they rose that morning. Her thick fingers clutched her mace, shaped in the symbol of Bothain. With her free hand, the dwarf gently pressed against Bitrayuul’s most severe wound near his neck.

Moments passed with every dwarf on the tips of their toes in anxiousness. Slowly, the deafening silence was replaced by the female’s low chant. The darkness in the tunnel was driven out by a light irradiating from her palm. At first, no more than a minuscule spark. Then, as her prayer grew, so too did the light. Soon the dwarves were forced to turn their eyes away as the blinding glare became too harsh.

Then, the chanting was halted. And with its cessation the darkness returned. Tormag and the other awed dwarves watched as the female’s hair turned from a deep brown a few shades duller, as if she had aged a hundred years in a single moment. They all had known she was a cleric of Bothain—they were few are far between—yet not even Tormag or Theiran had come to witness their healing in person. For such actions, though a mighty gift, came with a heavy cost, as evidenced by the withering of her appearance.

Before Tormag could even question the magic’s efficacy, he turned his head as Bitrayuul groaned in agony.

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.

His heart pounded in his chest, though time seemed to slow. The thundering stomps of the oncoming raiding party grew closer.

Cormac opened his mouth to call out to his son, but his voice caught in his throat. His eyes grew wide in fear as the orcs approached rapidly. Scream, scream! the dwarf scolded himself. But no matter how much he begged, his voice would not come.

“ORI, RUN!” shouted the boy’s mother. Her eyes wore the same terrified expression as her husband, but were twisted with confusion at the lack of his own exclamation.

The boy stared at his parents curiously and his playful smile turned to perplexion. For his mother now beckoned him frantically while his father stood erect as stone, frozen in fear. Leaping from the lowest branch, Ori landed on his feet with ease. It was not until then that he realized the commotion behind him.

Turning to regard the swift shifting of feet, the boy’s gaze met the orcs’. There was no time to flee. Nor even a moment for the crippling fear of what was to come to settle. By the time Ori had turned, he was met with the open maw of one of the raiders, roaring vigorously as his crude weapon swung.

“ORI!” The words that had been locked in Cormac’s throat finally broke free—too late. The guard watched as the sharpened iron blade cleaved through his son’s skull.

Ori’s mother screamed and charged forward for no other reason than instinct. She held no weapon, nor any means of defending herself. In truth, her task seemed pointless as her son’s life had already been claimed. Yet still she ran. Fists balled with naught but desperation and despair, fueled by anger at her husband’s lack of action.

Immobilized once more in his fear, knowing his cemented feet had made no attempt to protect his family, Cormac’s eyes filled with tears as his wife met the same fate as their beloved son.

In mere moments, the calm afternoon walk had turned to tragedy. And the dwarf had simply stood by in his dormancy as it all had transpired. A thousand curses aimed at himself, the self-loathing dwarf remained inactive even as the orcs made their way to him. Their roars fell deaf on his ears. Cormac’s eyes fell upon the blood staining their blades and the corpses of his loved ones.

Then, as if in irony, his mind finally decided to act. He shifted to a defensive stance, his father’s shields tight against his arms in preparation. One last glance found its way to Ori and his mother—a reminder of the result of Cormac’s hesitation.

Eyes still welled with tears, lip quivering in anguish, the dwarf waited. There would be no more hesitation.

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 felt the sharp sting of the pronged iron as the woman plunged it deep into his abdomen. Momentary bewilderment caused the orc to stare down at the utensil and its wielder.

As the orc’s eyes met hers, she did not shy away. He saw within them the same fire and hatred that he knew lay behind his own. Beneath the furrow of her brow came her piercing gaze, channeling every bit of her sorrow and fury. Determined to bring an end to the monster that killed her child, the woman placed both hands on the makeshift weapon and pressed with all her might.

Fangdarr didn’t wince as the fork sank further into his stomach. His focus lay solely on his attacker, roaring in her rage. For the briefest of moments, the orc came to understand the reality of his actions. He had killed a child. Her child. Split her in twain as if she were no more than a log to split. His fury had blinded him from a horror so real that Fangdarr wondered what else he may have done in his enraged trance.

Is this what it means to be orc? he wondered. Kill without remorse. Bring pain to others. End daughters and sons. Mothers and fathers. Is this the height of our purpose? Suffering?

Pulling out the utensil, the woman plunged it into Fangdarr again in a fit of sorrow, this time into pectoral just above his heart.

With the piercing pain, Fangdarr’s mind cast aside all deeper thoughts to be replaced by a single, overwhelming truth. I will not fall to an unnamed human.

As quick as it had subsided, the orc’s blind rage returned. The outrage and anguish previously in the woman’s eyes turned to fear as their gazes met once more, knowing that she had missed her opportunity to avenge her child. She pulled out the fork and aimed to plunge it into Fangdarr again. The flesh the woman expected to meet never came. Instead, she felt the monstrous beast’s hand wrapped around her forearm.

Knowing she had failed, the woman wailed in her anguish. The few eyes of the surviving onlookers hidden in the room watched her in silence, too afraid to move against the invader as she had. She looked to her child for strength, as if her fury would be enough to break past the orc’s hold. Her free arm tried to lash out but was caught as well. Next her feet, kicking out with wild abandon in desperate attempt to disable the orc. Nothing worked. Her rage slipped away and she called out to her daughter with a dozen apologies.

The woman’s wails only grew louder as Fangdarr carried her to the next room. She begged those hidden for aid. But they only waited, hoping their window of opportunity would present itself at her expense. Seeing her friends hide caused the woman to thrash, shouting curses between her sobs. Her resistance only spurred the orc more, driven by dominating lust and power. The blindness of his state sifted out any thoughts detrimental to his course of action, save for one.

Is this what it means to be orc?

In a blink, the thought had vanished. Fangdarr squeezed through a small doorway as his victim sobbed profusely. Driven by an urge common among his kind, the orc stared into her eyes and she knew her fate. She watched as those who had remained concealed in the shadows took their chance to flee. None turned to save her. Not even a moment of hesitation. Her eyes closed as the unbearable pain began and she knew she would be forced to bear it all alone.