Cormac smiled. Now, the answer would come—to retaliate against the men who had so wronged the orc or not. Cormac truly hoped for the latter, but did these men honestly deserve mercy? Fangdarr slowly reached his arm behind his back, gripping the sword once more. His hands were rugged and thick with callous, but still the blade cut through his enclosed fingers. Ever slowly, the blade slid out the rest of the way, before crashing to the cold ground. Blood poured steadily from the orc’s wound—an unending stream of blackened red mixing with the dirt below.
“Fang, ye need to heal,” his friend stated. His boot came down on the leg of the injured man he had beaten. “Use this one.”
The man had no idea what the dwarf was talking about and it terrified him. He whimpered pathetically, begging his comrades to come to his aid. But it mattered not. They were completely immobilized by the horror of what they had just witnessed. No one should be able to function after such a grievous wound, let alone show no indication whatsoever of even the slightest inconvenience.
Fangdarr gripped the axe in his hand. His eyes were drawn to the quickly-drying blood from the orc he had skewered. The light from the beast’s eyes had almost faded entirely, but not yet. Not entirely. With a flick of his wrist, he moved the immense weapon through the air and decapitated the motionless orc. Another orc felled by his blade. Further and further he strayed from his kin. He felt nauseous.
Fangdarr’s wound stitched itself closed as his axe eagerly sapped the energy from the previous strike. Another tale for his legacy written into his skin. Fangdarr, the greatest of orcs to walk these lands, and proud chieftain of his people. Yet, here he stood, feeling like a pawn as if he was a feral beast going through the stages of domestication.
Cormac was glad his friend would be alright. Equally, he was proud of Fangdarr’s choice. The old dwarf could not fathom the turmoil that was drowning his ally’s emotions in that moment. All he knew was that the orc was safe for now. Cormac smashed his shields together and nudged Fangdarr to be ready in case it once again came to blows.
Fangdarr’s distracted trance broke as the men shouted at each other and organizing a defense in the hopes of defeating this monster. This immortal, it seemed. The orc simply stood in silence, waiting for a verdict outside of his control. Cormac, though, spoke up.
“Bah, what’re ye doin’, men? We ain’t here for a fight with ye!” the dwarf tried to reason. In response, the bloodied and beaten man beneath him scurried out of his grasp and toward his group. The men pressed on with swords and shields raised. “BAH, yer all dense!” the dwarf shouted.
Not more than two strides away, a man called for the troop to halt. He broke rank and stepped forward, drawing stares from the rest. It was the man that Fangdarr had first chose to save over the ambushing orc. His shield and sword fell to the earth in loud clangs. Fangdarr knew that sound. The ring of steel falling to the ground in submission.
“Orc,” the man addressed Fangdarr, causing the mighty chieftain to turn his head toward him. Fangdarr grunted in acknowledgement, and knowing his presence was accepted, the human extended his hand to his monstrous adversary. “Thank you.”
Fangdarr, Cormac, and even the man’s own comrades could not help but go wide-eyed in surprise at the sudden turn of events. But as the man waited, hand extended, Fangdarr could not hide his smile of relief. He moved slowly, cautious of another unexpected assault. His hand—thrice the size of the man’s—grasped the light-skinned palm and gave a small shake.
“You are welcome.”
With that, the man released the orc’s hand and turned to his allies. “Men, we are in no danger. Lower your weapons.” They seemed uncomfortable with the request but nevertheless obliged after seeing the orc was amicable.
Cormac, pleased with the result, extended his own hand to his victim. “Eh, sorry, lad, for beatin’ ye so hard,” he offered to the still-whimpering man. The man did not accept the gesture, but Cormac simply shrugged it off. The man had no sense of fair trade. He had impaled his friend and in return only received a handful of bruises.
With the mood much lighter, the man who had clasped hands with Fangdarr spoke to the orc once more. “I apologize for your wound, though it seems you have miraculously recovered. I am Artemis, a member of the Adderhaven guard that patrols the forest near the Orclands. Thank you, truly, for your assistance in repelling the ambush.” As if he had forgotten, the man looked around to see most of his comrades lying in pools of their own blood entwined with fallen orcs and grew somber at the realization. “These were good men. The orcs have been attacking much more frequently in the recent years. We have lost a lot of our kin.”
Fangdarr and Cormac exchanged cursory glances. Cormac knew that Fangdarr was most likely the reason for the increased aggression of the orcs, though, he did not know that Fangdarr had personally raided this area numerous times before. Much had changed in the last tenday, the orc thought to himself.
“Aye, we would gladly help collect yer dead, that they may return to their home for a proper burial,” the dwarf replied.
Artemis seemed happy with the sentiment and replied, “Master dwarf, I thank you for that. Won’t you return with us to Adderhaven?”
This time, Fangdarr spoke first, “I wish to return with you—and be accepted by your people—but I cause fear there. I will remain on road to keep comfort with your people.”
The man nodded in understanding. He did not need to ask for more of an explanation from the orc. Nor did he press the request. Both knew it was for the best. Fangdarr at least was glad to know that some minds—even just one—could be swayed. It was a minor thing, but a seed of hope had been planted. The impossible now only seemed improbable. That was all he could hope for.
After lending their assistance with gathering the bodies of the fallen, they watched as the few remaining men rode a cart northeast toward Adderhaven. Fangdarr and Cormac waved their final farewell as the cart faded into the thick wood of the forest. Once out of sight, the chieftain moved to the carnage of his kin and began dragging the orcs that fell in the ambush into a pile.
Cormac knew exactly what Fangdarr hoped to do and, in silence, wrapped his diminutive hands around the ankles of a nearby orc and dragged it to the pile. His friend gave a genuine smile. In silence, they carried the remaining orcs to the mound of bodies, now a dozen high, and set the corpses aflame.
“This, Cormac,” he began, “how orcs respect fallen.”
Cormac smiled at Fangdarr and rested a hand on the orc’s hip. “Aye, lad. Honor the fallen.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
RIVETON
The sun was beginning its ascent by the time they approached the gate, painting the sky with an extravagant splash of soft orange and bloodied pink. The gate was massive, yet plain. Only two guards stood outside the wooden doors, hardly paying attention to their party. It seemed odd to Bitrayuul that the second largest human settlement had such lax standards.
Almost as if on cue, Tormag piped in, “This here’s a trade town, Bit. Ye’ve seen Wiston yer fair share and know it t’ be marvelous. But Riveton ain’t much the same. It ain’t as accessible as Port Tempest or Wiston, but it’s where everyone goes, don’t ye doubt. All sorts o’ folk come from around the world t’ trade here. Ye might even see an elf; never know.”
His mention of an elf caught the half-orc’s attention. He was deeply intrigued in the race, but in his brief travels to Wiston, he had never caught glimpse of their kind. Dwarves did not welcome any elves into Tarabar due to a deep-rooted animosity tracing back millennia. The restriction only made Bitrayuul more curious. It was said that elves were the most long-lived race of their time—even surpassing dwarves. Due to their longevity, their prowess surpassed most other beings. In what way, he could not be sure. Any rumors about elves he overheard from dwarves he knew better than to take as accurate.
Lilyana chimed in with her own excitement, “An elf! That would be amazing!”
Tormag looked at her incredulously. “Bah! Yer daft, gi
rl. Elves ain’t nothin’ but trouble.”
She simply giggled in response, drawing a frown from the old dwarf for not being taken seriously. Bitrayuul smirked at the exchange.
The group continued further into town in silence before reaching a clearing lined with stalls. The market area was vast, expanding as far as the eye could see, even within the city walls. Merchants from all around the world—some of races Bitrayuul had never seen or heard tell of—were busily setting their wares out for view. Each cart bustled with activity, both from the owner eagerly preparing for the day’s revenue and a watchful being scanning the area.
“Tormag, this is huge!” Bitrayuul remarked. “How many shops are there? I cannot even fathom. And where are all these beings from? How many ra—”
“Oye, oye, lad, simmer down. Ye ask too many questions, give me a damned minute, will ye?” Tormag huffed in irritation, forcing his ally into silence. “Riveton is massive—nearly the size o’ Wiston—that ye can see fer yerself. I haven’t got a clue as t’ how many shops are here, don’t ye doubt. Plenty, though. If ye ever need t’ find somethin’ in particular, this be the place t’ look. Though, the price will be handsome, or I’m a gnome’s uncle. Speakin’ o’ which, hope we don’t see any gnomes . . . hate the infernal things . . .” he trailed off, going into a diatribe regarding all the negative qualities of gnomes. Bitrayuul, well aware of his adoptive father’s ‘passion’ for gnomes, nudged Tormag to bring him back to reality.
“Eh! Sorry, Bit. Ye know how them gnomes be . . . Anyways, there are dozens o’ races throughout the world. Only a handful reside on Crein, this region, o’ course. Humans, dwarves, orcs, trolls, ogres, and what not. Elves and their other forest critters stick t’ their twigs and moss on Y’thirya. I may be old, but even I don’t know some o’ these other types.”
Lilyana seemed just as enthralled as Bitrayuul in the amalgamation before her. She stared intently at all the unknown races, studying them like each was a unique butterfly. However, her curiosity was truncated the moment her eyes fell on an astounding jewel. Without consideration for the others or her own safety, the youth trod forward in a trance, nearly getting trampled multiple times by the bustling merchants. Bitrayuul and Tormag ceased their conversation as they noted she was no longer stitched to their side. Panic struck each of them—Riveton was no place to lose a child.
They scanned the area in haste, careful not to call her name too loudly and draw attention. Riveton was home to plenty of criminals. Rapists, kidnappers, slave traders, and the like were all commonplace here. Luckily, they spotted her approaching a jewelry cart not far from where they were standing.
As the pair rushed to her, Lilyana’s hand extended to the gemstone slowly. They would never make it in time. Tormag knew that in Riveton, touching wares without permission was considered theft, due to the sheer number of pickpockets and thieves roaming the market. If she made contact, her hand would be forfeit as punishment. But the gem called to the girl with an unbreakable will that she could never hope to escape. Her hand slid closer, her eyes glossed over in the reflection of the dazzling stone. Calling. Beckoning. Pleading to be taken. Tormag and Bitrayuul charged at maximum speed, but there was no hope. She was only a finger-length away now.
The shop owner took notice to her approach. His eyes narrowed, and his mouth twisted into a sinister grin. Merchants did not care for thieves and were only too happy to see a thief lose a hand, even if it was a young girl. As the merchant watched Lily about to clasp the jewel, he could not contain his wretched smile.
No one noticed as a wiry man crashed into the cart, knocking the gemstone from its perch and out of view. As soon as the bewitching jewel left her sight, Lilyana once again became lucid. She looked around with confused eyes, unaware of her new surroundings. A moment later, Tormag scooped her into his arms and clutched her tightly. Bitrayuul ran his hand over her hair in concern.
The hired man stationed at the cart picked the wiry man up by the mottled cloth he wore as a shirt and shoved him away before checking his master. By now, the merchant was in an unreasonable state of anger due to the beggar’s distraction severing the girl’s attention, though better judgment prevented him from placing the gemstone back on display for fear of someone discovering his true nature and intent.
Tormag caught it all. He made eye contact with the mercenary and gave a slight nod. The man responded in kind before tending to his employer once more. The old dwarf clutched the girl tighter in his arms as they pushed their way through the stalls until they reached an alley out of sight of the market.
“Tormag, what happened?” Bitrayuul inquired, sensing something amiss.
“Not here, lad. Soon.” He looked down to Lilyana who still clung to him, no awareness of the near tragedy she had just experienced. “Oye, girl, we’re meant t’ be lookin’ fer yer ma, right?” he asked.
She broke from her confused state and back to reality. “Yep! Where should we look?”
Tormag and Bitrayuul knew the market would be ideal as it drew the widest audience. But nothing in the world would force them back in that moment. Bitrayuul ran his hand through her blonde hair in comfort and said, “We’ll start with the inns. But first, let’s get something to eat.”
The seasoned dwarf, vaguely familiar with the streets of Riveton, led the group to a nearby inn deeper in the heart of the city. Bitrayuul took note of the sign hanging from a rusted chain above the threshold. The Stone Wood, it read, gaining the half-orc’s curiosity. Tormag failed to notice, pushing through the withered, wooden door to enter the tavern. Immediately Bitrayuul discerned the reason for his mentor’s choice of establishment. Each table—and even the bar—was populated by dwarves.
Tormag led them to the last available table in the center of the inn. All commotion squelched at the sight of patrons of non-dwarven descent. Angry, beady dwarf eyes stared from beneath thick, furrowed brows at the unwelcome visitors.
“Hal thild vant gar’thurim,” Tormag stated nonchalantly to the onlookers. As one, all turned their heads and continued their festivities. He simply smiled to his friends as he pulled a dwarf-sized stool from under the table.
Bitrayuul extracted the too-small seat from under the table. As he attempted to sit—legs wrapped around the outer rim of the wooden slab—he asked Tormag, “Father, what did you say to them?”
The gruff dwarf waved it away as if it was nothing. “Nothin’, lad, just said ye lot was with me, more or less. Ye know, ye really need t’ continue yer studies once we’re settled back home.” Bitrayuul knew he meant ancient dwarvish, the dialect his father had just spoken. Surely, with his life remaining in Tarabar, he had planned to learn. However, military duties were a constant. It seemed the invading trolls and the like were not fond of him learning the language of his adoptive kin.
“Oye, bar, three hots and two shots, if ye please!” Tormag called out to the dwarf behind the counter before turning to Bitrayuul. “This here is a dwarven spot, obviously. Ye see, Riveton is huge, lad, even though it ain’t a port on the coast. Sure as stones, Port Tempest be vast. But Riveton used t’ be the human capital long ago. Thousands o’ years. So, this place has been used as a tradin’ hub since. It’s in a pretty inconvenient spot, don’t ye doubt. But lots o’ shady activity goes on here, boy. They use the cover o’ the forest t’ help . . . operations.”
Bitrayuul looked at Lilyanna, who was just as fascinated by the place as he was and thought of the danger she had evaded in the market. “Tormag, that stone . . .” he began.
“Aye, that stone our wee lass took an interest in was enchanted. Riddled with dark magic, used t’ enthrall unsuspectin’ children. Once they get t’ the cart, they’re taken. Sold as slaves or worse in the underground market,” he finished.
Bitrayuul sat in amazement and equal horror. “How is that possible? Worse yet, how is it known and not sought to end?”
Tormag’s hands patted the air. “Easy, easy, lad. It is sought t’ end. But the crime syndicates that run this place ain�
��t no bumblin’ fools. These be hardened criminals. Murderous dogs that kill any who snoop, as well as their family. Their brutality is what keeps ‘em around. Folks are too scared t’ get in the way, and rightly so, Bit. We got lucky the merchant’s hired man saved her, or she’d have been lost. So, ye see, there are some still fightin’. But, takes a clever sort t’ make a difference.”
The orc-kin was baffled. He had little experience in the rest of the world outside of Tarabar. Even in his young years, he had known cruelty and seen it first-hand. But the suffering of the world he had known was always based in the lesser, more evil races. Never did he think that ‘good’ folk would ever resort to such action—against their own kind! It sobered him. To now know that cruelty extended to all realms. He cursed his own naivety.
As their meal plopped to their table, none of the group needed prodding to dive wholeheartedly into the savory lunch. After completing their meal, Lilyana was quick to ask, “Are we going to look for my ma now?”
Orcblood Legacy - Honor Page 15
