Orcblood Legacy - Honor

by Bernard Bertram

  “Aye, lass. We’ll get started, don’t ye doubt. It’s a big place, sure as stones, but we’ll start with all the inns and taverns.”

  Bitrayuul knew his father left some details unspoken. What if they did not find her, or hear of her? They could not leave her here alone. No, not here, he thought. Not this forsaken place where children were the target of the devious minds of many. But what was the alternative? Return to Tarabar? Abandon Fangdarr in his quest for the sake of a single human child who had simply stumbled upon misfortune? He could not bear the questions for which he had no answers. No, they must find her mother.

  “Lily, what’d ye say yer ma’s name was?” asked Tormag

  “Alice! Her name is Alice.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  MALICE

  Riveton seemed to be on its last embers for the day. The streets were thinning, and all of the shops were in the midst of the tedious process of stowing away their wares. Tormag seemed not to notice. He approached a building with a single, dimly lit lantern flickering within. A small, broken, old man wearing a baker’s apron stood in the entry portal to his similarly battered shop, sweeping with the pace of rolling cement.

  “Oye, ye still open, Gramps?” grumbled the dwarf, exhausted from the day’s search. Bitrayuul and a weary-eyed Lilyana trailed slowly behind, looking just as weary.

  The decrepit baker slowly looked up from his broom, his own tired eyes ready to close in sleep—or death’s sweet embrace, Tormag thought. His raspy voice came out slow and troubled, “I’m sorry, we’re closed.”

  Tormag hardly even let him finish before giving a “Bah!” and walking on with a wave of his rough hand, off to seek food. A hungry dwarf is a mad dwarf. Four more shops gave the same reply, drawing more and more irritation from the ravenous dwarf. Lilyana and Bitrayuul just followed begrudgingly, peeking around corners for her mother and asking nearby, loitering citizens of her whereabouts. So far, none of the people of Riveton had ever heard of a woman named Alice. Inquiries were greeted only with shrugs.

  “Tormag, go on and look for somewhere to eat,” Bitrayuul offered. “Lilyana and I are going to try to find her mother before nightfall.”

  “Ye sure? Me belly be grumblin’, don’t ye doubt, but I’m well enough t’ join ye.”

  “Yes, we’ll be fine. You should return to The Stone Wood so that we might have a soft warm bed for the night. We will set out early on the morrow.”

  Tormag’s eyes brightened at the notion of returning to the inn for hearth. The thought of a satiating meal in his grumbling stomach kicked his feet even higher.

  Bitrayuul turned to Lilyana, “You’re sure your mother came here? No one has even heard of her name, child.”

  Lily’s head drooped down, causing her blonde locks to fall from her diminutive shoulders and sway in front of her face. “Yes, my pa told me she was here.” Tears were already rolling down her face in glistening streaks. Another passerby crossed them. They too were unfamiliar with the name of her mother. On went their search, though their optimism diminished. Bitrayuul began to pity the girl. He knew they were at the brink of hopelessness. Before that, it had been rejected as they held fast to the faith in their efforts. But now, after speaking with so many and not a single flicker of recognition, they could not expect to beat back that beast much longer.

  Meanwhile, on the other end of the district, the gleeful dwarf headed toward the familiar dwarven inn where their day had begun. However, whilst he traversed the dirty cobblestone street, his eyes were drawn to a lantern outside a worn building tucked between two others. It seemed they had missed this building as he did not recall its likeness. He noticed a sign hung above the door, oft the symbol of inns and taverns. He looked back to The Stone Wood, only a few hundred paces away. A heavy sigh escaped him. “Bah, damn it all t’ hell!” the dwarf cursed as he turned toward the unknown tavern.

  “Yer finest ale, lad,” Tormag said to the young barkeep, a dusty-haired boy, as he slid onto a stool at the bar. Judging by how young he was, the old dwarf figured him to be the son of the innkeeper. “Oye, and a bowl o’ whatever ye got that’s steamin’.”

  “Yes, master dwarf,” obediently replied the young chap. He put down the glass he was ‘shining’ with his soiled rag and scampered into the kitchen. It wasn’t long before he returned with a steaming bowl of thick beef stew in one hand and a fresh burn on the other. Tormag privately sighed at the poor lad’s clumsiness.

  The bowl of stew was placed slowly on the counter, fearful of another burn, and slid even more slowly to the amused dwarf. Just as the boy was pulling his burned hand away, Tormag snatched it with his stubby fingers and looked it over. “What’s yer name, boy?”

  The frightened youth instinctively tried to pull away and replied, “Calus, master dwarf.” After realizing he was no match for the dwarf’s strength, the boy discontinued his feeble attempt to break the hold.

  “Bit o’ mustard on that there hand, Calus. Should clear up fine. Oye, and thanks t’ ye fer me stew, and thanks t’ ye in advance fer me ale.” At that the barkeep’s eyes lit up, remembering the dwarf’s ale he had forgotten in the kitchen. He soon returned with ale in one hand and mustard on the other.

  Tormag finally peeked down at his stew. His stomach clawed at him to dig in. He swirled the spoon through the hearty broth, uncovering pieces of beef and vegetables hiding below the surface. His eagerness betrayed him, however, as the first spoonful of the savory meal met his tongue with the searing heat of an open flame. Dwarves were known for their resilience; nonetheless, no such resilience resides on their tongues. Tormag’s eyes filled with water as pride and stubbornness would not allow him to yelp in agony. Instead, a forced groan pushed out his brewing rage and pain, followed by a handful of hacking coughs. He blew a deep breath to settle himself and in went another spoonful of stew—searing his tongue yet again. Dwarves are known for their stubbornness.

  With a belly full of steaming stew and a content smile on his face, Tormag sipped at his ale, wondering how Bitrayuul and Lilyana fared with their search. He had lost all hope of finding Lilyana’s mother a while ago. No one had heard of an Alice around here. “Bah, damn it all t’ hell. Suppose I might as well ask around while I’m here,” he muttered to himself. He reluctantly slid off his tall seat at the bar, nearly falling over as he hit the ground. “Oye!” he began shouting to the few patrons of the inn, “Anyone here know a woman be named Alice?”

  The few clients whispered amongst themselves, some shaking their heads. One man in the corner seemed to pull his cloak hood down, casting a deeper shadow over his face. Tormag’s curiosity piqued. He decided it would be best to fetch Bitrayuul before approaching the hooded figure.

  It didn’t take the determined dwarf long to find his companion. After all, he stood out like a serpent among pondfish with his spiked armor amongst the diminished populace that wandered the streets so late in the day. Tormag waved them down and beckoned when they noticed him. The evening was in full bloom, and the dwarf could see the weariness on the girl’s face as the pair shuffled over to him.

  Tormag relayed the events at the tavern involving the hooded man, and Bitrayuul agreed it was worth investigation. After all, what alternative was there?

  “Welcome back, master dwarf,” stated Calus as the group entered the establishment. A gruff nod was all that he received as the party was too focused on the corner table, where the hooded man had been sitting.

  “Hmm, empty,” grumbled Tormag. “Boy, where’d that man in the corner go?” he asked, pointing.

  “Uhh, I think he left naught but a minute ago, master dwarf,” the boy replied with a shrug.

  Bitrayuul and Tormag looked to each other questioningly. Each turned to the girl, but she had already been taken by slumber at the bar. Seated on the wood stool, her small, blonde head lay flat against the stained counter, a squished, rosy cheek already soaking in an accumulating puddle of drool. Bitrayuul could not help but smile. He had seen his share of dwarven children whilst st
aying at Tarabar the past few years. However, dwarven young were notably similar to adults, just smaller. The innocence in the human girl’s face brought a profound sense of peace to the half-orc. Was it possible, by the most remote of chances, that this was his sister?

  Tormag laid both hands on Bitrayuul’s right arm, tugging at it, pulling the dazed half-orc out of his reverie. “Oye! What are ye doin’?” asked the frustrated dwarf.

  “Sorry, I was away from myself.”

  “Aye, took a notice t’ that,” replied the impatient dwarf before addressing Calus. “Boy, can ye keep an eye on the girl?” he asked, pointing to Lilyana.

  Calus looked puzzled. He followed the stubby finger to the heap of blonde hair and saliva on the counter. The poor boy must have been dopier than the dwarf had previously thought. Another puzzled look back to the dwarf, then he pointed to Lilyana, a question in his eyes.

  “Aye, lad, that be a girl. Ye ever seen ye one o’ ‘em?” asked the increasingly frustrated dwarf. “Bah! Watch the damn girl, son! C’mon, Bit, we got some huntin’ t’ do.” With that, the dwarf took a swig from a nearby sleeping patron’s mug, draining it completely, and stomped out of the building, grumbling old dwarven curses.

  Bitrayuul ran a hand over Lilyana’s soft, dirty hair before exiting after his companion. “Keep her safe, boy!” he called out to Calus as he passed the threshold.

  Once Bitrayuul and Tormag had departed, Calus looked at the sleeping girl with puzzlement. After a long moment to consider how to move Lilyana, he gently carried the girl to one of the rooms. Throwing a light, cloth blanket over her snoozing form, Calus closed the door behind him and returned to the bar, baffled at the night’s events.

  The pair bumped around the darkened alleys of Riveton, kicking disease-ridden rats as they scurried past. The town looked much dirtier at night, to be sure. Perhaps they were just in the unfavorable and forgotten part. The scents that filled their nostrils were of death and disease, making that section of town seem a rotting plague in comparison to the rest of the place. Nevertheless, they continued their path. A right turn around a corner in the tight alley, then a left. Three more rights, a dozen more lefts, and a dozen more rights. The place seemed a labyrinth of endless tucks and twists unaccompanied by any helpful landmarks.

  “Bah! Damn the stones, son! We’re lost!” shouted the dwarf. He crashed down against a wall in exhaustion, seeming to cause more harm to himself than intended. “Me bones are tired. What are we doin’ anyhow? Goin’ around chasin’ shadows. Bah, it’s late. I’m fer thinkin’ it be time t’ go back t’ the inn and get some rest. Aye?”

  Bitrayuul was similarly exhausted, though his curiosity was more than enough motivation to keep him going. This was their first shred of hope they had encountered in their efforts that day. The man they hunted knew something. He was sure of it. The half-orc turned to his father, “We ca—”

  Tormag looked up. “We what? Bit? What are ye about?” he asked, following Bitrayuul’s blank, open-mouthed stare to his right. “Oh.”

  Not ten strides away stood the cloaked figure in the middle of the narrow alley armed with a serrated sword in one hand and a curved dagger in the other. The blades stood out easily in the darkened lane as moonlight cast reflections on the cold steel. The man’s hood was still pulled low to cover his face, so the pair could not determine his true intent, though they expected it was unfavorable. Tormag stood slowly, his eyes never leaving the dark figure. “Say, friend, what are ye about?” he asked.

  The man’s grip tightened around his notably magnificent weapons. A shallow breath escaped him. “Why do you follow me?” he asked in a soft but threatening tone. It was the menacing whisper of an assassin in his own killing grounds. Confidence poured from the man. These were his streets. The hunters had easily become the hunted, and they knew it.

  Bitrayuul stepped forward, hoping not to cause more alarm. “We seek a woman called Alice, do you know of her?”

  The cloaked man’s grip tightened further, the muscles in his slight legs tensing.

  “Uh oh . . .” Tormag said, knowing what was next.

  The cloaked figure burst into motion. With a kick off the wall behind him, the assailant propelled toward them at near blinding speed, then maneuvering his slender form into a tuck, planted his deadly sword tip into the hard ground, causing his body to do two quick twists before reaching the dwarf. From the confusion of the swirling mass, the curved dagger came toward Tormag’s face, nearly catching his right eye. In a single reflexive movement, the dwarf managed to bring his right war hammer into its path, deflecting the dagger toward the wall. The blade screeched against the stone flicking bright orange sparks into the dark alleyway.

  Meanwhile, the skilled assailant flicked his sword from its planted position toward Bitrayuul’s legs, aiming to hamstring the tall opponent. The half-orc attempted to jump back, but his focus was too concerned with Tormag’s danger, costing him precious time. The serrated sword cut through his fine armor and made a shallow cut into the side of his left thigh. Beneath his encased helmet, Bitrayuul could not hide his surprise. His armor was of the finest dwarven steel, not easily dented or pierced.

  Now that Bitrayuul and Tormag knew of the assailant’s intent. They quickly composed themselves and formed defensive postures next to each other, war hammers and spiked gauntlets at the ready. The man stood tall with weapons relaxed toward the ground two spear-lengths away. The companions were staying prepared, not willing to be caught by surprise again.

  Another few moments of silent anticipation from both parties, then it was the assailant who moved again. His domain, his advantage. The man began a sprinting charge toward his prey, weapons leading. As the assassin closed half the distance, he leapt into the air toward them, causing them to raise their weapons defensively by instinct. However, while in the air, the assassin simply vanished into nothingness—a faint cloud of black smoke left in his wake.

  The pair instantly put their backs together. They scanned the area for any hint as to where their target went. Moments passed, but they knew not to let their guard down. That was what he was waiting for. Time crept by, seeming like an eternity, with not an inch of relent from the pair. Bitrayuul and Tormag were seasoned fighters who were disciplined in the art of warfare. Nevertheless, there is only so much tension a warrior can take. Paired with a contorted face, the dwarf’s legs shifted, and out came a loud flatulence that only a dwarf could be proud of.

  The dwarf could not hold his resolve. “Bahaha! That one might have been me!” As his claim concluded, the assassin appeared on the wall to his right, sword already accelerating toward his temple. But Tormag and Bitrayuul were ready for the assault. By the time the sword crashed into Tormag’s intercepting hammer’s dense head, Bitrayuul already had both hands around the assassin’s dagger arm and left leg, pinning him to the wall.

  “Oye, these be me favorite hammers, trickster. If there’s a scratch on ‘em ye’ll be buffin’ it out with yer teeth, aye?” he stated calmly, a castle’s weight of seriousness in his voice. The dwarf headbutted the man for good measure, his steel helmet dazing his victim. Tormag then grabbed the man’s sword arm and opposing leg before the assassin could regain his senses.

  The pair held the struggling cloaked figure with strong hands, easily overpowering the slight-of-build man. They pushed him to the ground and Bitrayuul sat on his legs and chest while holding his struggling arms with ease. For each wiggle and writhe, the man only rend himself deeper on the blades of Bitrayuul’s armor. Tormag tucked his weapons after kicking away the assassin’s sinister, curved dagger and mildly bloodied, serrated sword. He leaned over the cloaked man, still unseen under the shadow of his hood, and yanked it up to glimpse the attacker in the moonlight.

  Long blonde hair shined brightly in the dark of the alleyway—an illuminating presence in such an abysmal setting. Thin red lips twisted beneath angry, murderous eyes, showing the assassin for what she truly was.

  “Bothain’s beard! It’s a lass! HAH!
Say, Bit, we almost got fed t’ the rats by a wee lass!” exclaimed the surprised and amused dwarf, ever the comic.

  Bitrayuul had yet to move or make a sound as the surprise took him fully. For when he looked directly into the woman’s face, beyond the murderous expression, past the strikingly sinister eyes, thin lips, and strong and determined attitude, it was behind those features that the half-orc saw a distinct resemblance to Lilyana.

  “What is your name, woman?” asked Bitrayuul slowly, hardly able to form the words that fought the weight in his gut.

  She stared back at him, still struggling, allowing her skin and clothing to be ripped asunder. Blood began to trickle down a dozen wounds, but her burning blue eyes never left his. He could see all the hate in the world in those blue orbs. Fires lit behind a glass ball, trapping the raging inferno for her disgust of him. She settled briefly, regaining her sinister composure. If she was to die, she would die with the pride of a murderer who instilled fear into those who heard her name. “Malice.”