Skirmish (Bitrayuul): Cleric

Skirmish (Bitrayuul): Cleric

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.