Malice stepped over to Bitrayuul, taking a seat next to the half-orc. She sat in silence before quietly whispering, “Thank you.”
Bitrayuul raised his eyebrow from beneath his helmet. He knew the pride of the woman and how hard it was for her to give voice to such words. The half-orc replied with a simple, “You are welcome.” At least now he was certain she remembered some of the day’s events.
The woman closed her eyes tightly in the hope that it would stop the tears she knew were coming. But it was futile. She sobbed lightly as her cheeks streaked with the warmth of her pain. Bitrayuul laid a hand gently on her shoulder, bringing forth a louder moan of sorrow.
“I-I could not avenge her, Bitrayuul. What kind of mother am I that I cannot take vengeance against the demon that brought her that awful fate?” she asked rhetorically. The half-orc simply sat in silence, swallowing his own sorrow.
“Believe me, I am thankful you saved me from his blade, if only to grant me another chance at him. But now I must live with this pain. The guilt of knowing Lilyana was . . .” Her words were interrupted by soft wails as she once again comprehended the reality of her daughter’s demise. “My mind . . .” she began slowly, “. . . is cloudy. I know this, as I am sure you have taken note as well. It hides things from me. Painful things. It knows me in my truest form, better than any other, and deems me too weak to handle the truth. How am I to survive this world when my own body knows I am too weak to even fight myself?” Her words grew louder with each comment.
Her words perplexed Bitrayuul. He had never fathomed that his mother may actually be aware of her fractured mental state. He assumed she simply was a slave to its machinations. However, the half-orc also knew how volatile she was, especially when accessing the hidden knowledge she spoke of now. Already, Bitrayuul could see her eyes were darting around in panic. She was starting to get lost in her painful memories once more. It was almost as if Malice was reading from a haunted book that had most of the words scratched away, and each word she uncovered only brought on more horror.
He found himself rubbing her back slightly, with her leaning toward him in comfort. A rush of confused emotions hit him as he was forced to push her—his birth mother—away from the protruding blades of his armor for her own safety. Bitrayuul wanted to embrace her in comfort but his wicked armor prevented such actions. The half-orc cursed the carapace that had served him so well, for it now served as a barrier—an obstacle to building a relationship with the woman who had brought him into this world.
“I am sorry, mother,” he said softly. This time, she did not snap at him. Instead Malice simply let out a few more weak sobs as she laid her head on the earth before him. She was exhausted from the day, and her body needed to heal from the numerous wounds she had suffered at the hands of her tormentor.
Luckily, aside from the stab in her side, all of her wounds were minor or superficial. Bitrayuul wanted to dress the more severe injury but worried he would disturb her sleep. Even more, Malice’s mental state would likely not hold up to being roused in the dark and having her clothing removed by one with orc blood.
The half-orc stood and retrieved a wool blanket from his pack and placed it lightly over his slumbering mother. With the evening still young and the sun down, Bitrayuul stared at his surroundings. The silence in the air was chilling. He heard nothing except the light snoring of the old dwarf near him. All three horses lay comfortably in the grass, resting to regain their strength after such an intense ride. Where domestic horses could only maintain a sprint for a short period of time, these horses had been bred specifically for long rides. Tormag had been around long enough to know it was worth paying extra for the special breed. Even still, the half-orc felt terrible for forcing them to continue at such a pace for so long. It put his mind at ease to see them so relaxed now.
With no sounds around and no companion to keep him entertained, Bitrayuul’s mind played back images he had wished to forget. His own lack of sleep was starting to take its toll as his nightmares now broke free of the dream realm and began to haunt his waking thoughts. He slapped his hands against his helmet to rattle his head and stop the horrendous scenes from playing. A groan of frustration escaped him as it proved fruitless. Tears welled up in his eyes as he could not seek relief from the gory sight of Lilyana’s severed body spilling to the ground.
In the scene, he could see himself standing there, watching, useless—immobilized by unseen chains that he should have broken. Why didn’t he break them? He let the girl he had come to love in such a short time die in front of him. Bitrayuul’s mind twisted the memory in cruelly vivid detail. He cried audibly as he watched her nearly-lifeless eyes wilt and fade as her outstretched hand reached for his immobile replica in a last desperate plea for help. Yet the copy of him never moved. It sat in the shadows, watching the young girl bleed out, offering no comfort.
As the scene played out slowly, emphasizing each painful moment, it was as if he was there again, watching it all occur once more. Bitrayuul yelled in his mind to his inert likeness. “Go! Help her! You useless wretch! Take her hand, anything!”
Bitrayuul’s focus on the ethereal clone became stronger with his angry pleading. The shadows around the face began to clear. He expected to see himself with his head hung low, accepting his shame. Instead, it was not his own face, but Chakal’s. That wide-eyed smile of triumph and glee as the elf watched the girl die. The metaphor was not lost on Bitrayuul. If he could not even move a single muscle to help comfort the girl, was he really any better than her murderer?
The pain brought him back to reality. The half-orc sobbed harshly, drenching his face in tears and sweat. Off came his helmet. Bitrayuul threw it to the side and continued to sob as the scenes of his nightmare subsided. Looking around, he noticed much of the night had passed. A pang of guilt struck him for dozing off during his watch. “Always useless,” he said to himself. With luck, his companions were in such a deep sleep that he had not woken them with his outcries. Luckier still, none had intruded on their camp and slain them in their slumber.
With renewed resolve, Bitrayuul managed to stay awake without any more nightmares—though his fear of their return did little to serve him. After a short while, he woke Tormag from his sleep and traded places. Many moments slipped by before fatigue finally grabbed hold of the half-orc and dragged him to a dreamless rest.
Bitrayuul awoke abruptly from his father shaking him. “Come, lad. It’s time t’ get movin’.” The half-orc squinted and saw that it was morning. He was grateful the night had gone without conflict. He wiped his eyes before realizing that his helmet was still off. A flush of panic rushed through him as he searched around frantically.
Malice approached and made direct eye contact with his orcish face. He expected her to instantly snap to action and release an onslaught of attacks against his prone form. Instead, she held out his helmet and said, “Here, Bitrayuul.”
Cautiously, he reached for the gear. Once in hand, he went to place it back on his head but then stopped. “Wait, you aren’t going to attack me?” he asked.
She smiled slightly before replying, “No, son, I won’t.”
Bitrayuul beamed a smile back to her. Perhaps they had managed to form a bond last night after all. But that was not the real reason. Malice had awakened during the night and had heard his tormented cries for Lilyana. His guilt-driven pain at not comforting his sister in the final flickers of her life caused her to pity him.
Even with her acceptance, Bitrayuul still placed the helmet on his head out of habit and convenience before packing up camp with the others. Their moods were light as the previous day’s events seemed, for the moment, in the past. In short time, the group was heading south toward the Tusks. The half-orc was uncertain how far Fangdarr might be ahead of them—or if he even lived—but Bitrayuul now knew that family meant everything to him. The passage that his brother would surely take was only a day’s ride away. Soon he would be reunited with his kin.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
&
nbsp; SAVIORS
Fangdarr retracted his upper lip in a low grumble as he watched his axe sway back and forth with the ogre’s movements. The orc’s rage grew quickly; Driktarr was his to wield. His attention was pried elsewhere, though, as Bear let out a cry of fear. One of the other ogres, the monstrous cretin that stood between Fangdarr and his companion, chuckled at the unarmed orc, his disgusting teeth bared in a grotesque smile as it plodded toward its prey.
“Cuhmere, orcsy,” it taunted with a giggle, arms outstretched, fingers waggling.
The orc rushed forward, directly at the monster. He knew he only had one shot for his plan to work; it relied explicitly on the clumsiness he had heard about regarding ogre-folk. As Fangdarr closed the gap between them, mere steps away from his target, the orc dropped to his hip and slid under the grasping reach of the ogre. The grass facilitated a slicker slide than he had anticipated, though, and he appeared on the other end of the beast.
In an instant, he rose from his prone position. He had to act before the confused creature turned to face him once more. With his feet planted, Fangdarr pivoted on his heel, spun to face the ogre, sending a balled fist directly into the groin of the beast as it completed its turn.
“Oof! Oooooooooooooooooooh!” Fangdarr’s opponent howled, grabbing its groin with both hands. It fell to the ground in agony, still clutching and groaning in pain. As the incapacitated creature fell, the orc glanced to the two remaining ogres, determining the best course of action.
Time seemed to slow as his senses stood on end. Cormac still lay unconscious against the base of the tree. Bear still dangled dangerously close to the mouth of its captor, though her jailer had become momentarily distracted by its ally’s sudden whimpering. Lastly, the leader, who wielded the axe—his axe—was now running for him. Within moments, Fangdarr would be at risk of being culled by his own favored token.
Fangdarr made his choice. Despite every selfish desire tugging at him, pulling him in the other direction, he broke off toward Bear. If he were to die by his own weapon in an attempt to save his companion, so be it. The orc knew he would never survive the guilt if, in choosing to retrieve his greataxe, the animal he had come to trust—and that had come to trust in him—was dropped into the gaping maw of the demon that held her. His mind would never let him sleep without reminding him of the crunching of her bones being shattered and ground to fragments as her dying whimpers of pain filled the forest air.
So, off Fangdarr went, both for her survival and his own. Anger added force to his pounding feet as he sprinted toward his pet. The ogre took notice of his charge. Though a stupid creature, it did not fail to discern the source of pain inflicted on its still-whimpering ally on the ground. It placed one hand over its groin as the other gripped Bear’s leg tightly and swung her through the air like a club into the oncoming attacker. Fangdarr blocked the brunt of the blow, and the smell of fur and blood filled his nose as she swept past him, still in the grip of the ogre.
Ah, blood. If there was ever a word to the wise when dealing with orcs, it was this: Do not let them witness blood. Fangdarr tasted the irony black fluid that dripped down his face and over his thick upper lip. Instantly his pupils dilated in ecstasy as he lusted for more. Unarmed, outnumbered, the orc dashed forward under the next sweep of the makeshift bear club, his speed enhanced by the hunger he now needed to sate. Now at close quarters, the orc lunged forward and opened his mouth wide. His teeth sank deep into the upper thigh of the ogre and pressing with all the force the orc could muster, the large fangs of his bottom jaw tore both flesh and muscle.
With a scream of pain, the ogre reflexively dropped Bear to the ground and grabbed Fangdarr with both of its hands. No matter how hard it tried, it could not pry the orc from its leg. Instead, each tug only added to the agonizing pain. The ogre saw the oncoming leader of its gang only a step away. It whimpered and pushed out its leg toward the creature wielding Driktarr in plea.
“I git ‘im!” the leader shouted, raising the greataxe.
Fangdarr was too lost in his bloodlust to notice. Feeling the blood drain from his foe’s leg onto his salivating tongue had left the orc blinded in ecstasy. Bear barked to her master in warning but to no avail. She was too wounded from the twist to her leg at having been swung through the air. The animal whined and whimpered as the ogre swept the weapon downward toward Fangdarr’s head.
The animal closed her eyes, refusing to watch the end of her savior. She waited in torment for the thud of the weapon entering the orc’s skull, followed by a thump as his lifeless form fell to the grass. Yet, those sounds never came. When she peeked her eyes open, the ogre simply stood there looking odd, its ugly face twisted in confusion and pain as its eyes darted in every direction.
The other monster who still had Fangdarr ripping through its flesh groaned in pain and implored its leader. “Why no smash?!”
“I-I . . .” the creature began awkwardly. A whistling sound came as an arrow pierced the neck of the ogre, causing it to crash face-first into the ground. Once on its stomach, Bear noticed the other arrow protruding from the center of the creature’s back. Blessed by luck, it must have severed the ogre’s spine, immobilizing it completely just as it was bringing the axe down on Fangdarr.
From the source of the arrow came the sound of hooves. Thunderous clip-clops reaching closer and closer as the unexpected visitors arrived. Tormag hopped from his tall horse and rolled on the ground before reaching his feet, “Oye! Don’t think ye can be killin’ some nasty ogres without us! Bahaha!”
Behind the humorous dwarf came Malice, weapons drawn and still atop her mount. She stood at full height on her saddle, nearly the height of the ogres. Just as the incapacitated ogre was getting to its feet, the pain in its groin finally subsided, the assassin woman leapt from her perch wielding her gleaming weapons. She screamed in victory as she stabbed each blade into the eyes of her victim and finally into its brain. The explosion of blood that followed barely missed showering Malice as she flipped onto the skull of the fiend in a single fluid motion. She kept her balance while the creature toppled to the earth and collapsed into a lifeless heap.
By the time Malice felled her target, Tormag had reached the ogre still pulling at Fangdarr. Gross-smelling blood trickled down its entire right leg, also covering the front half of the orc. “Fang! Fang!” the old dwarf yelled. Nothing. Tormag sighed and raised his hammers as if to throw them.
The ogre blinked curiously at the dwarf before breaking into a childish cackle. “Hah! Dwarfsie think puny hammer hurt me? Hahah!”
As if on cue, Tormag launched one hammer followed by the other at a slightly lower angle. The first thudded squarely against the chin of his target, knocking the monster on its rear. The moment it landed, the second hammer struck in the same spot from the lowered sitting position, just as the old dwarf had planned. This was not the first giant-like creature who had underestimated Tormag. As the second weapon bashed into the ogre’s already bruised chin, it broke through the weakened bone, shattering teeth.
“Well, would ye look at that, me ‘puny hammer’ did just fine, aye?” Tormag gloated. His stubby hands extended in front of him, and a tiny grin formed on his face as the ogre watched the devastating hammers fly back to his hands from their resting places on the ground. Eyes wide with horror, the ogre got up and turned to run—still with the ravenous orc attached to its leg. Tormag laughed maniacally as he threw hammer after hammer into the back of the creature as it tried to escape. Each thud followed with the weapon returning to his hand. His laughter could not be contained as he easily chased after the monster never ceasing his throwing.
Finally, after nearly two dozen assaults, the ogre fell to the earth. Bruises lined its back with a few trickles of blood from where the skin had broken. “Damn. C’mere, Bit. Ye think that looks like a chicken? Bahaha!” With the cretin gasping in pain, flat on its stomach against the grass, Bitrayuul approached. Indeed, the bruises that formed on its back did resemble a chicken, though he ignored the comment. T
he half-orc’s attention was on the orc who was now trapped beneath the monster.
“Fangdarr? Are you alright?” he asked of his brother.
Within an instant, the orc’s pupils returned to normal—the trance was broken. “Brother?” Fangdarr’s incredulous face peered out from under the leg of the ogre. It was covered entirely in dark blood—a look Bitrayuul was not as used to as Fangdarr. A wide smile appeared on his face, “It is you!” With a hefty shove, the orc lifted the ogre’s leg off his body and rushed to embrace Bitrayuul.
The half-orc quickly put a hand out to stop Fangdarr from nearly impaling himself on the sharpened armor. “Easy, Fang. Don’t kill yourself the moment of our reunion.” Bitrayuul removed his helmet and looked knowingly at his brother. Both smiled before clasping hands.
Fangdarr looked around before asking, “What happened?”
His brother looked at him in confusion. “You do not know?”
The orc simply shrugged in response. Though as he inspected the field around him, the pieces started forming. “Oh! Bear and Cormac! Come!” he begged his kin before rushing over to his animal companion.
Orcblood Legacy - Honor Page 23
