Orcblood Legacy - Honor

by Bernard Bertram

  Five black-skinned orcs emerged from the nearby brush, hooting and shouting at their prize. The orcs were lightly covered in leather armor, each with a crude spear in hand. It seemed obvious they had hoped to find something more edible from the rudimentary trap. Yet, they were excited to see that it was a dwarf instead.

  The dwarf began to wonder if Fangdarr had set him up. He cursed his luck for being so angry as to let down his guard. Being in a hopeless state, he called down to the party. “Oye, what’re ye orcs up to?” he calmly asked.

  The five orcs smiled at each other with their stern bottom jaws protruding in an awkward manner. All looked up at the dwarf, laughing aloud, whether at his fate or his lack of clothing, Cormac could not be sure. One simply responded, “We catch dwarf.” A bellow of amusement emanated from the hunting party.

  “Aye, took a notice to that one, I did. But what do ye mean to do with what ye caught?” pressed the captive.

  The same orc replied as if the answer should have been obvious. “We set trap for food. You in trap. Guess you food!” Their enthusiasm and laughter continued.

  The dwarf, so helpless and exposed, simply sighed at his luck.

  Fangdarr sat waiting at camp, expecting Cormac some time ago. By now his coy smile at toying with the grumpy dwarf had faded, leaving an impatient scowl. He growled at himself for perhaps having scared away his newfound friend. The worried orc decided it would be best to go and look for his hot-headed companion. If it were absolutely necessary, Fangdarr even considered swallowing his pride and apologizing to the dwarf, despite the fact his act had been all in good fun.

  Butt ends of spears prodded the dangling dwarf, taunting the doomed being foolish enough to walk into the snare. Laughter continued to pour out from the band of feral orcs, all thoroughly enjoying their helpless victim’s fate.

  Cormac took every poke in stride as thoughts of retribution swirled thickly about his mind. If the dwarf ever made it down, the orcs surely would wish they had changed how they treated him. Death was not something the warrior feared. His place was at the frontlines of battle, chaos enveloping him, swords and shields clashing without relent. What he despised about these orcs was not that they had trapped him—they had caught him fairly—it was how they toyed with him.

  No matter how hard he was prodded, the stalwart dwarf refused to yell out in agony. No matter how much they taunted him, Cormac denied them the satisfaction. However, he was not about to stop his subtle insults. “Ain’t yer fat-headed mothers ever tell ye not to play with yer food?” he asked of the grim-faced orcs, hoping to steer them away from their toying.

  A second orc, the shortest of the group, replied to the naked dwarf. “Mama no hang food from tree.”

  Cormac stared frankly at the shortened orc as he considered his words. “Bahaha! Suppose that be true!” Indeed, the truth of the statement had lifted the dwarf’s spirits.

  The party, unsure as to how anyone could laugh in such a state, looked to each other in confusion. Another of the group even mentioned that their breakfast might be deranged. The first orc flipped his crude iron spear around, pointing the jagged head at the suspended dwarf. A wry grin etched into his right cheek, showing his playfulness had subsided. His four feral companions similarly raised their spears, forming a circle around the naked creature, a smirk on each face.

  All five orcs retracted their weapons, poised to strike the helpless creature.

  Cormac closed his eyes in acceptance, ready to see the family stripped from him so many years ago.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ACCEPTANCE

  Fangdarr sat in the brush, watching the end of the altercation. He knew he had to make a choice—one of the hardest of his life. His new friend hung helplessly, five enemies prepared to plunge their lethal weapons deep into Cormac’s flesh. As much as he hated to admit it, he cared for Cormac, deeply. However, as an orc and chieftain of his clan, he could not interfere with the killing of a dwarf without needing to slay his own kind.

  The mighty chieftain, in all his tremendous splendor, had only killed one orc before to achieve his status of chieftain. He felt it to be a disgrace to one’s very existence, to kill your own. Yet, he realized that his own mother had done so to protect her family. As such, with his dear friend in need of aid, and the group of orcs preparing their fatal assault, he had only one choice.

  In the end, it was Fangdarr’s body that made the decision. His feet moved of their own accord, and by the time he realized what had happened, he was standing in the open, no brush to block him from view.

  The short orc, alarmed by the silent intruder, jumped back and faced Fangdarr, his spear pointed finger-widths from his heart. Instantly, he realized the folly of his actions for in front of him stood his chieftain. It was impossible for any who knew the gargantuan orc to ever forget him or go without recognizing the distinctive Fangdarr. The creature stood at his full height, towering a head’s height above the party. His entire body seemed to be sculpted in stone. The muscles along his bulging arms and torso shaped so perfectly it was hard to believe he was real.

  He might have seen only twenty-two winters, but his body had as much white as it did black. Scars that had healed over instantly after each fatal swing of his deadly, curve-bladed axe. Each scar had a story to tell, so many Fangdarr barely remembered any of them. While he wore no armor, his trance-like frenzy during battle blocked out any thought of pain or fear. All he knew was blood-lust.

  The small orc, frightened as a mouse that had come across a ravished tiger, dropped his spear and bowed to his leader, frantically apologizing for his actions. The chieftain’s gaze burrowed into the desperate monster, leveling him with a mere glance. Every orc likewise shrank back from Fangdarr, respecting the orc’s awesome power.

  “I-I-I sorry, chieftain . . .” stammered the diminutive orc, head bowed in fear of retribution.

  Fang continued his burning stare, shifting it to each member of the party. All shrank beneath his eyes, fearful of his wrath. “What you doing here?” he asked of the group.

  This time, the first orc to approach Cormac stepped forward. “Fangdarr Great-One, we find dwarf in trap. We going to bring back to you as gift, Chieftain,” the orc lied to his leader, unaware that he had already watched part of the encounter. Fangdarr knew all too well that they had never meant to bring anything back—except possibly a corpse.

  Eyes narrowed, Fangdarr growled at the orc, showing he knew he was lying. “Cut him down.”

  The orcs looked confused and considered what to do. The mighty chieftain repeated himself, this time shouting with such vigor that their eyes widened in horror. “Cut him down!”

  The small orc scrambled over to the hidden rope’s anchor that held the helpless Cormac in the air. Trembling hands fumbled as they unfastened it, abruptly dropping the dwarf to the ground. The orc dropped the rope and skittered over to the party, who had all now pointed their crude, iron spears at the seated captain, and were moving to advance.

  “Stop!” Fangdarr yelled, irritated that the group would move without his permission. “I say attack?” he asked.

  The orcs shook their heads in denial.

  “Leave him be,” stated their chieftain flatly, his threatening tone evident. His audience became suddenly suspicious of his demands. Why would their leader, the greatest orc their clan had ever seen, spare a captive? A dwarf!

  The five gripped their spears tighter, each wearing confused expressions, questioning their next move. All nodded in agreement at what course they should take. It was time for a new, stronger chieftain.

  On came the orcs, charging in at their great leader with reckless abandon. Fangdarr had watched their exchange carefully, catching their subtle conspiratorial nods. Before they could even take their first step forward, Driktarr, appeared in his grasp.

  Fangdarr’s eyes shined brightly, the fires of combat swirling inside him. He was outnumbered, but not a shred of fear lay in the seasoned warrior’s body or mind. As the group charged, a hulking
black form came loping in from their flank, barreling over the farthest orc. Bear, like Fangdarr, had watched the whole encounter from a nearby bush, waiting for when its master needed it most, and it had come out at the perfect time.

  Taken aback by the grizzly bear’s sudden and aggressive appearance, the remaining four orcs slowed their charge to watch their fallen companion struggle with the frightening beast. In the takedown, Bear had managed to get its maw over the right shoulder of the doomed orc. The animal clamped tightly down on the squirming monster, its claws raking at the lightly armored chest of the orc. Flesh ripped with its strong swipes, rending deeper gouges with each pass of its long nails.

  The remaining four advanced on Fangdarr, odds still in their favor. The chieftain laughed aloud at them. “You think you stand chance?” he asked tauntingly. “Against me? Fangdarr, greatest of our kind. Fangdarr, who have slain hundreds! Fangdarr! Who could shatter giant! Who are you to fell me!?” he roared to them, pride and bloodlust growing with each proclamation. The first of the group raced ahead, challenging his leader. He tried to create enough of a distraction for his allies to surround the chieftain.

  Fangdarr smiled at their stupidity. As the orcs split their assault, each of his foes were now on their own with no possibility of support from their allies. On came the first orc, approaching directly with spear raised high, crudely attempting to crash the weapon down onto the large, broad shoulder of his chieftain.

  Fangdarr never even flinched. The spear cut deep into his shoulder, lodging itself into the mighty orc’s right breast. A victorious holler escaped from the orc, thinking he had scored an easy kill. However, he—and the other three orcs for the matter—froze in place when they saw that the blow did not even cause Fangdarr to recoil. Instead, his smile spread ear-to-ear, relishing in the horror he had instilled in his enemies.

  With his foe making a new mistake of trying to dislodge the embedded weapon, Fangdarr pulled back his arm, Driktarr fully extended. A sinister growl slid from his grinning mouth. “My turn,” he stated coldly, and down came his enormous axe, the gleaming blade cutting cleanly through the orc. His strike was in the exact position the smaller orc had struck him but his blow cleaved the lesser orc entirely in half. “Mine no get stuck,” said Fangdarr to the others as their companion fell to the ground lifeless, blood pouring freely from his exposed innards. The three orcs who had hoped to encircle the gigantic orc were immobilized in terror. Their legs refused their mind’s commands to move. Never had such fear been instilled in such creatures. Fangdarr could see it in their awe-filled eyes. His bloodlust only increased.

  They watched as Fangdarr gripped the crude spear with his large, black hand, ripped it free from his chest, and threw the feeble weapon to the ground. His grin never left his face. Driktarr had already fed on the life-force of the fallen orc and began fully healing his wound. He looked down at the fresh white scar that remained. Another failed attempt to end his legacy.

  Fangdarr turned to face his remaining foes. One orc, losing his will to fight, turned and sprinted in the opposite direction. Fangdarr looked over at his beast companion, who had already disposed of the first orc and was now sitting watching its master with not a care in the world. Its thick black coat was covered in blood, drawing a laugh from its onlooking master. Another bath at the lake was needed, it seemed. “Bear, chase orc,” Fang said and pointed at the fleeing orc. Bear gave a whiny yawn, slowly rose from its seat, and started after the orc its powerful legs ensuring it would easily outrun its prey. Fangdarr grinned at his companion, never regretting sparing the beast.

  The intimidating chieftain spun back on the remaining two of his minions—former minions, it seemed. “So, you want to kill chieftain?” smoothly stated Fangdarr. He knew they were afraid and wished they had never provoked combat with their leader.

  “No, no, Chieftain! We made mistake! Please, spare us!” begged the small orc, tears of fear welling in his eyes.

  Fangdarr spat on the small orc, disgusted at his weakness. Seeing his companion get spat on for begging, the last orc—to his credit—decided against joining in. Instead, while Fangdarr was distracted with the diminutive creature, the lone orc decided to attempt a sneak attack. Ever the ready warrior, Fangdarr was ready for the strike, and just like before, he let it come.

  Fear and joy lit up the attacking orc’s eyes as the blade sunk deep into Fangdarr’s back. It punctured through, poking out of his abdomen in front of the begging orc’s nose. The success of his attack catching him by surprise, the foolish orc thought the day won. However, he quickly recalled the fate of his former ally and in trepidation, slid the blade out of Fangdarr’s back and let it fall to the ground, now covered in blackened blood.

  The assailant took a step back. Then another. He hoped to keep as far away as possible from the threatening force that was Fangdarr. A heavy sigh came from the leader as he looked down at his bloody abdomen and turned back to the cowering orc. Again, he lifted his mighty axe, still dripping with the blood of his previous foe. A light swing of Driktarr removed the left arm of the orc.

  His victim screamed in agony, and a pang of guilt ran through Fang as he remembered these were his clan members. His kind. But the light strike had healed the grisly wound to his back and abdomen. Fangdarr, renewed, bent down and retrieved the severed arm of his foe.

  Puzzlement crossed the armless orc’s face. What could his chieftain be thinking? What purpose could his arm serve? The orc found his answer shortly as Fangdarr pried open his foe’s mouth with his left hand and, with his right, slammed the dripping arm fist-first into the orc’s gaping mouth. The victim’s eyes grew impossibly wide in shock and agony as his own severed arm choked him. The vicious chieftain released his grip on the arm and firmly seized the struggling orc’s chin to stabilize him. With his right arm free, he raised it high into the air, his hand clenching into a tight fist.

  Down came Fangdarr’s fist. The brute force plunged the severed arm into the orc’s throat, splattering blood everywhere. Tears streamed down his victim’s overextended face. Blood seeped from the orc’s sockets, mixing with the moist tears. The blackened skin of the dying victim’s cheeks stretched past their limits. Tears formed along the sides his mouth, drowning him in unbearable pain. Down came Fangdarr’s fist again and deeper went the arm. Again and again until the arm was elbow deep inside the orc. It mattered little. He was dead by the second blow.

  Finally, Fangdarr turned to the small orc, spittle still on his face, and smiled. The orc obediently handed his spear over to his chieftain, hopeful that the act would spare his life. Indeed, Fangdarr turned the other way and began walking.

  Just as the minion was about to flee through the woods, away from his old leader, Bear emerged from the brush, dragging the other escaping orc. Now all that remained of the party of orcs were the two that had spoken and toyed with Cormac—just as Fangdarr had wanted.

  Blood trickled from three separate bite marks on the first orc and the surprise of the bear’s presence halted the small orc in his tracks, fearful that he, too, would be chased down. He tried to focus on the hope that Fangdarr would let him go, but he knew it was a longshot.

  Fangdarr continued his steady walk away from the pair of orcs. He stopped in front of Cormac, who had remained on the ground watching his new friend mete out justice.

  “Cormac,” said Fangdarr, drawing the dwarf’s attention. “These ones who prod you?” The dwarf nodded his reply, and Fangdarr growled lowly. “Then they up to you.”

  The dwarven captain looked up to the mighty orc who had single-handedly saved him from his doom, and appreciation and trust came over his rugged face. Stern determination drove the dwarf to get his feet beneath him as he started toward his harassers. While upside down, locked in the snare’s unforgiving grip, Cormac had thought of various—appropriately barbaric—ways to dispose of his captors should he ever get down alive. Now, thanks to his trusted companion, he had his chance to enact them.

  The exposed dwarf approached his p
rey. Oh, how the tables had turned. The stout dwarf had no weapons, no armor, and no clothes—nothing but the body he had sculpted through countless hours of training and combat. Cormac could tell the orcs were less frightened now that their challenger was a naked, unarmed dwarf rather than Fangdarr and his lethal axe. Nevertheless, the enraged dwarf had all he needed to kill these two. Slowly.

  As if the two remaining orcs of the party suddenly realized just how furious they had made the stubborn dwarf, they shrank back, hoping to crawl away from the rapidly-progressing captain.

  “Ye know,” the dwarf coldly started, “ye really, really, REALLY shouldn’t have poked and prodded me with yer damned sticks.” The pair crawled back more quickly now. Pure rage filled the dwarf’s gaze. This time, however, he was careful not to become too blinded by it, as that had been the cause of the entire dilemma in the first place. He held no malice toward Fangdarr for his playful ploy, though. No, this dwarf’s rage was fully directed at those who had tried to deprive him of an honorable death.