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.

“Bahaha! Ye remember that time ye smashed yer finger tryin’ to make a ring fer yer lass?”

The other dwarven craftsmen burst into laughter to join his friend. “Aye! What else were me fingers meant to do?! The damned thing wouldn’t fit a gnome!”

Together, the pair walked past the line of forges and workshops of their fellow crafters. Their humor was so ecstatic that even the roaring crackle of a dozen coal pits couldn’t stifle the sound. 

“Eh, look’s like Hagan’s hard at work, as usual!” the first stated sarcastically as they came upon the young blacksmith’s workstation. 

Seeing Hagan staring intently at a roll of parchment and an assortment of drawing tools, the other craftsman let out another round of laughter. As they came up to his shop, Hagan still hadn’t looked up to greet them.

“Oye, Hagan! What’re ye workin’ on?”

Without so much of a glance, Hagan replied, “Drawing.”

Each of the dwarves looked to the other in moderate frustration, disappointed that Hagan was deflating their light mood. With a pout, one of the crafters leaned closer to inspect the parchment. His face twisted in confusion and he cast a bewildered look to Hagan. “What in Bothain’s name ye buildin’, lad?”

“Armor.”

The dwarf shifted his incredulous expression to his friend, who then took a closer peek at the sketch before sporting an equal demeanor. 

“Ye . . . armor, ye said? Fer what, a giant?!”

Hagan let out a slow exhale as he leaned back in his stool, finally making eye contact with the disruptive pair. “Fer the half-orc, Bitrayuul.”

“The one that saved the senator?” one of the craftsman asked. 

Hagan raised an eyebrow in curiosity, having not heard of Bitrayuul’s feat.

A chuckle came from the other. “Do we got another half-orc roamin’ the city?”

Their joyous humor reignited, filling the area with the dwarves’ laughter once more. Once their amusement had subsided, they turned back to Hagan to inspect the drawing in more detail. 

“Lad, this be quite an undertaking, “ the first began. “If ye can get this done, ye sure ye want to waste it on a half-orc? Why not make it for two dwarves instead?”

The other nodded quickly. “Like us!”

Hagan leaned forward and scooted the parchment closer to him defensively. “He’s a good lad. If what ye say be true, and he saved one of our own, then I’ll be treatin’ him the same.” The dwarf looked up at the pair expectantly. “Now, if ye don’t mind, I’ve got me hands full.”

Each of the crafters looked irritated that Hagan would dismiss them, but began to depart regardless. As soon as they were a few paces away, they began to mutter amongst themselves. 

Hagan simply sighed and shook his head as he caught a passing few words.

“. . . never finish . . .”

“. . . impossible . . .”

Their comments slid over the blacksmith painlessly. He knew the task would be an immense undertaking. But Hagan believed his reasoning. Having learned that Bitrayuul saved a dwarven senator only solidified his decision and confirmed his impressions of the young half-orc. 

He looked down at his stack of sketches and started to sort through them. Everything had been laid out, now all that was left to do was begin forging. 

Flipping through the pages, Hagan found the list of materials he would need to purchase from the supply. For the first time, a tinge of doubt crept in and the dwarf began to reconsider his task of arming a half-orc. He rose from his seat and moved to his locked chest. After opening it, he took out a small pouch. Pulling on the twine, Hagan emptied the purse into his hand and a dozen coins spilled out. Sighing once more, the dwarf looked back to his list of necessary materials, then back to the coins. All his savings would be depleted if he chose to take on the project.

Hagan knew Tormag would reimburse him, but he still needed to eat during the creation process. Silently, he slipped the coins back into the pouch and slipped it into his pocket. Then, taking his procurement list, the young blacksmith took off for the ore stores.  

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 hammer crashed down against the heated steel, launching a spray of sparks. Again, and again, Hagan worked the metal, stretching and folding on repeat. All the other blacksmiths in the Crafter’s Guild would have complained to be given such a menial task, creating rails for the mine cart tracks. But Hagan wasn’t bothered. To him, it was all just an aspect of the craft and it was important to never forget the basics. So, he wiped the sweat from his brow and placed the rail back into the forge.

As the dwarf waited for the steel to reheat, he looked up to see a strange character joined by an armored dwarf heading toward him. Paying them no mind, Hagan retrieved the rail from the coals, now sporting a vibrant orange color, and placed it back onto his anvil. Again he lifted his hammer and continued where he left off, straightening the steel to perfection.

By the tenth strike, Hagan heard someone clear their throat to get his attention. The distraction caused him to miss his mark, bringing the hammer down slightly to the side and putting a bend in the edge of the rail. With an exhausted sigh, he placed the rail off to the side and turned to face the pair at his workshop. Looking at them plainly, despite them causing him to damage his piece, Hagan nodded in greeting.

Now that they were up close, Hagan could tell that the dwarf was a high ranking member of the Dwarven Regime, based on the emblazoned armor. To the warrior’s side was a tall but young fellow that could only be a half-orc, Hagan assumed. He could tell by their awkward silence that they waited for him to initiate the conversation. He let out another sigh, eager to get back to his work but not wanting to be impolite. “Ye need somethin’?”

Glad that the dwarf had finally opened a dialogue, the dwarf extended a hand in greeting, which Hagan shook firmly. “I’m Commander Tormag, pleased to meet ye.” He pointed to the tall character to his right. “This here’s me boy, Bitrayuul. He’s been stationed under me to be trained and learn our ways. We’re hopin’ ye can make him some armor. The dwarf kind don’t seem to fit him, bahaha!”

Hagan raised an eyebrow in curiosity. “‘Yer’ boy? Must take after his mother.” 

Bursting with laughter, Tormag nearly doubled over in amusement. “Aye, that he do,” he responded between laughs and wiping away his tears. “Nah, he ain’t me boy. But he’s mine, alright.” The dwarf smacked Bitrayuul on the rump. “Go on, son. Introduce yerself, don’t be shy.”

Bitrayuul seemed uncomfortable to be the center of attention, doubly so as Hagan’s stare bore into him. “H-hello, sir.”

Shaking his head in playful disbelief, Tormag leaned against the blacksmith’s table. “Right, he’s a shy one—fer now. Ye should see him in a fight, though. Lad’s fearless. Takes after his mother on that one fer sure!”

Bitrayuul smiled at the mention of his mother, but it quickly faded as the fresh memory of her passing was rekindled. 

Seeing his adoptive son’s discomfort, Tormag continued. “As I was sayin’, he’s in need of some armor. Do ye think ye could help?”

Hagan eyed Bitrayuul up and down from behind his table. “What sort of weapon do ye favor?”

Staying quiet until his father gave him another tap on the rear, Bitrayuul meekly stepped forward. He lifted his hands to reveal the crudely crafted gauntlets he had made years ago, equipped with sharpened bones. “I prefer these. They leave my hands free, and sometimes I use my bow.” Lowering his hands to his sides, he stared down at the floor. “Master dwarf, I know I’m not a dwarf. So, if you aren’t interested, I would understand.”

The corner of Tormag’s lips lifted. He placed his hand on Bitrayuul’s arm and addressed the blacksmith. “Whatever yer price. If yer interested, of course,” he added, winking to the half-orc. Tormag turned back to Hagan. “So, will ye do it?”

Turning from the pair, Hagan looked around his shop while pondering. After a while, he finally turned back to face them and nodded slowly. “I’ll need a year.”

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.

Wrapping his fingers around the worn, iron tongs, Hagan clamped down onto the thin steel and pulled it from his forge. The metal glowed a deep orange as he set it down onto his anvil’s horn to work out the curve of the pauldron just right. Down came his hammer, nothing more than a light but steady tap. Then another, and another. As the armor’s glow began to fade, the dwarf’s arm pumped in calculated bursts, clapping against the heated steel. 

With the pauldron growing too cold, Hagan lifted it to his face. Carefully, he scrutinized every detail. The edges were smooth, having worked out all of the nicks. The curve made perfect after this last cycle of working the piece. Continuing to trace the steel with his eyes, Hagan frowned as he came across the smallest of dimples. To anyone else, such a minor imperfection would have been meaningless. In truth, it offered no functional vulnerability at all. But, letting out a small, patient sigh, the dwarf lowered the pauldron and slid it back beneath the coals.

 As he waited for the blazing forge to reheat the steel, Hagan wiped his face with a rag before folding it into a neat square and placing it on the table. Taking hold of his trusty tongs once more, he pulled the pauldron from the fire, this time it came out a dull red—exactly as needed.

Bending as low as he could to put his face near the heated metal—and taking great care not to singe his beard—Hagan scanned the plate until he found the same dimple as before. Without needing to look, his hand reached out to the side and retrieved a tiny hammer. Clamping the piece in place with the tongs in his left hand, he slowly tapped the steel with his right. Little by little, the minuscule dimple began to flatten. It took nearly a hundred soft blows from the diminutive tool, but eventually the crease had been erased completely.

Once more the pauldron was raised to the dwarf’s face for final inspection. He was ready to quench it and be done, having worked the same small piece of armor for the last three days. Again, Hagan traced his scrutinizing gaze over the smoothed steel as it cooled in the air. Pleased with the result, he set the pauldron down onto the anvil. But as he released it from his tongs, he realized that he had clamped down onto the metal slightly too forcefully, as a new marking had been introduced from where it had been held.

With naught but another small and patient sigh, Hagan slid the pauldron back into the coals.

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 took a deep breath. He was uncertain of whether his response would be what the council wanted to hear. He turned to Tormag, though knew that every action he took was being scrutinized. 

Tormag nodded to him. “Tell the truth, lad. Like I always taught ye.”

Turning back to Myra, the half-orc let out a sigh. “I don’t know why I went after the senator.” A few gasps and whispers came in response, prompting Bitrayuul to elaborate. “Tormag told me not to, for my own safety. But I couldn’t just let Theiran get dragged away! He saved me, in the battle. How could I just watch as the trolls took him? No one else was going after him, so I felt I had to do it.”

Myra leaned back in her chair. “Dwarves fight in a strict formation. It is known that if one of us be removed from the formation, they are lost. We cannot risk the battle fer the life of a single warrior—senator or not.”

Bitrayuul looked down at the ground. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

This time, Theiran chimed in. “No, lad, ye didn’t. But I’ll be thankin’ Bothain every day that ye chose to act anyway.” Once again, the council members began to dispute. 

Myra finally rose from her seat and smacked a small mace against the dias in front of her, claiming everyone’s attention. With the senators silent, she turned her gaze back to Bitrayuul. “What is your name again?”

“Bitrayuul, senator.”

“Were ye named that fer a reason?”

The half-orc shifted uncomfortably. “Yes, but not for my own part.” Myra motioned for him to explain. “My father is an orc, my birth mother a human. My conception was not known by my real mother.”

Myra seemed curious. “And where is yer father now?”

“Dead, slain by Tormag before my birth.”

Taking her seat once more, the senator finally offered a smile. “Well aren’t ye a bundle of family trauma? Yer adoptive father killed yer real father, and still ye follow him?”

Bitrayuul nodded. “To the end and back.”

Myra turned to her colleagues and nodded. Next, Theiran stood and called down to Bitrayuul and Tormag. “Right, step outside fer a moment, if ye please.”

Tormag pulled the confused Bitrayuul toward the door. Once outside, the half-orc seemed to explode with stress. 

“Oh no, did I say the wrong thing?! Are they going to reject me?” Bitrayuul’s heart raced in his chest as he realized he may have driven the council to a negative decision. He began hyperventilating and would have collapsed to the floor had Tormag not caught him. 

“C’mon, son. Ye’ll be alright. Everything went fine. Ye told the truth, and that’s what matters.”

Bitrayuul looked at his father and finally noticed that the dwarf’s face was lined with tears as well. At first, he immediately assumed that Tormag was crying because he knew that the council would expel them from Tarabar. But Bitrayuul could see that they were tears of joy from the half-orc’s words. 

A moment later, the doors to the chamber opened once more and Theiran called for them to enter. Tormag pulled Bitrayuul to his feet and looked him in the eye. “To the end and back.” 

Together, the pair passed into the chamber, holding the other firmly. Once inside, Theiran allowed Myra to offer the decision.

Standing once more, the senator smiled down at them. “Welcome back, Bitrayuul. We’ve come to a decision. Ye will be positioned in the Dwarven Regime, under Tormag, who will resume his title of Commander. Ye will learn our ways, and ye will know what it means to be a dwarf. Also, ye are to live under Tormag’s roof. Ye will be monitored and any sign of threat will result in yer death or expulsion of Tarabar. This be agreeable?”

Bitrayuul stood staring around the room, trying to process everything. He had heard Myra’s words, but didn’t fully comprehend her meaning. 

Leaning forward on her dias, the senator simplified her approach. “It means ye get to stay, Bitrayuul.”

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 slowly pushed open the heavy door and walked into the chamber, Tormag at his rear. Almost immediately, the meager shred of courage that he had mustered to get through the door fled upon the eyes of all seven council members boring down at him from their raised seats. But he took another step, then another, until he was in the center of the room. It was obvious that a few of the dwarven senators seemed to have grown impatient at his delay. Three scowled openly at him while another three showed indifference. In the middle sat Theiran, a gleeful expression on his face.

Beckoning the half-orc closer, Theiran raised his voice to fill the chamber—though no spectators were present. “Welcome, Bitrayuul and Tormag. This chamber be called to determine yer eligibility to stay in Tarabar.”

Bitrayuul swallowed hard.

“Normally, we would hear testimony from ye and yer allies. But that’s already been done while ye were restin’. Fer the purpose of this chamber, those who spoke on yer behalf were: Tormag, myself, and a petition signed by over five hundred of our own army’s forces.”

Bitrayuul gasped in surprise at the news of the warriors’ petition. However, he could see the three council members who scowled at him roll their eyes. 

Theiran continued, his voice still booming through the room. “At this time, any council members who wish to offer requests for rejection may do so.” He stared to his peers.

Almost immediately, one dwarf stood from his seat—though hardly rose in height. He was the most lavishly dressed of the group and had yet to remove his scowl aimed at Bitrayuul. “We cannot allow a beast such as he to live among us! How are we to know if he doesn’t plan to find our weakness and report them back to his kind?”

Upon his testimony, other senators stood and began barking words of agreement or contempt. Within moments, six of the council members were in a heated argument, including Theiran. After a long while of angry curses amongst each other, they finally settled and Theiran smacked the dias in front of him with his maul. “Alright! Enough. It seems we’re at an impasse. Three for, three against.” As one, all of the dwarves turned to the lone dwarf who had not partaken in the dispute. 

To Bitrayuul’s surprise, he realized that the reserved senator was female, though it was difficult to tell aside from the lack of facial hair. But it was her eyes that gave her away. They were not the usual beady orbs tucked beneath a furrowed brow like her male counterparts, but gentle.

“Go ahead, Myra. Speak yer piece,” Theiran instructed.

Remaining in her seat, the senator leaned a bit closer while looking at Bitrayuul. “How old are ye, half-one?” Her voice seemed sweet, though her thickened accent caught the half-orc off-guard.

“Uh . . .” Bitrayuul flustered. He did not expect such a question. “Sixteen winters, senator.”

“And where did ye spend those winters?”

“In a cave, with my mother and brother.”

“And Tormag?” Myra asked with a raised eyebrow.

Bitrayuul’s heart quickened with alarm upon missing the detail. “O-oh, yes. For the last few years.” 

“And what is Tormag to you?” The senator’s gentle eyes seemed to stare right through him. Her words were lined with sweet tones that made her feel welcoming, but her gaze felt intimidating.

Bitrayuul eyed the rest of the council, hoping his response would not spark another dispute. “He is my father.” Luckily, the news seemed to already be known, as none reacted. 

Myra leaned forward even more, her gaze piercing Bitrayuul. “I only have one more question, half-one.” She waited for a long while, scrutinizing the half-orc’s every twitch. Finally, she asked, “Why did ye save Theiran?”

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.

Tormag passed through the threshold first, grabbing the senator’s arm in greeting. Behind him, Bitrayuul hunched over to fit through the dwarf-sized doorway. Once through, the half-orc similarly clasped Theiran’s arm. 

“Glad to see yer still with us, lad,” the councilman expressed. “And thank ye again fer savin’ me. On Bothain’s hammer, I owe ye me life.”

Uncomfortable at the prospect of such a debt being owed, Bitrayuul simply nodded with a smile. The three warriors all sat in awkward silence.

Finally, Tormag cleared his throat. “Right, best be headin’ in now, Bit.” Motioning onward with his hand, he added, “Lead the way, Theiran.”

Offering one last gesture of gratitude, the senator turned and started walking through the hall. Bitrayuul had failed to notice the grandeur of the interior from his interaction with the dwarf, but now he couldn’t help but gaze at the sights within the hall. He had been impressed with the exterior’s craftsmanship and allure, but it was nowhere near as marvelous as the details hidden within. Two dozen statues of gold lined the hall, each shaped like a different dwarf in life-like realism. 

Theiran caught the half-orc’s open-mouthed awe and let out a chuckle. “Aye, I had much the same look on me face my first time here. Those be the past senators.”

Jaw still slack in wonder, Bitrayuul replied, “The detail is exquisite. Who crafted these?”

Another chuckle came from the senator. “No, lad. Those be the past senators. Casted in gold to be remembered in our history forever.”

Bitrayuul blinked in confusion, staring back at the statues. “You mean . . .?”

“Yep.”

The half-orc nearly shuddered after learning the truth. It almost seemed barbaric, to freeze the corpses of past leaders in a tomb of gold. But he kept silent and continued walking, a new perspective on dwarven culture in tow. Though, with each golden grave he passed, Bitrayuul couldn’t help but stare each in the eyes.

The long path ended with two large doors on each side. To the left, a series of three barred windows could be seen, a dwarf behind each. In front of the windows waited short lines of others as if waiting for something. Bitrayuul watched as one of the workers behind the bars passed a small handful of coins to the dwarf on the other side before the next in line stepped up. The half-orc was completely puzzled at what was going on, but turned to the other door to his right.

He knew this door was the one the council waited behind. Now, upon being so close, his anxiousness returned tenfold and his stomach twisted. The nauseous feeling crept up his throat and Bitrayuul was afraid he’d vomit, right in front of the doors. He felt Tormag place a comforting hand on his back.

“Don’t worry, son. Ye’ll be alright.”

Theiran nodded in agreement. “Take as long as ye need, lad. I’ll see ye inside.” Stepping away, the dwarf opened the door and slipped in. 

In the small gap from the opened door, Bitrayuul could see part of the room in which he was meant to enter. A raised semi-cirlce of seats lined the far end of the small ampitheatre, a finely dressed dwarf in each seat and silhouetted by shadows cast by dancing flames of torches behind them. The foreboding image nearly pushed the half-orc over the edge and he clutched his stomach in agony. Staring wide-eyed at his father, tears began to form. “I-I can’t do this, Tormag! They’ll send me away! Or kill me!” Though he tried with all his might, the half-orc let his fear get the best of him. Kneeling down, he hid his face in the dwarf’s shoulder. “Please don’t make me go in there . . ..”

Tormag ran his hand over Bitrayuul’s hair. “Don’t worry, son. No matter what happens, I’ll be with ye, don’t ye doubt.” He looked into the half-orc’s face and wiped away the tears with his thick fingers. 

Bitrayuul continued to cry for a moment, though his fear was beginning to subside. Tormag always knew how best to calm him. The dwarf was the best father he could have asked for, a fact that he was eternally grateful for. Taking strength from his father’s assurances, Bitrayuul sniffled away his tears and took a steadying breath. After his nerves were driven back, he stood and turned to face the large door to the council’s chamber. 

Looking back to Tormag, the anxious half-orc asked, “Will you come with me?”

“Aye, lad,” the dwarf replied with a smile. “Always.”

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 stepped out of the small stone dwelling to greet Tormag after finishing his wash. Seeing his adoptive father’s cheeks spread in a genuine smile brought the half-orc some comfort, though still he remained anxious to meet the council.

“So, to the council?” Bitrayuul asked.

Nodding in response, Tormag rose to his feet. “Ain’t far, son.” He could see the trepidation building on his son’s face. “Don’t worry, lad. Everythin’ will be alright.”

The dwarf’s reassurance did little to lessen Bitrayuul’s fears, but he fell in line behind Tormag anyway. Together, they made their way through the passage lined with dwarven hovels. It was the first time Bitrayuul had ever seen this part of Tarabar—or even homes in general. Everything was so different than the simple cave in the woods in which he was raised. For as far as his eye could see, nearly every object was made of shaped stone, iron, or steel. Even the dwellings to each of his sides seemed to be a stout edifice of fortification. Much like dwarves, he thought. 

The foreign environment only added to Bitrayuul’s twisting stomach, and the curious stares of dwarves that he passed didn’t help either. He was still an outsider here and always would be. Staring at Tormag’s back, Bitrayuul felt guilty for the devotion Tormag had for him. When he was younger, the dwarf had always spoken fondly of Tarabar, but now that they had returned, Bitrayuul realized that Tormag had given up everything he knew for him and his family.

Letting out a soft sigh, the half-orc wondered if he should even stay in Tarabar at all. Perhaps it was time to give Tormag his life back? But he knew the dwarf would never abandon him. And if Bitrayuul was cast out, Tormag would surely follow. Such knowledge was both a comfort and a curse to the half-orc. He felt like a helpless whelpling that others thought couldn’t survive without supervision. All while Fangdarr was out in the wilderness in solitude—hopefully still alive. 

Bitrayuul looked up after bumping into Tormag, not realizing the dwarf had stopped. He looked up curiously to see a large building lined with gold and gemstones that dampened the appeal of all other buildings surrounding it. “Is this the council building?”

“Aye, lad. This be the one.” Tormag smiled upon seeing the awestruck expression on his son’s face. 

“It’s magnificent,” the half-orc said softly. “How is such craftsmanship possible?” His eyes scanned every minor detail, from the thousands of runes etched into each pillar to the inlaid gemstones that sparkled from the light of three large braziers outside the walls. The building seemed much smaller than he would’ve thought, but it didn’t diminish its beauty in the least. After staring in wonder for a long while, Bitrayuul could feel Tormag tugging his arm.

“C’mon, lad. We’re needed inside.”

Bitrayuul followed his father, still gazing at the masterful details as they grew closer. Finally, they arrived at a large door made completely of steel. The half-orc twisted his face in confusion. “Tormag, why is the rest of the building covered in gold and baubles, but the door isn’t?”

“Bahah, ye don’t remember all I told ye? Gold be pretty, sure as stones, but it be weak. Steel is tough an’ resilient. Most every buildin’ in Tarabar has a steel door for protection—not that it’s ever been needed, mind ye.” Tormag raised his hand to the portal and bashed the side of his fist against it. Bop-bop-BANG. A moment later, the thick steel wall began sliding up from the bottom. As the door continued to open, a pair of steel boots could be seen on the other side, then legs, then the tip of a beard. Soon, Theiran was revealed in entirety, a welcome smile on his face despite the bandage around his head for the chunk of ear that had been bitten off. 

“Welcome, Tormag and Bitrayuul,” the senator began, his joy never fading. “It’s good to see ye.” 

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.

Home, Fangdarr thought again, padding through the gate with a grin on his face. His gaze flicked hungrily across the landscape, taking in the sight of the community. The crudely built abodes, the bustling orcs going about their day. Children, even. Fangdarr’s heart skipped a beat as he realized he had never really seen his own people before. A swelling sense of pride filled within him. 

It had never occurred to the orc just how many others of his kind there may be. Hundreds were outside their homes, brawling, lounging, or cooking large, succulent hunks of meat over the many fire pits within the village. As he watched his people, he noticed almost immediately that only the females seemed to be doing work. Every male just lazed around watching their mate work or playfully challenged other males to fights.

To Fangdarr, such an unfair division of labor seemed absurd and out of the ordinary. His mother had never told him of such practices. Instead, he and Bitrayuul—and even Tormag—had always aided Vrutnag with the work to be done. The prideful smile on the orc’s face faded, replaced with a scowl of disappointment. He let out a low growl as he watched one male down the path get up from the patch of grass in which he had rested just to scold and beat his mate. Fangdarr eyed all of the couple’s surrounding neighbors, hoping someone would step in. But his disappointment grew as not a single orc even batted an eye. 

Fangdarr sighed and began walking toward the center of the village again, no longer frozen in his tracks by the sights around him. Instead, he was reminded of his purpose to be there—to become chieftain. 

He knew he needed to tread carefully, however. Already he would be seen as an outsider. Upon taking his rightful title, Fangdarr knew that pushing instant reform would bring him nothing more than a knife in his skull while he slept. Stomping down the path, he passed the orc that had beaten and scolded the female. Holding back his urge to beat the orc to death, Fangdarr offered naught but a hateful glare as he walked past. 

As he made his way to the large tent in the center of the village that could only belong to the current chieftain, Fangdarr couldn’t get his mind off of the suffering. He had been raised differently, better. Females were nothing less than equals in his mind, and he hated knowing half of his clan was suffering in silence. And for how long? He could only assume such was their way, and always had been. Had his father truly seen no fault in such practice? Fangdarr found himself baring his teeth as new truths came to light.

Blinded by his frustration, Fangdarr nearly bumped into a large statue outside the chieftain’s tent. The startlement only made him angrier and he turned toward the tent, nostrils flared. As he turned, he realized that he had been followed by a few curious onlookers. It was clear they knew his marvelous weapon, but not the orc who now wielded it.

It was now or never. “I come to challenge chieftain!” Fangdarr howled at the top of his lungs, loud enough for every orc within a hundred paces to hear.

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 stood in the forest, eyeing the crude walls of the orc village. His village, he realized, had his mother never fled. That was where he belonged, as his father had. Taking in the sight for the first time, Fangdarr couldn’t help but feel an inviting sense of longing. Truth be told, there was nothing special about it—the walls consisted of thick logs, impaled into the earth as if by no design. But it screamed ‘Orc’, raw and chaotic. 

Taking another step forward, Fangdarr found a smile on his face. This was what he had been searching for, he believed. A home to call his own, others like him, and his father’s legacy. He could hardly believe how it all had turned out. Meeting Raz’ja and building the alliance had proven truly beneficial for the lone orc. The troll chieftain had taught him all he knew of orcs and their customs—details even his mother or Tormag refused to provide, for one reason or another. 

Namely, the Ortuk Malid. Fangdarr’s path required he become chieftain of the vicious beasts of the Zharnik clan, as his father, Brutigarr, had been. And the Ortuk Malid, a challenge for the right to lead, was the way in.

At first, he had been surprised that Raz’ja did not accompany him, to show Fangdarr’s strength with thousands of trolls standing behind him. But he knew this was a task he needed to accomplish alone. ‘Ya must proove this to yaself, Fangdarr,’ the troll had said to him. ‘But dont’cha worry, friend. Once ya are chieftain, the work begins.’ 

Fangdarr didn’t know exactly what Raz’ja had meant, but, if one thing was certain, it was that the trolls would not miss any opportunity to weaken the goodly races of Crein. Furthermore, he trusted the troll would keep his word. All that remained was to become chieftain of the Zharnik clan.

Looking up, Fangdarr saw the gates—if they could even be called such—of the village and a pair of orcs leaning lazily against the wall, spears in each hand. He felt trepidation sink in as he approached, expecting them to charge him with reckless abandon. Yet, they each offered naught but a glance and a lackluster grunt of acknowledgement as he passed through. 

Elated, his face twisted to a smile. Father, I’m home.

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.

Cormac looked up at the blade descending toward his temple. He knew it was over. His mind seemed to pause while simultaneously playing through a thousand memories in an instant. Memories of his youth, his parents, his wife, and most prevalent—Ori. 

What had started as pleasant recollections of his son’s smiles and joy were replaced by the haunting images of the boy being cut apart by the raiders Cormac stood against. I’m sorry, Ori. I got as many as I could . . ., he lamented. As if in response, the scenes in his mind faded to a black emptiness as quick as they had come. 

As the orc’s sword plunged toward the dwarf’s skull, Cormac simply went limp. Whether on instinct or due to the profound loss of his family striking his will, he could not know. All he knew was that he was falling to the ground.

Despite his drop, the raider’s blade still sliced through skin, cutting through Cormac’s left eye. The pain shocked him back to his senses as his back hit the ground. For a moment, he had forgotten where he was—until he saw the four orcs standing around and above him. Each of his opponents had their weapons raised once more, ready to plunge them into the dwarf.

Cormac’s will snapped back. His perspective had changed; it was no longer acceptable to end merely a few of the orcs. They all needed to die, for Ori.

Tucking his feet and pulling in his head, the guard lay beneath both of his large shields, entirely covered by the thick steel as four blades crashed down. Cormac waited for the booming thud to ring four times in rapid succession, waiting for the right moment to retaliate. Once the fourth strike landed, he rolled left into one of his opponent’s shin’s. 

The orc looked down at its victim in confusion as it rolled. Then, all it could remember was a blinding pain and see blood pouring from its groin. By the time it realized what had happened, the orc watched as Cormac rolled into the opposite direction toward another raider.

Within his shielded roll, Cormac would listen for the harsh inhale of the orc’s as they launched attacks. Each time, he would roll to his back so that his shields would intercept the blow, then continue his approach. It had to be the most odd tactic he had ever enacted, but he could not deny its efficacy. The orcs slashed as him with abandon—especially after watching him successfully dispatch of yet another of their dwindling group.

Down to two, Ori. Just two more. 

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’s eyes cracked open slowly. It felt as if he had been asleep for a full moon cycle—and the crust in his eyes did little to dispel the thought. His body felt stiff as he strained to pull himself up in the bed. As his weight shifted, an odd crumbling sound came from beneath him. Pulling back the thick cloth on which he sat, the half-orc was confounded upon seeing he had been sleeping on a sheet of gravel.

The half-orc peered around the room as he rubbed his eyes. Everything was made of stone. From the chair in the corner of the room to the table it was paired with, there was naught but carved rocks in sight. Bitrayuul lifted his hands toward his temples but stopped upon seeing bandages on his arm and shoulder. 

Just as Bitrayuul struggled to remember the cause for his wounds that had healed, Tormag entered the room. “Oh! Yer awake!” The dwarf’s face lit up in an instant as he rushed over to his adoptive son and wrapped his thick arms around Bitrayuul. 

“W-where—” the half-orc began, struggling to breath beneath Tormag’s strong embrace. 

The commander noticed the effect his squeeze was having and relinquished his hold. “Sorry, son. I’m just so happy yer alive.” 

Bitrayuul returned the smile but remained confused. “What happened? Where am I?”

“Hmm, seems ye don’t remember. The cleric was right.” Tormag strode to the other end of the room and struggled to lift the stone chair before carrying it back toward the half-orc’s bed and setting it down with a gasp of relief. “Ye remember anything at all? The trolls invading the mines, chasin’ after Theiran into the tunnels?”

Bitrayuul shook his head.

“Right . . . well, t’ keep it short, ye went and rescued the senator—after I telled ye not t’, mind ye!” Tormag raised a finger at his son and waggled it in disappointment. “But, ye went anyway. And ye saved him from sure death, don’t ye doubt. Though, ye got cut up a bit in the process.”

Looking down at his bandages again, Bitrayuul lifted the wrapping to see the edge of his new scar. When he looked back to Tormag, he could see the concerned look on the dwarf’s face. “You mentioned something about a ‘cleric’? What is a cleric?”

Tormag’s face lit up once more. “Ah, a cleric be a follower o’ Bothain—a healer. She be the one who saved ye. We were lucky that she did, else . . . ye would’ve been lost in those mines.” The dwarf seemed to be choking back tears. Clearing his throat to avoid the awkwardness, Tormag added, “So, she said ye needed t’ rest. Ye’ve been here fer about three days.”

Three days? Bitrayuul thought. At least it wasn’t a full moon cycle. “Can I see the cleric? I’d like to thank her.”

“Eh, we’ll see. Clerics are an odd bunch, sure as stones. Besides, the Council has demanded they see ye once ye wake. So have a wash,” Tormag’s hand waved to a large, hollowed stone full of water on the far side of the room. “When yer cleaned an’ dressed, I’ll be outside.”

Bitrayuul grew nervous at the thought of meeting the council. When he first came into Tarabar, many dwarves were not accepting of him, and Theiran had warned of the Council’s expected disapproval. But before he could raise his concerns, his father was already walking toward the door. Bitrayuul’s shoulders slumped with worry and he sighed.

The half-orc failed to notice Tormag had stopped at the door and turned back toward him. A genuine smile was plastered onto his face. “I’m glad yer safe, son.” With a nod, the commander stepped out, leaving Bitrayuul standing in the stone room alone to prepare.

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 followed Raz’ja back to the mountain pass, each carrying their bloodied sack of ears. The orc was met with a thousand gleaming eyes as he entered the narrow path. The trolls’ wicked grins nodded with approval from all around. They clung to the rocky walls, eagerly awaiting news from their chieftain.

Raz’ja walked through the jagged passage with supreme confidence. The orc watched as any troll who made eye contact with their leader shied away in fear. Fangdarr’s respect and admiration for the cunning troll rose with each step he took. At any time, Raz’ja could easily be overpowered by sheer number, yet none dared move against him. A commendable feat, to the orc. 

As the pair entered a dark tunnel, their eyes shifted to see better. Fangdarr was forced to bend low within the tight corridor, but continued silently. He could feel the anxious presence of trolls close on his heels, too curious to hold back. The thought made his skin crawl, but he trusted Raz’ja. After all, why would the troll chieftain go through all the trouble for a sack of ears?

The passage seemed to go on forever—and got smaller the deeper they went. At first, Fangdarr had wondered why they would choose to dig into the mountain. But all became clear as soon as they had reached the end of the tunnel. Raz’ja waited for him at the opening with a wide smile on his face. The troll extended his arm in a wide sweeping motion. “Welcome, brutha, to my kingdom!”

Fangdarr’s jaw fell slack in awe. The cavern they had entered was so vast! It extended farther than his eyes could see and with trolls scurrying over nearly every surface. There were no buildings, nor even any plants. It all seemed so barren, yet immense. It was as if the sanctuary was some sort of enormous hive, crawling with the wretched creatures. 

Taking joy in the orc’s wordlessness, Raz’ja stepped forward before stopping at a crudely carved stone slab. He pulled the sack from his belt and dropped it atop, drawing Fangdarr’s attention. Without prompt, the astonished orc, too, set his ears on the stone. 

“Alright,” Raz’ja started as he dumped both bags of ears. His eyes lit up upon seeing the torn pieces of flesh in all different sizes—even childrens’. Cackling loudly, the troll turned to Fangdarr. “The agreement is met.”

“What this mean?” Fangdarr tilted his head curiously. 

“Ears asked, ears received. The alliance is fulfilled. Now, we make you chieftain.” 

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 first orc closed in, eager for the kill. From behind, the rest of the raiders were close on its heels—all seeking the easy victim. 

But Cormac, against his most base urges to lash out on instinct, waited with determination. He didn’t care if he killed them all before he fell, just a few. Each shield was held firmly in place in anticipation.

As the nearest orc’s iron blade came plummeting down, the creature’s face elated at the thought of cracking open the dwarf’s skull. Instead, the sword was met with the thick steel of Cormac’s shield. Before the bloodthirsty orc realized it’s attack had been halted, the dwarf stabbed deep into its thigh. With a yelp of surprise, the orc fell backward, frantically trying to staunch the black liquid that poured from its severed artery.

One down, Cormac thought.

There was no time for reflection, the next two orcs were upon him and the others were beginning to flank him. Taking the initiative before he was completely surrounded, the dwarven guard bravely charged toward the pair of beats in front of him. The orcs were taken aback by his sudden offensiveness and were caught off-guard. With a well-aimed strike to the heart, one of the raiders fell to its knees while Cormac’s other shield slammed into the other’s forearm, pressing the orc’s own blade into its neck. Gargling its own blood, that creature too fell to the ground and desperately attempted to stop its lifeblood from spilling onto the ground.

With three down, the odds were increasing. However, nine still remained and had now circled Cormac. The lust in their eyes lingered, but a spark of hesitation had crept into each raider. This time, five leapt in at once, seeking to overwhelm the stalwart guard.

Certainly outnumbered, Cormac would never be able to fight all at once. His only hope was to reduce the number of attackers in any way he could. Thinking quickly, rather than remaining in position, the dwarf rolled to the right desperately. With luck alone, only a single orc’s swing managed to clip him, glancing harmlessly off his shield as he tumbled. 

Cormac was back on his feet in an instant—blades leading the way. He plunged both of his shield’s blades into the nearest orc and charged forward using the creature’s body as a shield to block it’s neighboring ally’s follow-up swing. The ferocity of the second orc’s cleave caused it to cut through Cormac’s meat-shield, forcing him to disengage before he was overrun once more. 

Using the dead orc’s body to obscure the raider’s vision of him, the dwarf slid to his knees and plunged his weapons into the second orc’s feet. In a disadvantageous position, the three other orcs fell upon him without relent. Their insatiable bloodlust led the trio to attack him simultaneously instead of ensuring the kill by alternating their assault, allowing Cormac to lift a single shield above his head to deflect their approaching weapons. While protected, he took advantage of their carelessness and cut deep into each of their exposed thighs—always aiming for that same artery that he knew would incapacitate them. 

Eight. More than half. Cormac still refused to believe in victory. All that mattered was exacting a toll.

As the three raiders around him fell to the ground clutching their wounds, the last four rushed in before he could stand. They seemed to have been watching from their ally’s mistakes, as they no longer attacked in unison. The first attack came from Cormac’s left—met with a raised shield. The next from his right—again met with a shield. But the third came from above, aiming for his skull, and he had nothing left to block with.

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.

“He’s awake!” Tormag chirped with excitement as he wrapped his arms around Bitrayuul. “Oh, me boy, I thought ye lost.”

Bitrayuul instinctively returned the hug, though he knew not why it was received. “W-what happened?” As he attempted to sit up, he clutched his shoulder in pain. It felt as if he had taken a hammer to his collarbone and blood had stained over half of his gear. 

“Easy, lad. Easy.” Laying his son’s head gently against the stone, Tormag couldn’t contain his smile. “Ye took quite a beatin’, don’t ye doubt.”

The half-orc’s eyes widened. “Theiran! Is he safe?” He felt a hand press lightly on his chest to calm him and turned his head. In front of him sat a female dwarf, her face touched with tenderness as she smiled at him. Bitrayuul eyed her curiously. “Who are you?”

Offering a soft laugh, the cleric turned to Tormag. “Well, he’s alive. But he doesn’t seem to remember much.” Her voice was edged with the gruff dialect of dwarves but still managed to remain soft. 

“Aye, he’ll be fine,” the commander responded. He placed his hand on her shoulder and his tears began anew. “I can’t thank ye enough, cleric. Me boy owes ye his life.”

Bitrayuul, finally catching on, groaned as he forced himself to sit up slowly. “W-what is your name?”

The cleric smiled at him once more as she slid a finger along her brow to tuck back her dulled hair. “Don’t fret, love. Ye’ll be just fine with time.” With that, she stood and turned to Theiran and the remaining company of dwarves. “Theiran, he should be carried home to rest. Can ye lads handle him?” 

Still awestruck by what had happened—and knowing Bitrayuul deserved no less than their care—each dwarf nodded quickly before moving toward the prone half-orc. Theiran approached the cleric, his grateful expression speaking volumes. 

Before words fell from his mouth, the cleric raised a hand to silence him. “No words are needed, Senator. Bothain chose to spare him. He has earned his right to live.” Her cheeks remained raised with a smile as she spoke, leaving Theiran with nothing left to say. Without another word, the cleric began walking back down the tunnel the way they had come.

As he watched her depart, the old senator could see tell she was weary. The length of her strides had shortened and each step seemed to take a minor toll. Yet still she stood strong, walking with pride. Theiran knew she had spoken the truth—that Bothain had indeed been the one to spare Bitrayuul. However, it was she who bore the sacrifice, it seemed. A cost she must have known would have been paid in return for the half-orc’s life. He turned to Bitrayuul as his companions lifted him onto their shoulders, then to Tormag whose tears of joy proved just how loved the orcish warrior was. Thank ye for savin’ him, Bothain. Ye know he earned it.

Bitrayuul watched Theiran as he joined the company and offered a pained smile. “Glad to see you are safe, Senator.” 

“Aye, lad. Thanks to ye,” Theiran replied, taking the half-orc’s hand in his own. “Thanks to ye.”

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.

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.

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 pressed his back to the tree. Peeking around, he could pick out at least two dozen guards in the small village. The orc turned toward Raz’ja who had scaled a nearby tree and sat hardly visible through the screen of leaves. Even still, Fangdarr could see the spread of a wicked grin across the troll’s face.

Turning toward the town, Fangdarr listened to the low bustle of its people. The thought of killing humans did not breed any discomfort for the orc. He expected it never would—not after the fate his mother suffered. Though, the serene sound of innocent children giggling as they played together brought its doubts. Fangdarr looked to the remorseless troll chieftain and knew his companion would have no thoughts of mercy. He also knew it was too late to back out now.

Gritting his teeth in frustration, the orc shook away the plaguing doubts and started walking toward the village. Fangdarr stomped forward without fear as shouts started coming from the guards. They fear me before I even break words, he thought. Without hesitation, the humans started loosing arrows at him. Each missile whizzed past, only missing its mark due to their startled and shaking hands. After another few steps, one dug deep into Fangdarr’s arm, drawing a disapproving sneer from the invader and halting him in his tracks.

They should.

With a burst of motion, Fangdarr dashed toward the town’s gate. In their surprise, the soldiers had forgotten to close it, instead electing to simply shoot down the lone orc. But he wasn’t alone. As soon as Fangdarr passed the threshold, roaring with fury, Raz’ja leapt from on high toward the guard tower. The pair of daggers in his hands plunged into the spine of the nearest man as the troll landed, cackling as he quickly bit down onto the man’s ear and tore it off.

Instantly the once calm and joyous village erupted into chaos. The screams of women and children drowned out the shouts of the men attempting to organize their defense. A pair of guards ran toward Fangdarr with their swords raised but the large orc didn’t slow. He raised his greataxe high into the air and closed the distance with a bounding leap. As he landed, his weapon cleaved through the soldier to his right, severing him in two. On his left—to the man’s credit—the other guard managed to impale Fangdarr’s thigh with his blade before his face turned to horror upon witnessing the fate of his ally. Even worse, the wound the man had managed to inflict mended unexpectedly.

Fangdarr’s elation heightened as he watched every twist of his next victim’s face, jumping from each level of horror to the next. Reaching out, the orc grabbed the man’s tunic and lifted him to eye level. Opening his maw wide, his victims screams were muffled as the orc’s jaws clamped down onto his face. Fangdarr bit down with all his might, pressing his large fangs deep into the man’s skull. Beneath the crushing force, the man’s screams ended abruptly as his bones shattered within the orc’s jaws. Spitting out shards of bone, the orc pinched the dead man’s ear and pulled hard enough to tear it away. Fangdarr stared at the trinket for a moment before tucking it into a sack on his belt.

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.

Thankfully, the vicious trolls had not noticed him yet. Bitrayuul slowly rose to his feet, careful not to make even the slightest noise. The beasts continued to cackle in delight as every time they slid their blade across Theiran’s skin a new line of blood followed.

The dwarf, no novice to pain, simply stared at them with a face hardened and grim. His captors must have grown tired of his insults, for the senator had been bound and gagged. Though a dozen new wounds could be seen, the worst was where his left ear had been ripped off before being pulled into the mines. Blood continued to slowly pour down his neck in a thick ooze.

To the left, Bitrayuul watched as a pair of the creatures carefully inspected the dwarf’s finally crafted maul. Even together they could hardly lift the dense hammer, but he could tell by the sinister look on their faces that they had considered using it for their own devious purposes.

Bitrayuul took a slow breath. His body ached from exhaustion and wounds alike. He had no weapons other than a single bone-spiked fist—a useless tool against such enemies. The half-orc pondered his next move. After such great efforts to reach the senator, he had finally reached him.

Now what? I can’t fight them all, not without fire.

Staring around the small opening, the half-orc prayed he would find a small torch. But it was useless. These creatures feared fire more than anything else, there was no chance they’d carry something with them that could provide it.

What’s the point? We’re going to die here anyway. I’m going to get what I came for.

As if nothing else mattered, Bitrayuul rushed forward as silently as possible to the pair holding the maul. Stabbing one troll through the neck with his remaining gauntlet, it’s attempted wail of pain was muffled by gargling blood in its throat. He paid it no mind, knowing it would soon heal and be back in the fray. The half-orc’s attention immediately turned to the next troll. Luckily, as the first he had struck grasped its neck in agony, the heavy maul dropped from its arms and crushed the foot of the remaining creature. This time, unfortunately, its howls of pain were not stifled and the rest of their group turned in curiosity.

Once their gazes met the intruder, they were up in a heartbeat with daggers in hand. Theiran managed to kick out at one as it passed, tripping it to the stone. Before it could react, the bound dwarf lifted his boot and brought his heel down hard onto the beast’s skull. A squelching noise came, paired with a groan of pain from the troll beneath. But the dwarf didn’t stop. His boot raised again and again, slamming into the troll’s skull repetitively until it shattered bone.

Bitrayuul took the maul from the temporarily incapacitated duo and lifted it in the air. He was amazed at just how heavy the weapon was as it threw him off balance. Luckily, his back foot slid outwards to catch him enough to divert the hammer forward—straight into the first approaching troll. It’s skull blew apart in an explosion of blood and bone shards as it fell beneath the thick steel.

Even with four of their adversaries currently disabled—yet mending quickly—the last two continued their charge toward the half-orc. Bitrayuul strained to pull the heavy maul back into the air in time, but he was too slow. His eyes clenched in pain as the stone blade in his opponent’s grip sliced through the side of his lifted shoulder, barely avoiding his neck. Luckily, as the other dagger came in, he managed to intercept it with his left-hand, blocking the sharp edge with the bones along his knuckles.

In the moment that the troll began reversing its momentum to swipe at Bitrayuul again, the young warrior had managed to bash outward with the hammer, driving the troll back into its ally. From behind the backpedalling beasts, Theiran leapt onto the back of the furthest creature. He had cut himself free with the dropped dagger from the troll he had disabled and cut the throat of the rear troll.

“Me hammer, lad!” the dwarf called out while tossing Bitrayuul the dagger.

On instinct alone the half-orc tossed the maul toward the senator, forgetting about the troll between them. As the weapon lobbed forward, the poor creature tried to catch it but the item proved too heavy. Beneath the hefty steel, the troll fell to the ground at Theiran’s feet. The dwarf didn’t miss a beat. He bent to grab the hammer from the troll and immediately pulled an odd stone from his belt and struck it against the head of his weapon as hard as he could.

Bitrayuul had to cover his eyes as the stone produced a hundred bright sparks in the cave, igniting the troll that the senator had cut. In a burst of fire, the troll wailed in agony and rolled on the ground in feeble attempt to extinguish itself. The half-orc still stood defensively with the dagger in hand, though the remaining five trolls all scrambled in fear as their wounds still began mending.

In the midst of the chaos, Theiran walked confidently over to Bitrayuul, completely disregarding the frantic trolls. As if on cue, the single flaming troll bumped into one of its allies in its desperation, igniting the next. Then the next. Within moments, five of the group were engulfed in flames and screeching in the cave. The last, unwounded, ran down the tunnel in the opposite direction in fear for its life.

Staring blankly at the dwarf, Bitrayuul could only blink at how quickly the scale had tipped in their favor. He opened his mouth multiple times to speak, but could not find the words.

Thankfully, Theiran held no such lack. “Time to go home, son.”

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.

Left, right, three more lefts. Downhill, uphill.

Gods, these tunnels go on forever! Bitrayuul’s arms grew weary as he ascended the ancient iron ladder that the dwarves had placed many years ago. The winding mine twisted and turned in every direction and still the half-orc had not caught up to the senator. Worse, the drops of blood he hounded were growing more and more infrequent, leaving his path up to chance more often.

By then, Bitrayuul did not know for what reason he continued. Perhaps it was honor, or more so because there was no other choice. In truth, the young warrior was lost and had no hopes of finding his path—especially with the way he came sealed beneath the stone.

At the edge of his wits, when all hope seemed lost and no blood caught his sight for a hundred paces, a barely audible noise twitched his ear. What was that? Is that them? Halting his movements entirely, Bitrayuul turned his head to hear more clearly down the tunnel ahead.

Nothing.

He took a step toward the stone wall, placing his ear against it and hoping the sounds of footsteps would be amplified. For many moments, his face lay flat against the cold stone.

Nothing.

He let out a heavy sigh. Why did I do this? he asked himself with great regret, resting his head against the scarred wall. What could you have possibly hoped to achieve?

“Bug off, ye smelly rats!”

Bitrayuul was up in an instant as the sound lightly echoed to him. I knew I heard something! He turned his head again. I’m certain that was a dwarf. It has to be the Senator! Taking off in a dead sprint that denied the aching in his legs, the half-orc was certain he was close. He looked down at his shattered gauntlet in his right hand, then to the crusted wound on his left forearm. Still with no fire, he had no idea what service he may prove to be to the captured dwarf. But he needed to try.

“BAH, get yer damned toe-fingered hands off me!”

The sound is growing, I’m getting closer! Slipping on the stone beneath his feet, Bitrayuul scraped his knee and tore the skin. He growled in pain and frustration at his foolishness as a trickle of blood traveled down his shin. There was no time to pay attention. He could only keep moving.

It was not the angry insults of Theiran that the half-orc heard next, but screams of agony. Bitrayuul could only imagine what horrors the sinister cretins may be doing to the dwarf—and soon to him.

Bitrayuul’s eyes looked ahead and saw the mine shaft growing smaller and smaller, bringing him to a crouch. Then on his knees. Then to crawl along the floor as only a small opening could be seen. He did not think he would fit at first, but if the trolls could have dragged the fully-armored, thrashing dwarf through then he knew he could squeeze by.

As he pulled himself through the suffocatingly tight path, the young half-orc began to panic. He could feel the stones around his shoulders and legs with their jagged embrace. There was no way he could back out of the hole. He would either need to move forward or die there. His heart was pounding in fear. His chest huffed relentlessly, only adding to his terror as his lungs grasped desperately for air.

Tears streaked down Bitrayuul’s face. I may die here . . .. Wiggling frantically, the half-orc only made his situation worse. He held his mouth closed to silence himself; the worst he could do in that moment was summon the trolls. With his lips pursed taut, his air was consumed twice as fast.

Stop! Stop panicking! It was no use, he felt trapped. He tried to pull himself forward even a finger-length but stopped as he felt the sharp stone digging into his abdomen. Even worse was the path that still remained—covered in even more jagged edges. His eyes fell upon those stone thorns in the suffocating tunnel and witnessed the glaze of crimson they had been painted with recently. Dwarf blood!

The knowledge that Theiran had traversed this same path and come out alive served as little warmth to Bitrayuul. Though, it was enough to convince him to keep pulling. Gritting his teeth as the rock beneath his torso tore through his flesh, the half-orc steeled himself and slid onward.

Just keep pulling. Go. You can do this.

The pain was immense as he reached the final squeeze of the tunnel and its set of sharpened stone teeth. He could feel the warmth of his blood gliding across his skin as the rocks cut into him. His shoulders, his arms, his legs. Everywhere his flesh was ripped, leaving a smear of blood in his wake.

Finally, his hands reached the outside of the tunnel and felt it open up. Bitrayuul whimpered as he dragged his large body through the remainder of the hole before rolling out onto the stone in relief.

As he opened his lungs filled with air, the half-orc opened his eyes. He immediately gasped and placed a hand over his mouth. There they were, naught a dozen paces ahead. Six vile trolls were huddled around the dwarf, prodding him with their stone blades and laughing in glee at his torment.

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.

“What you want?” Fangdarr growled as he wraps his fingers around the shaft of his weapon.

The troll stepped toward him with confidence, smiling around its long tusks. Fangdarr took note of the collection of bones tied together and worn as loose armor. With each step the intruder took, they rattled together making the orc wonder how the troll had managed to sneak up on him without notice.

Though a pair of daggers stuck out from the creature’s belt, its arms hung limp with no sign of aggression. Fangdarr could tell by the sheer confidence that the troll needed no time to produce the blades at the first sign of trouble. His eyes stayed narrow as the unwarranted visitor closed the distance. Yet, the orc made no move to stop him.

Stopping an arm’s length from the orc, the creature cracked its mouth into a wide grin. “We have been watchin’ ya, orc.” It had been so long since Fangdarr last encountered trolls that he had forgotten their odd accent, causing his face to twist in confusion. The troll caught his expression. “Ahahah, don’ be shy, now. Whacha doin’ out here in ya lonesome? Why ya ain’t with ya other kind?”

Fangdarr gripped his axe more tightly. He was not fond of the pressing questions from one who had just entered his home.

Upon seeing the orc tense, the troll patted the air with a relaxed smile. “Alright, alright. No need for dat.” His eyes shined deviously. “Me name Raz’ja. I’m da chieftain of da trolls. All of dem. Who ya are?”

Refusing to release the tenseness in his shoulders, Fangdarr held his gaze. “Fangdarr.”

Raz’ja grinned at the lackluster response. “Are ya with da Zharnik clan?”

“No. Me father was chieftain, long ago.” The orc didn’t know why he added the detail about his father. Perhaps pride or foolishness. He cursed himself for revealing too much. But Fangdarr realized that if the troll chieftain had wished for his death, he would have simply flooded the cave with a horde of trolls. The orc’s body relaxed in slight.

“Ah, there ya be,” Raz’ja began, seeing Fangdarr unfurl his defensiveness. “And what about ya? Ya goin’ to be chieftain too?”

Fangdarr laughed aloud at the thought. “No, Fangdarr not going to be chieftain.”

“Why not? Ya are strong, intelligent. Ya father were chieftain before ya. What stoppin’ ya?”

Pursing his lips in irritation at the incessant questions of his path, Fangdarr quickly discovered he did not have an answer to the question. Why not? he asked himself. After pondering in silence, he met Raz’ja’s expectant and sinister gaze and shrugged. “Don’t know how to become chieftain.”

It was the troll’s turn to laugh. “Ah, don’t ya worry, orc. I can help ya with dat. What say we strike a bargain, ya?”

Fangdarr’s eyes narrowed dangerously once more. “What bargain?”

“Raz’ja help ya become chieftain of ya people, as ya father were. In return, ya form an alliance with da trolls. Together, I think we can do great things, ya.”

A moment of silence passed as the orc considered the agreement. He searched for any sort of downside yet came across none outright. If he was to truly become chieftain, wouldn’t an alliance with the neighboring trolls be much better than as enemies? With humans to the north and west, trolls to the south, and dwarves to the east, the orcs were surrounding on all sides. An alliance would only serve to aid them.

Fangdarr extended his hand, ready to seal the agreement. Rather than meeting the orc’s hand with his own three-fingered grip, Raz’ja let out a cackle of laughter. “No, orc. In my culture, agreements cost ears.” When Fangdarr raised his eyebrow, the troll laughed harder. “Ears. Humans, dwarves, or elves. Any of dem will do. An agreement typically cost one ear each. But dis be an alliance between chieftains. We must collect a hundred together—just by ourselves—to seal the alliance. So, will ya hunt with me?”

Retracting his hand, the orc eyed the chieftain in front of him. He could see the lust for the hunt on Raz’ja’s face, savoring the thrill to come. Fangdarr recalled the way his mother was hounded through the forest, hunted like a rabid animal, by humans. Slowly, his own smile started to show.

“I hunt with you.”

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 looked out from the mouth of his cave, enjoying the soft breeze as it rustled the trees. Months had passed since he had crawled back to the dwelling where he had Gub and nearly all memories had been driven far to the recesses of his mind.

Lifting the piece of boar leg to his mouth, the orc rose to his feet and turned deeper into the cave. He stood near the fire, warming his hands to ward off the chill. The turn of seasons was beginning and the breeze he so loved took on a stinging bite. Winter was coming soon, he knew. The first he would endure on his own. Fangdarr continued to warm his hands while scanning his abode. He had been preparing for the change of seasons since early in his arrival, gathering all the supplies he could.

A smile crept to Fangdarr’s face as he remembered his mother’s thoughtful and loving teachings and how they would spare him from a death of sheer cold. With the knowledge she had bestowed upon him, the orc had created a large fur blanket from the boars he had hunted. Its thick hide would serve him well, as would the stitched pillow quilted together with squirrel and rabbit furs. He had even stored a mass of bones and apples for the harshest of days where he could not leave the cave.

Everything seemed in place and Fangdarr was confident he would make it through the the winter. Though winter often lasted only a single moon cycle, the season was treacherous. Harsh, icy winds were the worst of it, despite the deep snow that often came. The trees within the Lithe diminished the elements greatly, but even with their protection the risk of being outside was too severe.

Fangdarr tore the last bit of meat from the haunch in his hand before tossing the bone into the pile nearby. Then, careful not to catch scorch his hands, the orc put another log into the fire to ensure it continued through the night.

As the orc walked over to his makeshift bed, he caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye near the cave’s mouth. Instinctively, he grabbed hold of Driktarr and waited defensively. Time passed on with only the wind and crackle of flames in his ears while he waited. Fangdarr was certain he saw something. It may have just been a bird flying by or perhaps a rodent, but the back of his neck tingled in suspicion.

“Who go there?” In truth, he didn’t expect a response, but felt compelled to ask in any case.

Silence.

Rationality tugged at Fangdarr. There was no one there. Why would they be? With the onset of winter coming it made no sense for anyone to be outside of their own dwelling. Unless . . . they sought his.

Fangdarr’s eyes narrowed dangerously as he repeated himself. “Who go there?!” He stomped his foot against the cold stone to express his irritation and attempt to dissuade any who may think to enter.

After many moments, the orc’s suspicions were confirmed as a single troll entered his cave.

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.

I suppose this is it. There are too many.

Each of Bitrayuul’s foes rushed toward him with their mouths wide open. Their imposing, sharpened teeth minor in comparison to the pair of tusks extending a hand’s length past their faces, capable of tearing through flesh with ease. All twelve of the savage creatures tightly gripped the stone blades in their hands—not that it would matter.

The half-orc raised his arms defensively, though for what purpose he knew not. Against so many, the young warrior would serve as little more than a minor obstacle. No flame to aid him, his spiked gauntlets were as useful as wet cloths against the monstrous trolls and their magical healing. All Bitrayuul could do was wait for his time to die.

I’m sorry, Fangdarr. I should never have left.

In the final moments, staring down the oncoming assailants, Bitrayuul was filled with more self-doubt and guilt than ever before. Guilt for abandoning his brother, only to perish within a few days. He wondered if he had survived so far only due to Fangdarr’s protection of him. Bitrayuul had always thought he could hold his own, but there he stood, awaiting his own annihilation.

I’m sorry, Father. I should have stayed out of the tunnels as you cautioned.

The trolls were only a few paces away. All the memories of his childhood seemed to flood back in a single wave. The cherished kindness of his mother. The selfless tutelage of his mentor. And the unshakeable loyalty of his brother. In part, Bitrayuul reflected upon the scenes of his past and realized that perhaps his passing was not the worst. He had lived a good life full of love and compassion. Did he really need to continue? Wasn’t that short time of happiness enough?

No.

That was the thought that resonated within him with undeniable command.

NO.

It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. There had to be more. Adventure. Love. Loss. Life.

There is more.

Planting his heel, Bitrayuul spun toward the wall and launched a balled fist as hard as he could into the stone. Beneath the force, his makeshift gauntlet of bone fragmented and fell from his hand. At first, the half-orc thought his desperate effort had failed. The stone wall stood resolute in its defiance. Then the cracks came. First a trickle of debris, then a fracture. Next came the fissure, rending apart the rocks as if they were naught but clay. Beneath its own weight, the stone began collapsing on itself and groaning in protest.

Realizing the severity of what he may have done, Bitrayuul turned away and sprinted in the opposite direction of the trolls. Their confusion had frozen them in place as they watched the fissure crease along the tunnel around them until finally the stones above could no longer handle the pressure. Following the trail of nearly dried blood droplets, Bitrayuul shivered at the sound of bones crunching and trolls screaming in agony. The pit of his stomach sank as he realized that the beasts would not die beneath those stones. Their bodies would heal and they would be forced to live in constant agony for many moons, begging for relief.

Bitrayuul disregarded the guilt-ridden thoughts and kept his head low, eyeing the trail of blood that was growing more fresh with each stride.

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.

What am I doing?!

Bitrayuul charged onward as the snarling trolls at his rear grew closer. His stomach sank with regret as he realized the immense danger he had plunged himself into. Feet pounding as fast as they could, the half-orc traversed the pitch-black tunnel in search of senator Theiran.

This was the first time he had ever step foot in a mining tunnel before. Its vast network only became more evident as Bitrayuul approached an intersection. He stood in the center of the junction, heart racing as he pondered which direction to go. The trolls at his back were nearly upon him and every moment he delayed Theiran fell further from his grasp.

Perhaps I should turn and fight my pursuers here. Better than the tunnels.

How the half-orc longed for his father to come to his rescue in that moment. Stressed beyond belief, Bitrayuul realized he may actually fall in these mines. He looked to the conjoined tunnels one last time for any sign of where the councilman had been dragged. His eyes caught a glimpse of a few drops of blood down the path straight ahead just as his pursuers breached the intersection.

Bitrayuul turned to the vile creatures, making a mental note of the path he needed to take—if he survived. He stared down the dozen trolls with fear in his heart. With no fire in sight, there was no chance of success. He flexed his fingers in preparation and was reminded of the cut on his forearm as the blood stuck to his fingers. The group of trolls only increased their speed upon seeing the half-orc standing in wait for them. Salivating at the kill to come, their lusting eyes glowed in the dark tunnel, narrowed in wicked grins.

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 growled in agony as blinding pain shot through him. For a fraction of a moment, he felt the intense relief as all negative thoughts fled from his mind. But it was soon replaced by an intense sensation.

The orc had suffered wounds before. His flesh had been cut. It had been torn and burned. But nothing like this. As Driktarr entered his skin, the pain from the laceration was relived a hundred times over as the enchanted weapon absorbed his life force, only to revitalize him with the same energy. His wound tried to close around the axe as it filled him with life, only to be cut again and starting the cycle anew.

Blind pain raced through his chest before shooting through his whole body. The immediate transition between pain and relief continuously flipped back and forth as the cut was mended and torn open repetitively.

Finally, Fangdarr grit his teeth in pained fury and ripped his axe from his chest, ending the cycle. His lips quivered as the lasting agony finally subsided and the wound stitched itself closed for good. Tracing his fingers over the new scar, the orc struggled to regain his breath. He realized it had been the first time he had ever cut himself with his beloved weapon.

As the distraction of the unexpected outcome faded, he felt the profound sadness start to creep back in. Fangdarr groaned in frustration. Is there no respite?! He looked around from where he tripped and gasped aloud as his eyes fell upon a familiar sight in the distance: Gub’s cave.

With a huff of detestment, the orc tried to rise to his feet and turn away from the dwelling. His legs had other plans, however, and Fangdarr crashed to the ground. Lips curled in anger, he cursed his body’s weakness and began crawling in the opposite direction of the cave while muttering to himself.

After pulling himself a dozen paces, Fangdarr could feel his arms grow weary. The pain in his legs was nearly unbearable despite his crawl. His sprint went well beyond his body’s limitations, causing the muscles in his legs to tear and swell. With every motion a new wave of agony surged through him.

Exhaustion pulled him to the earth where he lay face-down and panting. The sorrow he had desperately tried to avoid came back with a vengeance, reminding Fangdarr of his loneliness. Lying face-down in the dirt by himself only added to his grief. I wonder if I will die here. Would it make any difference?

A sigh passed through his lips, blowing the hot air against the ground and feeling it reflect against his neck. All hope seemed lost. If he didn’t move, something would find him soon enough. Part of him wanted to tempt that fate, just to see another creature one last time before his demise. Fangdarr rolled painfully to his back and looked up at the screen of green above. The tinge of brown had started to wither the edge of the leaves as the seasons began to change.

As if on cue, a leaf that had more brown than green floated easily down to the orc. He watched it as it swayed each way with the gentle push of the air. But no matter which way the air tried to coerce the falling leaf, it always continued its descent. Fangdarr smiled at the irony that a single leaf could trudge through its path despite the influences against it. Be like leaf, he thought to himself.

The brown, crispened petal landed on the orc’s chest. For many moments, he just stared at it as if expecting something to happen. Once he realized what he was waiting for, Fangdarr burst into laughter. “It a leaf!” he said between his outbursts. With each heave of his chest came pain, but he didn’t care.

Fangdarr sighed through his smile, knowing his foolishness. “If leaf can do it, so can I.” Determined to not be weaker than the dead fall of the petal, the orc rotated his body in the dirt and began crawling toward the cave.

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.

Exhaustion dropped Fangdarr to his knees in the middle of the wood. He had no idea where he was anymore. All he had cared about was running from the snickering ogre that had stripped him of his only companion. The orc scoffed to himself as he realized the falseness of that thought. My ‘friend’. Panting to recover from his sprint, Fangdarr fell to the ground and onto his back. Now that he was alone, he couldn’t stop the flow of tears any longer.

Grating negativity chipped away at him. I’ll be alone forever, he thought. Fangdarr shut his eyes tightly in sorrow in a feeble attempt to shut out reality. It was no use. As he opened them once more, all had remained the same. The woods seemed to voice comfort, showing that no matter his troubles, all would remain the same. The birds would sing, the leaves would rustle, and the trees would continue in their path upward. But, in that moment, the metaphoric lesson was lost on the distraught orc. For he only wished to let the pain linger.

I wish Bitrayuul were here.

Memories of his childhood next to his half-blooded kin crept in. At first, they were pleasant remembrances of his youth. How they played together, hunted together. They were inseparable. Then even those fond recollections turned sour as the reality set in. That’s all they were. Memories. Flickering illusions of a time long since passed. Even Bitrayuul had gone from him, leaving him to solitude.

Am I so terrible?

Fangdarr wept beneath the shade of the trees. His thoughts turned from negative to dangerous as he pondered the validity of his existence. What is the point? Everyone has left. Mother, Bitrayuul, Tormag, Gub. This is my life now, to be turned away and left behind by all I meet. What purpose do I serve? He stared up at the canopies and the light that pierced through between the overlapping branches. As the orc sniffled, he could hear only the sound of his own display of emotions through the wood. Growling in anger at that echo of vulnerability, Fangdarr pulled himself up to his rear and forced away his tears. It did not drive away his anguish, but it masked his sorrow beneath a false visage of stern determination.

Agh! Why are you so weak?! he cursed himself as his teeth grit together. Get up, you fool!

Rising to his feet, Fangdarr turned to look in each direction to get his bearings. He forgot how exhausted he was, though, and nearly toppled over as soon as he was up. His outward snarl defiantly disputed his lack of energy and forced himself to remain upright. The mask that he had donned to hide his vulnerability had to work on even himself, he knew. Fangdarr pushed away the depressing thoughts that sought to cripple him. He needed to run. From those feelings and thoughts, as well as those who abandoned him.

As his powerful legs trampled through the wood, the orc allowed the pain in his calves to blind him to the clawed grip of sorrow. All he could feel was that stinging sensation in his legs as they carried him swiftly forward. For as long as he ran, he would not feel the agonizing plague that he knew waited for him.

Onward he sprinted. It seemed as if half the day was spent pushing himself past his limit. Fangdarr knew if he stopped he would collapse as his legs screamed in searing pain. Still, he pounded forward. He had no destination in mind, only forward. He growled aloud, scaring the nearby forest critters back into their holes. The outbursts drove away all living creatures, bringing a dreadful silence to the forest. There were no songs by the birds. No chittering of critters. Even the wind had halted at his presence, it seemed. There was only the sound of his lumbering footfalls and the growl of pain passing through his lips.

As he rushed onward, his foot caught an exposed root, launching him forward in a stumble. Fangdarr slid along the dirt, scraping the skin on his face, arms, and torso. Blinded from the impact, the orc opened his eyes and quickly realized his mistake. Desperately, he tried to scramble back to his feet but his legs refused to function. He started to panic, knowing too well that he needed to run to keep his thoughts at bay. But every time he tried to stand, he crashed to the ground.

Grabbing his head with both hands, Fangdarr slammed his eyes shut and began muttering to himself in terror. Need to run. Can’t think. Run. Run. Run. His fingers dug into his skull as he tried to think of a way to escape his sorrow. He could feel it creeping up his spine once more. Thoughts of his abandonment started to sink in, no longer driven away by physical pain.

Fangdarr was desperate. His eyes were getting wider with fear as that sinking feeling grew more evident. Pulling Driktarr from his back, the orc held out the blade in front of him. I need to. It needs to stop. I need to . . .

His gaze fell upon the sharpened edge and traced its curve. He reinforced his grip on the weapon and turned the blade toward himself. The twisting and poisonous feeling in his mind was beginning to set in, reminding him that time was short before sorrow once more claimed him. He looked at the blade and knew he did not want to spiral down into agonizing depression any longer.

“I need to,” Fangdarr muttered as he drove the axe blade toward his own chest.

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.

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.

“C’mon, lad, we gotta move!”

Bitrayuul tried to return to his father’s side, but the immediate surge of dwarves all around pushed and shoved him back. Finally, after suffering a dozen bruises as the armored warriors trampled past, the half-orc managed to catch up to Tormag.

“Ye got yer gauntlets and yer bow, right?” the dwarf asked as they were running. When he watched Bitrayuul’s head turn back to the table they had been sitting, it was obvious the half-orc’s large bow had been left behind. “Leave it, son. No time. Put yer gauntlets on as ye run—don’t stab yerself.”

Doing as instructed, Bitrayuul silently slid the leather gauntlets over his hands, careful not to pierce himself with the sharpened bones tied over his knuckles. A dozen questions ran through his mind, but he jogged on in silence behind the horde of dwarves. Many were still drunk and some even stripped of gear or clothing. And yet, they rushed onward to what Bitrayuul could only assume was danger.

They passed through the city as a steamrolling tide. The wide streets of Tarabar allowed them to pass unhindered and flow through the city to their destination. This was not how Bitrayuul had wished to see the marvels held within Tarabar. He glanced at the dozens of forges burning brightly as they blazed rampantly without the smithy to control the flames. For all had joined in defense of the city.

Bitrayuul wondered at such a practice. It seemed odd that nearly every male civilian—and a few females, from what he could tell—had immediately halted their lives to take to the fight. Perhaps they had grown accustomed to such a joined defensive measure from when Bothain had led his people to the eastern Tusks and they struggled to survive. The half-orc could not know. But the tight-knit community made him feel safe.

“We’re nearly there, lad.” Tormag said, breaking his son’s distraction. “It most likely be trolls in the mines. We’re headed t’ the southern network, which be where they break through most.”

The half-orc nodded, but in truth he had no idea what any of that meant. He had never encountered a troll before. Often Tormag had spoken of them due to their ancient rivalry over the mountains, but always with the cautious tale of their wickedness and cunning. Bitrayuul still had so many questions. Unfortunately, it seemed he would be learning by practice today.

As they pushed through a large steel gate, every dwarf waited in grim silence. Their gazes were stern and their brows furrowed. Grumbles and mutterings of trolls ruining Bothain’s day could be heard, only increasing their growing anger. They tightened the straps on their armor and gripped their weapons tightly as the door spread wide enough for the army to pass through. Even now, more and more dwarves continued to form behind them. Thousands were collected, all ready to defend their homeland and shatter some skulls. Drunk, tired, or naked, it mattered naught, for every warrior was prepared to give their life.

The procession stepped forward slowly. No longer did they rush on with abandon. Bitrayuul was amazed at the lack of commands being needed. Their tactics had changed the moment they stepped through the door. From an immediate assembly to a marching formation, they stomped forward, banging their fists or weapons against shields and armor alike. Uniform thumping filled the expansive cavern, letting their enemy know their antics would soon come to an end.

Bitrayuul took it all in. He marveled at such discipline. Such pride and bravery as they moved as one. Even Tormag had taken out his hammers and was clapping them against his shoulders to join in the simultaneous thumping. The half-orc looked down and realized that even his fist was clapping against his chest in unison. A smile unknowingly formed on his face as he felt a part of something greater than himself. None of the dwarves looked at him as if he was an outsider. All stared ahead at those who dared to intrude on their home.

Upon entering the cavern, Bitrayuul gawked at its enormity. It was obvious this was some sort of hub where all southern mines joined together. Along the wall, Bitrayuul could see nearly a hundred dwarf-sized holes—with a few larger ones on the ground level. Each had a thick rope or ladder leading to it, allowing for miners to go in and out as needed. Iron carts were filled with glittering stones and ores alike on one side of the room, waiting for extraction. He remembered that Tormag said the trolls would come through the mines. His eyes scanned each and every hole, wondering which they would come from. It seemed a pointless task to him, for the trolls could only climb through one at a time due to the small height. What was stopping the dwarves from simply plugging the tunnel?

Then, his answer became clear. His father had warned against the cunningness of trolls. Bitrayuul watched the first troll pull itself from the small tunnel, high in the air. Then another from a separate tunnel on the far end of the cavern. Then another. Within moments, nearly every tunnel was spilling a steady stream of trolls. The precession of dwarves halted their advance, but continued their uniform pounding while the rear of the army continued to fill the cavern.

Bitrayuul watched in horror as the monstrous beasts jumped from the tunnels and onto the ground, sometimes shattering bones as they landed. His eyes grew wider still as those same fractured trolls rose to their feet and regenerated their broken limbs as if it had never occurred. Nearly a thousand trolls had spilled into the cavern already with no sign of relent.

Tormag turned to Bitrayuul and offered his final piece of advice. “Whatever ye do, lad, don’t follow them t’ the tunnels.”

Before the half-orc could respond, every dwarf shouted at once and rushed forward.

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 leaned back in his stool. It made him happy to hear the history of Tormag’s people, almost as if he belonged. He looked out at the thousands of dwarves who had come to celebrate that history and the dwarf who had brought them to salvation. A part of him wondered if orcs had anything similar—though he doubted it. Vrutnag had never spoken about any orc holidays. Whether that was due to their lacking or her disinterest in sharing that part of the orcish culture, Bitrayuul could not be sure.

Frowning as he realized the mug in his hand had already been drained, Tormag checked his surroundings. His eyes lit up as he saw an unconscious dwarf two tables over with a frothing mug still growing warm in his limp hand. Without a word, the commander quickly left his seat to retrieve the drink and sat down with a wide smile.

“Aren’t you already drunk, Father?” the half-orc asked with a raised eyebrow as Tormag poured the entire mug into his throat in a single swig.

Slamming the empty cup down, the dwarf let out a loud exhale of contentedness. Before he spoke, Tormag abruptly belched loud enough to wake the nearby dwarf he had stolen his drink from. Disregarding the confused searching of his neighbor, Tormag replied, “Aye, that I be. Ye orcs ain’t had no ale or nothin’ in yer cave. I got six years t’ make up, don’t ye doubt! Bahaha!”

Bitrayuul blinked at him with concern. Other than the small sip of ale he had in the bar prior—and a few stolen drinks during the celebration—he had never experienced inebriation before. In truth, he had gotten quite a buzz of dizziness through the day, but nowhere near the point of drunkenness. “Isn’t it . . . bad? To get so drunk?”

“Bahaha! Normally, probably so! Humans and elves can’t hold their drink. Not sure about orcs, t’ be honest.” Tormag seemed to ponder for a moment, then chuckled at his imagination’s illustration of a drunken orc. “But dwarves, lad, are different. We love the drink. Our bodies can stomach more without spittin’ it back out. Let’s us drink longer. They used t’ say that the water ye would find in caves weren’t safe t’ drink, so they made ale. I’m guessin’ that’s just some trick by a brewmaster t’ help sell his wares, but, by Bothain’s Hammer, it worked.”

The half-orc joined in the laughter with his adoptive father, and further still as Tormag left his seat once more to retrieve another ale. The dwarf had told him plenty of stories about the games his kin would play while drinking over the recent years. Each ended with more and more tales of fun and bonding that made Bitrayuul quite jealous. He yearned for that. Tales of his own. Tales of fun, tales of adventure, all of it. It was true that the half-orc cherished his life in the cave with his mother and brother, but always he strived for more. There had to be more.

Without hesitation—and drawing a confused stare from Tormag—Bitrayuul lifted himself from the small stool and strode to the nearest unconscious dwarf he could find with an ale in his hand. As he sat back down, Tormag’s face was spread into a smile. The dwarf raised his cup and clinked it against Bitrayuul’s in cheer. Together, they lifted the mugs to their mouth and poured the sweet yet bitter liquid down. Like his father, Bitrayuul slammed his empty cup to the hardwood table and let out a loud belch that put Tormag’s to shame. They laughed once more and let their cheeks spread to smiles. Though the drink was thick, its pleasant aid was unneeded to keep their moods light and happy.

As they each stood to start the search for a filled flagon anew, an alarm blasted through the city, startling every sleeping and unconscious dwarf around. Bitrayuul turned to Tormag, “Another celebration?” He realized the falseness of his assumption by the grim expression painted on the dwarf’s face.

“No, lad. It’s not.”

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.

Oh, that savory smell. It made Fangdarr’s mouth wet in eagerness with each step they took. His stomach groaned impatiently as if clawing relentlessly in search of sustenance. The orc cautiously picked his way through the trees while Gub trundled in a direct path onward. After a few dozen paces, the small cabin came into view.

“Gub, wait!” Fangdarr harshly whispered from behind a tree to the lumbering oaf. It was no use. Already the ogre had his hands extended forward as he leaned into his quickened pace, breaking through the last bit of brush outside of the home.

Fangdarr tensed from his hiding spot, expecting the sound of screams to soon follow. But when none came, he slowly relaxed and started padding closer—his stomach leading the way. He poked his head around the corner of the cabin window. Empty. Letting his hunger get the best of him, Fangdarr rushed over to the fire where Gub was already voraciously chomping on the leg of a stag that had been roasting over the flames.

The ogre patted the ground beside him, inviting his friend to join in on the meal. Without hesitation, Fangdarr ripped the other haunch off the cooked beast and sank his teeth in. The sweet and juicy meat pressed against his tongue with a rush of ecstasy after such a long delay since his last meal. Before the first mouthful had even slid down his throat, the orc eagerly took another bite. His eyes closed with contentedness.

By the time the orc had opened his eyes, Gub was already licking his fingers clean. To Fangdarr’s surprise, the ogre had managed to completely consume the entire leg—bone and all—in just a few bites. Gub gave a gap-toothed smile with juices dripping down his chin as he reached for the hanging meat. Before his hand connected, an arrow whistled through the air and dug itself into the ogre’s forearm.

Fangdarr rolled to the side in an instant and hid behind a tree. His instincts proved fruitful as a second arrow landed in the dirt where he had been sitting. Gub, on the other hand, was staring at his arm dumbfounded as to what had occurred. The stupid creature continued to stare at it—despite Fangdarr’s shouts urging him to take action—even as a second arrow pierced his chest.

Now, Gub was angry. It took a moment for the pain to register in his sluggish mind, but once he understood that he was being attacked, the ogre was up on his feet with a ferocious snarl. Fangdarr peeked his head around the tree he had tucked himself behind and could see two humans pointing their wooden bows at his ally. Roaring as he charged, one shifted their attention to him while the other, a woman, remained fixated on Gub’s advancing form.

The arrow whizzed toward the orc, clipping him in the left shoulder but hardly slowing him. Too great was his rage to care for such a thing. As he closed the distance, Fangdarr drew his enormous axe, growling as he raised it high.

Gripped by fear at the oncoming enraged orc, the man ahead fumbled with his bow awkwardly. With luck and quick wits, the man managed to withdraw a small knife after dropping his bow. As Driktarr came crashing down through his shoulder, the blade managed to cut through his assailant’s side and slice the orc’s kidney. The pain would have been enough to drop any to their knees, but Fangdarr felt no pain in that moment. There was only rage and the sheer intense rush of victory as he watched the splash of blood splatter against the man’s face. He could feel the axe drink the man’s vitality and stitch together the grievous wound that had been inflicted. The man looked on in horror in that final moment and watched the arrow in the orc’s shoulder crawl out and drop to the ground. What little light there had been in the victim’s eyes slowly faded as Fangdarr ripped his blade free from the man’s torso, pulling organs with it.

Though his rage was subsiding, Fangdarr turned to Gub and the remaining woman. He expected her to have been able to easily outsmart the ogre and keep out of reach while still firing off a few shots. However, his expectations of her skill were too high. As he turned his head, the orc caught the vision of horror on the woman’s face as Gub lifted her from the ground and pulled her toward his waiting maw.

Despite her incessant struggling, it was hopeless. She shrieked in terror until the moment her head disappeared within the stretched jaws of the giant creature. Fangdarr nearly shuddered at the crunch of bone as Gub crushed down on her skull. Even worse were the sounds as the ogre chewed nonchalantly on the woman’s lifeless corpse, blood dripping in streams down his exposed chest.

Torn between the triumph of victory and the thought of the innocent couple that had only sought to defend what was theirs, Fangdarr felt a wave of guilt and regret surge through him. Yet, he looked down at the newly formed scar across his side and smiled. This was it. This was what it meant to be an orc, he knew. He recalled the men that had chased down and decapitated his mother despite her innocence. These humans were no different than she and were met with the same brutality. There was no need for guilt. This was equality.

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 creature walked through the wood with grace. It slowly patted at the ground, exposing the more exquisite and rare plants tucked beneath the fallen leaves. As it grazed ignorantly, Fangdarr waited patiently behind a tree with his bow in hand.

Suddenly, the orc heard a twig snap at his rear, followed by the loud swishing of brush being pushed aside. Immediately he turned to see the simple and brutish ogre he had befriended the day prior.

“Gub! Shh!” Fangdarr urged, motioning desperately with his hands to the senseless beast. Before Gub even had a chance to flash his toothy smile, the orc was already staring wide-eyed at his prize as it dashed in the opposite direction.

“OH! Faydar, look! Deer!” Gub shouted at the top of his lungs in uncontainable excitement. If the creature had not already rushed off, it certainly would have by the ogre’s subsequent pounding on the forest floor with his eager hops.

All the orc could do was shake his head in frustration. How does this creature survive out here? It scares away all the food! Choosing to force himself back to tranquility, Fangdarr let his simmering rage dissipate and instead walked over to Gub—still flailing in wild joy.

“Gub, we need food,” the orc begged, bringing an end to the ogre’s smile. “Where you find food?” Already Fangdarr was starting to regret befriending the massive oaf. He watched Gub’s face turn from confusion, to glee, to perplexion, then fear, and finally denial all in a short span of time. How he wished he could hear the jumbled and slow thoughts of this creature.

Finally, Gub’s eyes lit up. “Food! I know where,” he responded in his usual slumped and sluggish tone. Without hesitation, the ogre took off running to the east. His long legs accelerated him quickly, though his awkward form and excessive gut slowed him to Fangdarr’s speed, allowing the orc to catch up quickly.

Together they ran, dashing through the woods for what seemed half the day. Finally, Gub skidded to a halt abruptly nearly causing Fangdarr to crash into him. Breathing heavily from such an extended trek, the orc scanned the area. He expected to see some sort of indicator that their meal was nearby—a trail of smoke, a fresh carcass, anything. But all Fangdarr could see was exactly what had surrounded them before they even left. There was naught but trees, stones, and brush.

“Where food, Gub?” Fangdarr asked after catching his breath. The burning in his legs was intense, though his stubbornness refused to allow him to sit.

The ogre turned to him and gave a yelp of surprise as if he had no idea who Fangdarr was or how he had appeared behind him. “Who you?!” Gub yelled, tripping over himself and crawling away desperately.

Fangdarr stood completely confounded at the ogre’s reaction. “Gub . . . It’s Fangdarr. You remember?” No matter his words, no recognition came from the poor disturbed creature. The orc could see the same fear staining the gray orbs of his newfound friend as their first encounter, renewing the pity that was felt. As Fangdarr took a step closer, Gub whimpered and continued to crawl backwards before backing into a large tree. His profound fear only grew upon the realization that he was seemingly trapped against this advancing demon.

How can he not remember me? We just spent half the day racing through the forest to find food! The orc rubbed his temple in thought, frustrated at the inconvenience of dealing with such an imbecilic creature. Quickly, Fangdarr fell on an idea. “Gub, lift your stomach.”

Afraid and confusion only continuing to grow, the ogre stared at Fangdarr with concern. Though, after the orc made a motion to lift his own stomach Gub followed suit. With his enormous gut free from its sticky seal against his waist, the round stone tucked inside fell to the ground. Gub immediately picked it up and inspected it with a smile, thinking he had just found a king’s crown in the muck.

Fangdarr waited for the realization to strike. Yet, many moments passed before the orc came to his own awareness that the ogre may never make the connection. He sighed at the hopelessness of his ploy and started to consider his options. Too tired and hungry to make the return journey back to their cave, there was little choice remaining. Fangdarr eyed his surroundings and knew he was unfamiliar with his location. Gub’s aimless path through the forest seemed to lead them to parts unknown, with no landmarks in sight.

“Faydar!” the orc heard a moment before he saw Gub scrambling to his feet and charging over.

Preparing for the inevitable assault of mass that he knew would be pressed around him, Fangdarr flexed his muscles as the ogre lifted him into the air in joy. Despite his efforts, the air in his lungs was pressed free as Gub gripped him tightly in his embrace. “G-Gub . . . down . . .” he could barely force out.

With luck, the ogre dropped him to the ground and smiled as Fangdarr crashed to the ground gasping for air. “Friend!” Gub held the small stone up for the orc to see, finally making the connection between the two, before tucking it safely beneath the fold of his stomach once more. “Friend,” he repeated and nodded to himself, that stupid smile on his face not diminishing in the slightest.

As if remembering their purpose for coming this way, Gub started walking off and leaving Fangdarr in the dirt to collect himself. The orc rose to his feet with a groan, regretting more and more his decision to befriend such a mindless brute. Nevertheless, he followed Gub through the wood—what choice did he have? After a few hundred paces, Fangdarr could see smell it. That succulent smell flooded his nostrils and replenished his hope. Meat.

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.

Huffing with exhaustion, Tormag rolled to his side with a groan, disregarding the pained grunts from the dwarves beneath him. “Where ye at, Bit?” the aged commander called out to the withering crowd of drunken and bruised warriors. His eyes scanned the masses, wondering why it was so difficult to find a half-orc in a sea of dwarves, especially when Bitrayuul was twice their height.

“I’m here!” came the muffled reply from a few paces away. Surely enough, a tan-skinned arm pierced through the sheet of sprawled dwarves layered over top of the half-orc, waving frantically.

Tormag crawled over top of his kin slowly. He would have apologized, but this was the expectation of Bothain’s Day. Once Tormag had reached his adoptive son, he rolled the sleeping, fatigued, or unconscious warriors away that lay over his trapped companion. Energyless rebuttals of discontent came from most of the dwarves as the commander pushed them aside, finally clearing enough room for Bitrayuul to rise to his feet.

The pair stood amidst the thousands of resting dwarves, breathing heavily themselves. The festivities had lasted all through the night—at least, Bitrayuul assumed it was night—and left nearly the entire city battered. “Dwarves sure throw a party, don’t ye doubt,” Tormag said with a laugh.

“I guess so?” Bitrayuul responded. His eyes were fixed on the enormous steel hammer still burning in the air above. “How does it burn so long?”

Tormag didn’t need to look to know what his pupil was asking about. “Dwarves be pretty handy with tools, sure as stones. There be a line that runs through and feeds from an oil supply. Burns through nearly a hundred barrels o’ the stuff, I reckon, but Bothain’s Day only comes once a year.”

The mention of Bothain reminded the half-orc that he had questions he wished to ask regarding the subject of their devotion. “Tormag, Bothain is a god, right? I remember you telling us about him in small details back home, though not often.”

Raising a rugged hand to his bearded chin and giving a deep scratch, Tormag considered how much to divulge of his culture’s beliefs and heritage. He had never mentioned much during their time in the cave out of respect for Vrutnag. The dwarf’s last wish was to interfere with anything she might have taught them about their beliefs.

“Eh, Bothain ain’t technically a god, but he be considered one,” Tormag explained with a bit of reluctance. Bitrayuul raised an eyebrow in confusion, pressing the dwarf for further details. With a low sigh, Tormag continued. “He was just a dwarf, like the rest o’ us. Except he was the one behind all this.” His arms spread wide to take in the whole city. Thousands and thousands o’ years ago, we dwarves were livin’ in the mountain caves, no better than trolls—save fer our boundless handsomeness and a bit o’ civility, don’t ye doubt!”

Slumping down onto a stool, Tormag took a seat at a table away from spectators and eavesdroppers who may not be fond of their history being shared with one of orcish descent. Bitrayuul slowly slid onto the adjacent seat, hardly able to squeeze his tall frame beneath the boards.

“Anyways, we were at war with the trolls over claims to the mountains. The Tusks, they’re called, because of the infestation o’ trolls that reside in ’em. Dwarves have been here all along, just keep t’ ourselves. Our kind hid out in caves, fightin’ t’ survive. The troll’s numbers were limitless. They rooted out most o’ me ancestors. Bothain was the leader o’ the clan at the time. It was he who kept dwarves together, kept ‘em fightin’, and gave ‘em hope. Originally, dwarves resided in the southern wall o’ the Tusks. He convinced everyone t’ leave their homes and migrate here, t’ the eastern wall. Many disagreed, don’t ye doubt!

“But he kept nudgin’. And as more dwarves continued t’ die, he needed t’ nudge less and less. Eventually, the clan was convinced. There weren’t many left, save a thousand or two, perhaps. He led ’em quietly through the mountains. They called it the Stoneprint Path, last I remember.” Tormag’s voice turned somber as he recalled the tales of his ancestors. “It be long gone now . . . Stones change over time and the beatin’ they take from the elements tends t’ wash history away.”

Bitrayuul listened intently, taking in the story with riveted attention. “What happened next? Did they build Tarabar?” he asked with excitement.

Tormag spread a small smile across his cheeks at the half-orc’s eagerness. “Bothain first had our people carve a tiny path deep into the mountain—one that could easily be closed off should the trolls discover them. With luck, they went unnoticed for a few years—enough time t’ get the steel doors built. Once those were up, they were safe. Trolls may claim most o’ the mountains, but they’re worse diggers than gnomes, sure as stones. Sure, they can swing a pick, and eventually they managed to slowly intersect our many tunnels, but Bothain had plenty o’ time to get Tarabar up and runnin’. Forges were always aglow, hammers always pounded, and bellies were always full. He passed on from this world our king and savior, over thousands o’ years ago. On this day.”

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 innkeeper stared at Tormag with eyes wide in rage. Throwing his soiled rag to the floor, the barkeep stomped over to the unwelcome patrons in a huff, ready to eject them from his establishment. Tormag remained unmoving, even as the angered dwarf grabbed hold of his armor. Bitrayuul just watched in bewilderment at his mentor’s nonchalance for the unfortunate result of his humor.

As soon as the innkeeper had made contact, however, a deep, rumbling horn could be heard reverberating through the great stone city. Immediately, every dwarf—including Tormag and the disgruntled owner—was up on their feet. Each scrambled together their belongings and funneled out of the building. Bitrayuul was pulled by his adoptive father’s strong hand through the doorway, confusion and concern thick in his mind.

Out in the darkened street, dwarves were pouring from every building and alleyway, donning their armor and weapons before rushing off to the southern part of the city. Bitrayuul had never seen anything like it before. It was as if they were all a part of an enormous machine, each quickly falling in line to perform their role—whatever that was, he could not be sure. It seemed obvious there was some sort of threat, judging by the city-wide alarm and the hundreds of dwarves preparing for a battle.

Bitrayuul turned to Tormag, who had not yet joined his fellow dwarves in their task. “Tormag, what’s going on?” he asked, not hiding the concern in his voice.

The old dwarf just stared dead ahead, watching the flowing army of dwarves rush forward in a stream of steel. “Eh, we picked a bad day to return home, lad, don’t ye doubt.”

The foreboding nature of his tone put a chill in the half-orc’s spine and tugged at his stomach. What sort of threat could make even Tormag waver? Could it be the dragons the dwarf had told him of, or a giant? Fear and trepidation made Bitrayuul’s heart pound in his chest. This was not similar to his simple life in the cave within the forest by any means. Waves of regret at wishing to see the world and its splendors began seeping through him, poisoning his eagerness to explore. Is this the real world? he thought, Constant threat of death and the never-ending fear that each day may be your last? The life of simplicity he had lived started to seem much more favorable . . .

Finally, the rampaging torrent of dwarves had come to an end and Tormag took a few steps out into the street, watching them as they went. He breathed in a deep sigh, then started walking toward the dwarven army that had just left, his boots dragging against the stone with dread.

Even more confused, Bitrayuul jogged a few paces to catch up to his mentor, wondering why he had not simply joined his kin before. “Tormag, what’s going on?” he repeated, growing more and more worried with each step.

Far behind the quick pace of those rushing ahead, yet eyes never leaving them, the dwarf kept trudging forward. “We picked a bad day, son,” he started, interrupted by the booming sound of the city’s horn calling out in alarm once more. “It’s Bothain’s Day,” Tormag finished with a sigh as an enormous, intricate hammer could be seen being lifted into the air, far in the distance.

Bitrayuul stared at the interesting object curiously, hardly able to make out the silhouette in the darkness at such a distance. However, a single flaming arrow soared through the air, a beacon among the lightless cavern, before connecting against the shrine and igniting it. The great, flaming hammer high in the air illuminated most of the city in its flickering light, bringing the roaring cheer of thousands of dwarves.

As Bitrayuul and Tormag got closer, they could see each and every dwarf in a chaotic fist-fight around the shrine. The smell of ale was so strong it stung Bitrayuul’s nostrils even from their distance, still half a league away. Armor and fists clashed against one another, mixed with the cheers and shouts of the festive dwarves taking part in their most favored holiday—the anniversary of their deity’s death.

Tormag stopped in his tracks, still a ways off from the crowd, taking in the spectacle ahead. A tear fell down his cheek as he realized he had missed the last few years while remaining with the orcs in their cave. With an inhale that could rival a dragon before spewing fire, the commander yelled at the top of his lungs and sprinted forward to join his comrades.

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.

Its breathing disrupted with the sound of loose stone cracking beneath Fangdarr’s feet. He cursed his carelessness and held impossibly still, waiting for the beast to stir. The orc’s heart pounded within his chest. Every instinct begged him to flee. To run away and find a new dwelling. But Fangdarr did not. He could not. Too stubborn was his pride. Too great his need to prove himself, though no spectators were present to witness. This was his challenge. The true test of strength that he must undergo to know he is fit for this world. At least, that’s what Fangdarr tried to convince himself.

With bravery—or blind arrogance—the orc stepped closer, raising Driktarr high in the air. He disregarded the sounds beneath his feet, thinking only to cull his opponent with surprise his advantage. The stone shards crunched loudly beneath his weight, breaking the enchantment of slumber on the enormous being. As Fangdarr’s axe came down, the monster began to uncurl its limbs.

He did not know what had possessed him in that moment, but his weapon halted a moment before crashing through his victim’s thick skull. The creature looked up at him, concern and surprise in its eyes, wondering at the random appearance of the ferocious orc that sought to bring its end. Fangdarr, despite his self-imagined test for glory and validation, could not bring himself to squelch the life from those dark, gray eyes. For though they belonged to a monstrous creature, he did not feel malice nor hatred toward it, only pity.

Fangdarr lowered Driktarr’s blade to the ground and stared at the creature, as it stared at him. The terrified expression on its face slowly dwindled, replaced by rage. It rose to its full height within the tight confines of the cave, its head nearly scraping the stone above, and eyed the intruder with a harsh scowl. Even at Fangdarr’s impressive size, especially having only seen sixteen winters, the creature dwarfed him. It stood twice his height, with arms as thick as his muscled torso, and a gut doubling his girth. By now, Fangdarr had concluded that an ogre stood before him, as its heavy foot stomped forward, pressing its rage into the rocky floor beneath to show its discontent.

Uncertainty and regret swirled Fangdarr’s mind. Should he have slain the beast as it slept, or face it head on now? The ogre continued to stare at him, as if questioning his presence, though made no move to attack. Fangdarr pondered every action he could take. It seemed unlikely he could best the creature now that it was awake—not within the cave, at the least. He made eye contact with the gray eyes of the ogre. The same eyes that had previously halted his culling strike due to the raw fear that had been present within. Those orbs bore into him with all the demand they could muster.

Fangdarr could not decide the best course of action and time was fleeting with the ogre’s patience. Finally, before his mind could finish the thought, the orc’s mouth blurted, “Hello,” awkwardly. Fangdarr nearly covered his mouth in shock as the words passed his lips. It was too late. In the face of the giant, foul-smelling beast, the only action the orc had taken—after contemplating taking its life—was to greet it.

He watched as the ogre’s eyes continued to see red for many moments. Then, they slowly turned soft and a smile spread beneath, revealing a handful of missing teeth. “Hello!” came the ecstatic reply, much to Fangdarr’s surprise. He had never heard an ogre speak before, but the word came out slowly and somewhat odd, as if the creature’s mind needed time to rummage through its memories on how to speak. The orc wondered if all ogres spoke in such a manner, or if this one was perhaps feeble-minded.

The ogre extended a large hand forward, catching Fangdarr by surprise and forcing him into a defensive position. Its hand remained extended, though its face contorted with confusion, not understanding the seemingly random movement of its guest. “I’m Gub,” it spoke, still smiling, “what’s your name?”

Fangdarr was baffled. Did the creature not realize he had nearly claimed its life? After closer inspection, he believed the answer was obvious. Taking a step forward, he slid Driktarr back into its resting place on his back. His black-skinned hand disappeared beneath the ogre’s as it wrapped entirely around his hand and forearm and shook it roughly. “Fangdarr,” he replied.

Gub clapped his meaty hands together happily and bounced up and down, hitting his head against the low ceiling. After the third impact, the ogre finally looked up, wondering what had fallen on its head and rubbing his skull tenderly. As the ludicrous beast’s gaze fell on Fangdarr once more, it seemed to have forgotten he had ever existed. Its gray eyes lit up with pure joy at the sight of a visitor. Quickly, Gub turned around and started scraping through the small pile of junk it had collected.

“Here go!” Gub exclaimed with excitement, turning back to Fangdarr with what remained of a deer’s skull, though most of the bone had been broken or fragmented.

The orc looked at the ‘trinket’ curiously, then back to Gub’s waiting face, full of childish eagerness. Slowly, he extended his hand and grabbed the mutilated skull and smiled awkwardly to the ogre. He grunted in thanks, as he could not form the words, too lost in confusion at this entire endeavor. Never did he expect to find himself in the company of an ogre—on friendly terms—trading . . . trinkets.

Gub sat and watched Fangdarr hold his new gift with delight etched into every part of his face. Now, he waited patiently, a look of expectation replacing the happiness. Fangdarr caught on eventually—though it took a few moments to discern the odd beast’s desires—and rummaged through the small pouch at his waist. From within, the orc produced a dense, round rock that he had picked up the previous day to throw at birds and knock them from branches. Fangdarr showed the ‘trinket’ to Gub and held it out for the ogre, who’s eyes had once more lit up like the happiest being in Crein.

Fangdarr watched as Gub hugged the small stone tightly against his body, cherishing it as much as a loved one, and gently tucked it beneath the fold of its stomach for safekeeping. With a yelp of surprise, Fangdarr was lifted into the air and pressed against Gub’s chest, who wished to show his newfound friend the extent of his delight. The orc struggled to breath beneath the too-tight squeeze of his ally and gasped for air after being dropped to the ground carelessly.

Breathing heavily, Fangdarr rose to his feet and stared at Gub. “Friend,” he said calmly. One final check to be sure his safety was secured.

Gub flashed his smile once more and breathed a sigh of happiness, blowing gruesome breath into Fangdarr’s face that forced a few blinks. “Friend.”

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.

Poking his head over the last bit of rock in his ascent, Fangdarr peered into the darkened mouth of the cave. It appeared almost villainous. Teeth of stone had been carved over much of the entrance, though seemingly long ago by the wither of the cave’s face. He pulled himself up onto the shallow cliff and looked down to where he had started his climb. It was over twice his height to the hardened dirt. With luck, most trespassers should be repelled by the difficult climb alone—should they notice it at all. It was by sheer chance Fangdarr had glanced upwards, catching glimpse of the shadowed entrance beyond.

As he stood at the brink of darkness, his skin became tighter from the chillness that emanated from within. Fangdarr took a step forward, then another. With each pace the cool air only grew worse, safe from the annihilating warmth of the sun’s light. Not perfect, he thought to himself, but safe. As he took continued deeper into the abyss of the pitch black cave, his fingers sliding along the stone wall and ceiling to guide him, he cursed himself for making such a claim too soon.

Despite the icy cave’s unwelcoming embrace, the orc could hear the rhythmic breathing of a slumbering being further in. He could feel the air around him growing warmer in slight. It was impossible to see the form on the other side of the stone wall, though it had to be large by the amount of heat that could be felt flooding the area.

Fangdarr gripped his axe tightly before taking care to step lightly. Even his heavily calloused bare feet could feel the sting of cold weaken as they made contact with new ground. The orc cautiously peeked around the corner, careful not to scrape against the wall. He nearly gasped aloud in surprise when his eyes could finally pick out the creature ahead, sleeping peacefully.

Based on the form his eyes could see from the emanating heat, he could only assume the monstrosity was some sort of ogre or giant. Never had he encountered either, only the stories of his mentor could help put a name to the hulking mass a spear’s-length away. His mind raced over the few odd tales Tormag had shared. What was the difference between the two? Fangdarr questioned, racking his brain. Finally, he recalled a single discussion:

‘Lad, the thing ye need t’ know about ogres is they be dumber than a stack o’ gnomes. They may be big and can squeeze the life out o’ an orc or dwarf, don’t ye doubt, but they can be bested by playin’ smart. Now, giants, on the other hand, are the worse o’ the bunch from what I’m told. Never seen one meself. From what I hear, ye’ll know one when ye see it. And if ye see it. Run.’

Fangdarr eyed the cave’s large inhabitant with curiosity and concern. It had taken him another two days just to find this place—a delay he did not wish to repeat. His hands clutched the shaft of his marvelous weapon more tightly. He needed this cave.

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.

He was exhausted. It had been days since the night the trolls had attacked him in his camp. Sleep had not come easy since, with his sense always keen on edge, even while drifting to the brink of slumber. Fangdarr’s body was weary and slow. He walked through the forest, aimlessly, as if his feet were thick in muck. The orc had no direction in mind. No end mark of destination.

The lack of sleep weakened his resolve. It was becoming harder and harder to stifle his trapped emotions regarding Vrutnag’s passing. But still he forced them deeper, hidden beneath the growing frustration of his journey alone. He missed his brother and the old dwarf who had become his mentor. He missed the things he had taken for granted. Sleep. Shelter. Warmth. Yet, his stubborn pride demanded he press on and never look back.

Fangdarr walked through the Lithe in a daze as his body begged for sleep, but his mind spewed rejection at every turn. Finally, on the fifth day since the attack, the orc collapsed onto the rough ground.

Waking abruptly, he scanned his eyes groggily around his surroundings. Immediately he was in a defensive stance, expecting some enemy to be on his peripheral. But after many moments, none came. Fangdarr slowly began to collect his thoughts. Last he remembered, he was lumbering through the woods in the early afternoon, just after mid-day sun’s peak. Now, the sun had just started its ascent for the following day, peeking barely above what little of the horizon he could see through the lattice of trees. He cursed himself as he realized sleep had taken him nearly a full day. Never before had he slept so long.

With luck, he had not been harmed during his unconsciousness and Driktarr remained in place across his back. The orc held no faith in the gods but wondered if he had been watched over or simply spared misfortune by luck. In either case, Fangdarr breathed a sigh of total relief as his arms stretched high in the air, no longer encumbered by fatigue.

His renewed vigor had been more than one of body. Now, his mind was set to task. He would not be ambushed nor caught without shelter and sleep until the weight of exhaustion crushed him into the dirt again. Fangdarr needed to find a suitable home.

Traveling farther south toward the mountains, Fangdarr had settled on the decision to find a cave. If he could manage to find one well-hidden, or at least defensible enough to allow him to repel intruders, he would be safe enough. After all, the cave his family lived in for his entire life had never once been discovered. Though, perhaps being between the Zharnik clan and nearby human villages to the north had dissuaded any of either race from trespassing. Part of him urged to consider returning home where he knew it was safe, but he cast the thought aside. It was time for Fangdarr to forge his own path.

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 large half-orc towered above the dwarves that had collected to witness the unusual guest. Stares of fear and distrust could be seen on every face, giving evidence to the dwarven stubbornness and fear of the unknown. Bitrayuul did not miss their gazes, but paid them no mind—too enthralled by the dazzling city before him.

As they continued their walk forward—with more than a few curious dwarves trailing—an old dwarf approached. His beard nearly withered all to gray, yet his head still held life, sprouting brown in contrast as it braided into the dullness of his beard.

“Commander Tormag, ye return!” the elderly dwarf spoke in harsh voice, proving his age. Despite the youth gone from his body, the dwarf carried himself with the composure of a seasoned veteran filled to the brim with experience that commanded respect.

“Senator Theiran, a welcome sight! Glad t’ see yer stones yet t’ break,” Tormag replied with a genuine smile. The pair clasped arms in greeting and butt their heads together in respect, drawing a confused look from Bitrayuul. The half-orc could only assume such was customary, though this was the first encounter he had seen of his mentor and another dwarf of standing.

Theiran returned the commander’s smile in kind, truly relieved to see his old friend well. Once his eyes had shifted to the half-orc, the senator raised an eyebrow. “Friend o’ yers?”

“Aye, he’s mine. Taken as me own, sure as stones. I be seekin’ the council’s blessin’ in keepin’ ‘im by me side.”

Bitrayuul watched intently for a sign of disapproval on Theiran’s face. He knew his presence in the city, amongst the many dwarves who were not fond of sharing their culture, would not be a welcome one. Yet, no evidence against Tormag’s request came. Instead, the senator simply stared in silence for many moments at his old friend—gauging his own curiosities. “Ye certain?” Theiran asked.

Tormag did not hesitate in his reply, nodding with confirmation. “By Bothain’s Hammer.”

“I shall speak t’ the council of such request, else ye be met with quick rejection, don’t ye doubt.” With that, Theiran bowed low and clasped his friend’s arm once more before turning to take his leave. After taking a few steps, the old councilman turned his head back to the pair. “What’s the lad’s name, eh?”

Bitrayuul cut off his adoptive father’s words before they could form, replacing them with his own. “Bitrayuul. I am Bitrayuul.”

Theiran nodded, hiding any thought of discontent at the orcish name that certainly would stir distaste within the Council. As he faded from view, Tormag broke the tension rising in the air. “C’mon, Bit, let’s get somethin’ t’ eat. Me belly be screamin’.”

The dwarf behind the counter—and the other dozen patrons within—all rose as Bitrayuul followed behind Tormag into The Emberforge. Their eyes drilled deep into the half-orc, hands clutching the mining picks and hammers at their belts. This was the first time many a dwarf had seen a half-orc at all, and the first one had ever graced their homeland lacking shackles and wounds.

“Hal thild vant gar’thurim,” Tormag stated to the beady-eyed onlookers. Slowly, the furrowed brows of the dwarven patrons began to wane before each turned back to their mugs. Satisfied, Tormag approached the bar, though the innkeeper still employed his scowl as the half-orc struggled to wedge his large frame between the table and stool beneath.

“What be yer drink,” the disgruntled owner stated more than asked, never removing eyes from the young orc-blooded specimen. His gaze never faltered, even as Tormag offered his request for drink. With a grumble, the barkeep grunted and turned toward the store room to retrieve the commander’s brew.

Bitrayuul watched the dwarf stomp away, his stubby legs thundering against the stone floor with heavy boots. Facing his mentor, he whispered, “Will it always be like this? And what did you say to get the others to back down? Why did it not have the same effect on our host?”

Tormag waved the notions away, in no mood to answer such questions in the midst of those who would catch wind of unfavorable answers. Bitrayuul held back his disappointed frown as the innkeeper reappeared, a single mug in hand.

The mug was slid down the slick bar toward Tormag, stopping perfectly in front of the commander. Tormag peered down at the tankard, then back to the owner. With a smile on his face, he slid the brew slowly in front of Bitrayuul, never breaking eye contact with their host.

The dwarf behind the counter—and a few patrons who were paying attention—quickly turned to anger at the commander’s heinous act. Before they could act, Tormag waved his hand in the air nonchalantly and said, “Eh, ‘scuse me, barkeep? Seems I’ve misplaced mine, could ye fetch another? Many thanks, friend.”

Even as he finished the words, Bitrayuul nearly coughed from gasping so harshly. He could see the owner of the inn go red with anger, nearly fuming from his ears. Despite the fire burning in his stomach, the dwarf kicked open the store room door and stormed in before returning with a half-full small iron cup of water. Nearly all of the contents were ejected from the container as it slid viciously down the bar into Tormag’s waiting hand.

The innkeeper held a wide smirk on his face, proud of his petty act of defiance against the dwarf who had disrespected him. Though, the expression washed away as Tormag lifted the cup to his mouth and drank it all in a single, exaggerated gulp before slamming it to the counter in a flourish.

“Ahh, now that’s good! Barkeep, another!”

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’s mouth was agape as the marvelous gates came into view, so vast they could be seen even while still at the edge of the Lithe. His march slowed, taking in the grand spectacle, as Tormag continued without notice.

The doors stood the height of twenty dwarves, lined with sharpened spikes and intricate carvings alike. Tormag had often spoken of the artisanal craftsmanship of his kind, though the gates of Tarabar gave evidence to such claims. The enormous steel barrier protruded only just from the base of the mountain, with much more hidden from view.

Tormag finally caught on to his halted son. The dwarf couldn’t help but smile as he recognized the wondrous stare painted on the half-orc’s face as he admired the beauty of ancient dwarven ancestor’s efforts. The dwarf beckoned Bitrayuul forth, breaking the half-orc’s trance. In short time, they stood outside the gate.

“What be yer purp—” the guard started from his station along the top of the structure, a bucket of oil and torch at the ready. “Bothain’s beard . . . Commander Tormag?” he asked incredulously after recognizing the emblems on Tormag’s worn armor.

“Aye, lad. It’s been a bit, don’t ye doubt,” the absent commander replied. “I’ve been busy these past six years, bahaha!”

More dwarves poked their heads over the short wall lining the path atop the gate and shared their comrade’s excitement at the return of their commander. That is, until they noticed the half-orc adjacent their long-lost ally that had somehow escaped their view.

“Have ye been captured?” the first guard asked hesitantly while staring at Bitrayuul. Each of the guards held their vats of pitch more closely.

Tormag looked around curiously, as if some sort of orc or troll army lay in wait along the forest to prompt such a question. Finally, the dwarf caught on to their meaning and he let out a boisterous laugh. “Bahaha! No, lads. He’s with me.” His hand fell to Bitrayuul’s bicep in reassurance—both for the half-orc and the suspicious guards.

The dwarves manning the enormous gate spoke amongst themselves for a moment before two pairs each retreated within the small holes in the mountain on each side to operate the hidden mechanisms and open the large steel doors. Tormag and Bitrayuul both breathed a sigh of relief as the barrier was pulled apart, allowing them entry.

Bitrayuul was met with nervous stares and thick-fingered hands resting upon weapon hilts as he followed his mentor into the city. The spectacle caught him by surprise, for once the light piercing the opening at their backs closed behind them, the city returned to blackness, save for the lining of hundreds of illuminating torches and lanterns. Grateful for the orcish blood running through his veins, Bitrayuul’s eyes shifted, allowing his view to see much better in the dark. What he had assumed was a city in the abyss, lit by only the sparkle of a few embers lining its streets, had turned to a community of grand proportions.

Now that his eyes could better view the city ahead, the half-orc could only look on in wonder. What vastness hid beneath the strength of the mountain stone! The city stretched as far as his eyes could see—and beyond. Each building was carved from the stone, as if they had been built into the mountain all along, waiting for a sculptor to bring them to life. Small abodes, large edifices, and even great structures sporting crafted statues of dwarves of the past could be seen, only adding to Bitrayuul’s awe.

Tormag clasped a hand against his son’s arm once more. “Welcome to me home, Bit,” he said with a smile as wide as ever.

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 rolled to his side, unable to get comfortable at his makeshift encampment. Sleep had not come easy since his departure from the only kin he had a few nights prior. The young orc had nearly returned to their home countless times, save for his stubborn pride rooting him in place. Instead, Fangdarr swallowed his tormenting emotions, tossing restlessly each night under the thick canopy of Lithe Forest.

A heavy sigh escaped him, staring at the small specs of whiteness poking through the screen of darkened leaves above. Fangdarr closed his eyes, denying the night their golden glow. As he rest, only the sound of breaths with the rise and fall of his chest and the slow sway of a breeze to be heard, the orc replayed the haunting visions of his mother’s headless corpse falling to the ground at the hand of her human tormentors. Even alone in the wood, the proud young warrior refused to express his true feelings.

His memories were interrupted at the sound of rustling bushes nearby. Fangdarr lifted his head curiously. Most likely an animal, he thought. Soon, the steady sounds of footsteps could be heard, though they were light against the soft ground. Were it not for the occasional twig and crunch of leaves, the orc would never have noticed. Fangdarr was already to his feet, Driktarr in hand and eyes scanning the darkness.

Breaking through the dense foliage came a pair of figures Fangdarr did not recognize. Their smiles widened beneath the long tusks protruding from their upper jaw, spread in wicked eagerness. Despite their sinister expressions, their body language showed no threat. Still, Fangdarr remained on the defensive.

“Eh, look what we got here, Gam’ja. It but a wee orc,” spoke the first in an unusual tone. Fangdarr had heard tell of their kind from Tormag, though had never experienced them himself. Now, he was finally able to confirm his adoptive father’s mimicked accent when speaking of them. Trolls.

“Haha, so it is, Bon’zo. He look a bit lost, ya tink?”

Fangdarr tightened his grip. Their vocal flair seemed contradictory to their intent. It was hard for the orc to understand due to the thickness of the troll’s accents. Nevertheless, he asked, “What you want?”

The intruders looked to one another, then laughed in a shrieking cackle that pierced through the quiet forest. Once their humor had ended, Fangdarr could see the pair of crude, sharpened-stone knives in each of their three-fingered hands. Their expressions only looked more severe as the encampment’s small fire cast flickering shadows over the contours of their stretched skin.

Fangdarr did not wait for his assailants to strike first. He raised his axe and howled with vigorous ferocity, charging for the pair. Gam’ja and Bon’zo returned his roar in kind and took to defensive stances. The orc closed the distance quickly, his powerful legs carrying him with long strides. As he approached, the trolls realized his abnormally large stature but gave no pause. They remained fixed on their opponent, daggers held in reverse grips in wait for their prey.

Just as he had done against the men that had slain his poor mother, Fangdarr planted his foot in the last moment and spun his greataxe in a wide horizontal sweep. Bon’zo managed to put up a dagger to block, but the weight of the orc’s weapon was too great when paired with Fangdarr’s impressive strength. Bon’zo’s eyes went wide in immense pain as Driktarr passed through his ineffective parry and continued to cut a deep gash into his dark-skinned torso. Blue blood sprayed from the wound, painting specks against the orc’s own blackened skin, before the troll fell to the ground.

With the momentum of his strike drained, Fangdarr could not hope to cleave through Gam’ja as well. Instead, the troll’s raised weapons intersected the axe as the creature’s head rushed forward quickly behind. Fangdarr stood a head taller, keeping his neck out of range, but Gam’ja’s tusks rent against the orc’s exposed arm and ripped through his skin. The orc growled at the pain, bearing his fangs. With the daggers still entrapping Driktarr, the troll continued to thrash his head, scraping and tearing more flesh on Fangdarr’s arm.

Fangdarr steeled his resolve and kicked Gam’ja’s knee, dropping him and his blades low. With his weapon free, the orc slammed it down on the troll’s skull just as Gam’ja’s wicked expression had looked up to him. Driktarr embedded straight into the forehead of its victim and deep into the troll’s brain. Fangdarr pushed the axe—and the corpse attached to it—to the ground. He planted a foot against the troll’s shoulder as he ripped his entrapped weapon free, spraying blood and flinging brain matter and bone fragments onto the grass below.

Before the orc could even breathe a sigh of relief, he felt a sharp pain in the side of his thigh. Upon looking down to inspect the source, he witnessed Bon’zo’s wide grin paired with another dagger whistling through the air toward his ribcage. Caught by surprise, Fangdarr couldn’t hope to parry the blow. Instead, he twisted his waist as quick as possible in an attempt to prevent the dagger from hitting its mark. The orc’s brow furrowed in pain as he was only partially successful, feeling the sharpened edge of Bon’zo’s dagger slicing across his skin.

Fangdarr threw a desperate but heavy punch into the troll’s face as he leapt back. Bon’zo stood a short distance away, one dagger still in hand. Fangdarr looked at his thigh and pulled the knife free before tossing it behind him. Now, he stood breathing heavily and bleeding from multiple wounds. His black blood glistened in the light of the fire as it slid down his muscled body. The orc looked to Bon’zo and his eyes grew large in shock.

He had not noticed it before, but the wound that he had landed on Bon’zo’s chest had completely healed. Are their weapons like mine? He could not know for sure. In any manner, his own wounds were starting to take their toll. As Fangdarr was about to charge forward in rage once more, he watched in horror as Gam’ja too started to rise. The creature’s shattered skull began mending itself of its own accord, answering the orc’s previous question. It seemed they needed no weapons to heal them, rather they regenerate on their own—even mortal wounds.

How am I to defeat such opponents? Fangdarr did not have time to ponder as Gam’ja instantly dashed forward—even before his wound had fully mended—followed closely by Bon’zo. The orc waited for his attackers this time, remembering the tactics his dwarven mentor had taught him. His rage was insanely difficult to suppress, but Fangdarr trusted in Tormag’s instruction. Driktarr cocked back behind his shoulder, lying in wait.

Gam’ja closed first, both daggers leading the way in hopes to impale his large adversary. Fangdarr held his stance, his plan in mind. The troll exclaimed in victory as he felt both daggers pierce through the orc’s abdomen all the way to the hilt. But such was Fangdarr’s intention. The orc had chosen to disregard the short-sighted leading troll, expecting the all-or-nothing blow. Fangdarr’s target was not Gam’ja, however, but the trailing Bon’zo.

Bon’zo couldn’t hide his own glee upon seeing his ally’s weapons sink into the orc’s body. In his distraction, the troll failed to notice Driktarr sailing downward into his shoulder, cleaving him deeply and launching him back. The troll’s body fell into the small fire of Fangdarr’s camp and instantly immolated in a raging inferno. Bon’zo’s screams of agony pierced the forest as he rolled on the ground in an attempt to extinguish himself. But it was no use. Within a few short moments, the troll’s corpse halted its thrashing yet continued to burn.

Fangdarr was caught by surprise at seeing the troll conflagrate so intensely. As his wound’s began to heal from Driktarr’s enchantment, the orc realized his opponent’s weakness. Gam’ja’s attention had turned to his friend upon hearing the shrieks of pain. As his gaze returned to Fangdarr, whose wounds were now stitching themselves closed—even pushing the stone daggers out from the orc’s abdomen from the magical restoration—Gam’ja went wide-eyed in terror. This time, it was Fangdarr whose face was etched with the sinister grin.

“Aw no, mon. Please, we was just playin’,” Gam’ja begged, dropping his weapons. As the troll backpedaled away from Fangdarr, he tripped over the burning corpse of his friend. Luckily, the flammable oil that had seeped from Gam’ja’s wounds was only on his head, else he would have suffered the same fate of Bon’zo. He continued his begging and pleading as he crawled away backwards.

Fangdarr stomped forward, a ceaseless harbinger of death in pursuit of its final victim. His wounds were now freshly healed, leaving white scars to contrast brightly against his blackened skin. As he approached the helpless troll, Fangdarr realized just how formidable he was, especially at such a young age. He reached the troll, who had backed into the base of a tree and was now whimpering.

Staring at the pitiful creature in disgust, the orc’s hand clasped tightly around the troll’s throat, stifling Gam’ja’s whines as his airway was pressed shut. Fangdarr carried the troll back toward the fire with ease, despite his captive’s desperate wriggling. Holding the troll in front of his face, Fangdarr whispered to Gam’ja, barely audible over the roaring flames that still licked away at Bon’zo’s charred carcass. “Play time.”

Gam’ja’s eyes went impossibly wide in terror and the bulging pressure building in his skull as Fangdarr slammed his face into the fire pit. The orc held the troll down in the insatiable blaze that had come to life, though eased his grip in order to hear the agonizing screams as Gam’ja was forced to endure his flesh searing from bone.