“Good morning, dwarf. My name is Vrutnag. How are you feeling?” she asked her guest.
“Ye talk real funny for an orc. Me name’s Tormag Double-Hammers. Where did ye say I’m at?” Tormag rolled over onto his good elbow and started to rise.
“Oh, dear dwarf, be careful. You’ve been injured.” The concern showed in her face.
Tormag gave a solid pause, clearly considering the situation. “Hmph, so . . . let me get this clear and fixed. Yer an orc and ye saved me?”
“Yes, Master Tormag, my sons found you in the woods and brought you here, to our home, where we dressed your wounds.”
“Aye, took a notice t’ me linens. Suppose I owe ye some thanks.” With that statement, he bellowed, “BAHAHAHA! Sure never thought t’ see the day me skin was saved by orcs.” Tormag followed with another outburst of laughter, which drew quick footsteps from the boys approaching to see what was happening. The dwarf instantly hopped to a defensive stance, waiting for what was coming through the opening.
Vrutnag noticed his sudden tension and simply stated, “That would be my sons, Tormag. No need to worry.”
The dwarf quickly eased and slumped back to his rear. “Eh, that’s good. Standin’ hurts worse than bein’ clubbed by an ogre, bahaha!”
Fangdarr and Bitrayuul crept around the corner of the cavern, waiting for approval to enter. “Come in boys, everything is fine. This is Tormag Double-Hammers.”
Fangdarr, always ready to show his bravery, approached first. “I, Fangdarr,” he stated proudly, clasping his fist to his chest in greeting.
“Pleased t’ meet ye, lad. Ye sure are a big one, ain’t ye?” said the dwarf, sizing the young orc up and down. Fangdarr beamed with pride at the compliment. Despite only a decade of youth, he was already a foot taller than Tormag at full height. “And what be yer name, son?” Tormag asked Bitrayuul, who still held back in caution.
The half-orc approached slowly before speaking, “I . . . I am Bitrayuul, Master Tormag.”
Tormag caught on to the difference in the boys right away. He cast a brief sidelong glance at Vrutnag, but politely ignored any pursuit of the subject. The matron orc pretended not to notice the look.
“Suppose I owe ye all for patchin’ me up. Thank ye, truly. I was one for the crows had ye boys not come along,” the dwarf stated. The boys smiled, appreciating the gratitude.
“Your armor and weapons are in the other side of the cavern,” Vrutnag explained. “They were moved, just in case, but you are welcome to them at any time.” She did not consider the dwarf a threat at this point, though he very could have been. Despite her mate being killed by dwarves, Vrutnag held no ill will toward them. Since leaving the Zharnik clan, it had been her goal to raise her sons to be more than just unthinking savages. She truly believed her sons could do great things for the race of orcs one day if they could learn to be different. She wanted them to learn that there was more to life than endless war. “Speaking of armor,” she continued. “Why were you fully suited in the middle of the forest, especially with no other bodies around.”
The muscular dwarf lowered his guard and looked plaintively at the matron, pondering his choice of words. “I was part o’ a caravan that came out o’ Tarabar. We were raided by orcs, nearly fifty o’ ‘em. With only five guards, ain’t much ye could do about that many, no matter how seasoned. We managed t’ take out about half o’ ‘em before we were overrun. I was the last survivor and was able t’ slip away through the forest. They chased me for two days before I finally lost ‘em. It pained me t’ leave without finishin’ the fight, but as the general o’ the Dwarven Regime, I’m knowin’ when me odds are impossible. I kept goin’ ‘til I collapsed, by the looks o’ it.”
At the news of Tormag killing orcs, Fangdarr grew confused. He was well aware that orcs and dwarves were common enemies—especially since his father, Brutigarr, was killed by them—but he had never encountered an orc-killing dwarf before. “You kill orcs? Zharnik orcs?” he asked.
“Aye, lad. I can’t lie t’ ye, I been fightin’ the Zharnik orcs for the past hundred or so years,” Tormag replied. He shared a worried look with Vrutnag, both afraid to upset the boy.
“Fangdarr, you know how the world is,” Vrutnag explained. “War, fighting, killing, these are all inevitable. Tormag was in a small party that was ambushed. The orcs he killed were out of necessity to survive. That is just the way it is. Until there can be peace.” Her explanation didn’t help. The boy still seemed upset, but he held his tongue and only let out a mild groan of disapproval.
Bitrayuul stepped in to change the subject and divert the awkwardness that had crept into the room. “You said you were the general for the Dwarven Regime? What is that?”
Tormag, grateful for the change of topic, responded, “Aye, I am the general. The Dwarven Regime is one of the armies o’ Tarabar. We were currently on leave o’ duty for a month, so I decided t’ join up with me cousin’s tradin’ caravan. Mainly for the good company and t’ stretch me legs, but also t’ give protection. Not that it mattered . . .” his voice trailed off somberly, reliving the haunted memories.
“Anyways,” he continued, shaking out of his trance, “hate t’ ask, but do ye have anything t’ eat around here? Me belly could eat a baby dragon, bahaha!”
Bitrayuul gave an uneasy smile at the dwarf, having never heard the expression before, or of a dragon. The boys were young, and tales of grandeur outside of their race’s ancestral stories were often ignored by their mother.
“Uh . . . Tormag,” inquired the young half-orc, “what is a dragon?”
“Surely ye must be jokin’, wee orc,” said the dwarf, clearly confused. How was it possible for someone, even a young one, to be unaware of dragons?
“N-no sir, I have never heard of it.”
“Me too,” added his brother.
Tormag scratched his chin through his thick, tangled beard. “Well then, I suppose I’ll be needin’ t’ tell ye about ‘em over breakfast.” As he spoke, he slowly got to his feet. His eyes inspected his shoulder in the sling, slowly pressing around the joint with his free hand. Once he was satisfied it had healed properly, he removed the sling. “Ah, that’s better,” he stated with a joyous stretch.
Both boys stood, frozen in place, staring at the creature they had saved the day before. Tormag was shorter than the young orcs, and his long black hair melted with his flowing beard over his chest and shoulders. He wore only a pair of pants, and as such his muscular torso was fully exposed, filling Fangdarr with jealousy. How could such a small creature be so strong?
Vrutnag briefly left the room to fetch some of the boar her family had eaten the previous day. “Glad to see you are feeling better, Tormag. How is your leg?” she asked, handing him a slab of dried meat.
He graciously accepted, digging in face first. With a mouth full of mutton, he looked down at his wounded leg and removed the bandage. “Eh, that’s one nasty wound, sure as stones. Looks like ye sealed it up pretty well.” His words were hardly discernible through the mouthful of boar. “Not me first wound, nor me first burnin’.” Tormag turned his back toward the group, shifting his hair out of the way. Truly, he was covered in a dozen scars of various shapes and sizes. “Warrior’s life, eh? Bahaha!”
Vrutnag and her boys just laughed along politely, unsure of what to say. They were glad he would recover well from the new wound he suffered on his thigh, at least. They ate their meal in silence, until the mother spoke out. “How long would you like to stay and rest, Master Tormag?”
The dwarf was caught unaware by her question. He stopped eating for a moment, deep in thought. “Hmm. That’s a good question, orc,” he started. Moments passed with him struggling hard to figure out what he wanted to do. “Well, ye saved me life and a debt is owed. Rest of me kin currently think I’m orc food anyways. Might be time for a vacation, if ye’ll have me for a few days.”
Vrutnag nodded in response. “You may stay as long as you like. But no debt is owed. My boys learned a valuable le
sson on mending wounds and we—”
“Can you teach us to fight?” Fangdarr interrupted.
Tormag looked to Vrutnag for an answer. She sighed but nodded her approval. “Aye, lad. I can teach ye t’ fight.”
Chapter Six
Mentor
Two days had passed since Tormag had been found by Fangdarr and Bitrayuul. Privately, they each relived the moment as the three of them approached the fighting circle where he had been discovered. Tormag adorned his full set of dwarven armor and two intricately-designed war hammers strapped to his waist. Before they had left for the makeshift arena, the dwarf had assured the orc mother the boys would be safe. In all truth, Vrutnag had taken a keen liking to the old, gruff dwarf. It had been ten long years since her mate had passed and the presence of an adult male rekindled the old female orc’s desire for a father figure for her boys.
As the trio walked to the arena, Tormag pondered his own experience with orcs. He was very curious about the two orc-kin, and he wondered what they might know about combat. He eyed their armor and weapons. From what he could tell, they had completely opposite combat styles.
Bitrayuul carried a large bow over his shoulder, nearly four heads tall. It may have been crudely made, but it seemed moderately effective. A pair of gauntlets were laced to his hands—three sharpened boar tusks tied tightly along his knuckles. The gauntlets showed the boy was not afraid to be up close. Yet, his great-bow proved he favored picking off his enemies from a distance. It was an odd contradiction, but Tormag kept his concerns to himself.
On the other hand, Fangdarr was styled after a typical orc berserker. He wore no armor at all and carried nothing but a large hook-bladed greataxe he had strapped across his back. The nicks along the curved edge casted uneven reflections as light pierced the forest canopy.
They all stopped in the ring and stared at each other with curiosity. The dwarf began, “Alright, lads, here’s what we’re goin’ t’ do. The both o’ ye are gonna fight me, ye know, t’ size ye up; see what yer made o’, aye?” His marvelously-decorated hammers rested easy in his hands, the sign of a truly seasoned warrior. The boys were in awe of the veteran. In his full set of armor, Tormag seemed a grand creature. Newly shined, his armor gleamed bright silver in the sunlight. It was obvious it had been masterfully crafted as each plate of steel fitted perfectly to Tormag’s frame. Nearly every part of his body was covered, yet he was afforded a fair range of mobility. Etched into most of the joint pieces was his army’s emblem complete with his rank to prove his status.
Each of his identical war hammers were even more brilliant. Both displayed perfectly flat faces of such toughened steel that could fell a small tree. The tools were thick near the hilt—no bigger than the dwarf’s hand—and tapered to a flat face the size of a coin on one end. The other end came to a curved point, capable of piercing through even dwarven steel. Intricate runes of an ancient dwarven language were inscribed into the heads, a dull blue glow emanating from the characters.
“So, which o’ ye be up first?”
Fangdarr proudly stepped forward, ready to prove himself in front of his brother. “I fight first.”
“Aye, figured as much.”
The large orc child approached his new mentor—Driktarr at the ready. “What if dwarf get hurt?” Fangdarr asked Tormag, showing his confidence. With that statement, the elder dwarf knew that the orc had never fought a dwarf before.
“Don’t ye be worryin’ about me, boy. Just try t’ keep up, eh?”
Fangdarr growled in contempt at the small creature’s seemingly relaxed nature. He was certain he could win easily. After all, he wielded the mighty axe, Driktarr, capable of felling an ogre in one swing. With a creature so much smaller than himself, surely his victory was sealed. He waded in toward the dwarf, a wide grin on his face. The orc gave a vicious roar, tensed his legs, and sprang toward his opponent, axe cocked back for a powerful swing. If Tormag had any concern for his oncoming fate, he hid it well. As Fangdarr crashed down, kicking a torrent of dust into the air, it seemed he had buried the dwarf with his charge. But as the dust cleared, Fangdarr noticed the blade of Driktarr buried a full finger’s length into the earth—not the dwarf. He squinted his eyes, hoping to see where the dwarf had gone. As he turned his head, he felt a quick shove into his hip and fell onto his side.
“Yer a strong one, don’t ye doubt. But strength don’t win every battle, son,” firmly stated the dwarf. “Ye need t’ pay attention t’ yer opponent, sure as stones. Yer lettin’ yer bloodlust get the best o’ ye.”
Fangdarr grumbled his dissatisfaction. He had shamed himself. Heavy footsteps dragged across the arena as he went to sit next to his brother, clearly upset at being so humiliated. He gave a slight nod to Bitrayuul, “You turn, Bit.”
The half-orc, having seen his brother so easily beaten, swallowed his trepidation and rose uneasily from his seat. “I guess I’ll give it a go . . .” he said, not as eager as his feral brother to fight such a formidable challenger.
“Aye, lad, don’t ye be worryin’ about the fight. Everyone loses fights. It be best t’ lose ye fights right here, in this wee circle, than out there in battle. Yer ol’ pal Tormag is just tryin’ t’ get ye fightin’ smart, eh? Now, c’mon, Bit. Let’s have it.”
The orc slid on his gauntlets and squared against Tormag, but he didn’t charge in as his ferocious brother did. He circled his opponent, waiting for an opportunity to strike with his short-ranged weapons.
As he watched the dwarf pivot to keep turning with him, he saw a slight limp in his left leg. That’s it! Tormag’s leg was still healing from the deep gash. Bearing that in mind, Bitrayuul continued to circle clockwise, making the dwarf constantly shift his weight to the weakened leg. Then, just as the dwarf seemed to grow bored of the turning, Bitrayuul exploded into motion, cutting back in a counterclockwise spin toward the left side of the dwarf’s body.
Tormag knew that the half-orc might try something deceptive, but he did not know that his leg was so injured. As the short dwarf pivoted to parry the attack, his left knee buckled and he toppled awkwardly to the ground. By that time Bitrayuul was already standing behind him with both gauntlets poking into the dwarf’s thick skin. A wave of astonishment passed over the young half-orc. He had beaten Fangdarr two days prior, and now he had beaten the dwarf. Pride spread over his face.
“Bahaha! A fine move, lad. Always seek out yer opponent’s weak spots. Well done, boy! Ye see Fang? Size and strength ain’t squat without some wits,” explained the beaten old dwarf.
The direct criticism stung Fangdarr, and he grimaced in anger at the dwarf. “Fangdarr not stupid.”
“Oye, don’t ye be mopin’ about. If ye pay attention, I’ll teach ye t’ fight with yer head and use yer strength for more than swingin’ that axe o’ yers. I was just like ye, Fang. But, every warrior needs t’ learn t’ win fights. And I’ll teach ye, orc, just give it some time. Ye’ll be a legendary warrior someday if yer taught right.”
Fangdarr considered what the dwarf said. It was true he loved to fight and wanted to be the best he could—an impossible task just by swinging his axe at trees. He needed a proper teacher to guide him. He needed Tormag.
“Teach me.”
Chapter Seven
Vengeance
Six years had passed since Tormag had become a part of the family. Liking the dwarf, Vrutnag allowed Tormag to stay with them, and her sons welcomed him as a father. They never got to meet Brutigarr, the great chieftain who perished the day they were both born, which left Tormag to fill the role of the fallen commander. The boys were well into pre-adulthood now and stronger than ever. For the past six years, the dwarf and his adoptive sons had trained in combat daily, conditioning themselves relentlessly. Each night, the elderly dwarf would tell them grand tales of his people and the outside world. Fangdarr and Bitrayuul grew fond of their new father—and his stories—and hoped to one day travel the outside world and seek their own adventures.
“Ye boys are good and strong.
Ye’ll get yer chance at the world, don’t ye doubt. For now, ye sit tight at home and look after yer mother,” the dwarf told the adolescent orcs.
Vrutnag had not aged well over the past half-decade. She had fallen exceptionally ill the year before and had never fully recovered. And though she went on a walk each morning to try to keep herself going, she could tell she was growing weaker.
That fateful morning, Vrutnag began her slow walk toward an apple tree half a league from the den to gather some fruit for the family. Despite her fatigue, the aged orc woman hummed tunes to herself as she made her slow progress through the forest, listening to the birds mimic her songs back to her.
In her trance, she failed to notice the group of men on horses, and she nearly ran into them. Human men. When she saw them, her eyes grew wide in shock. She had not seen anyone besides Tormag and her sons in over sixteen years, except when hiding from the occasional orc passing through. She had no idea of what to expect from the travelers. Vrutnag remembered that humans, like dwarves, were not fond of orcs.
Orcblood Legacy - Honor Page 3
