Skirmish (Bitrayuul): Wait
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!”