Skirmish (Bitrayuul): Alarm
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.