As the pair rushed away, Tormag stood with his arms crossed over his chest. He raised them in the air in frustration. “Oye! What do ye want me t’ do with this bloat-bellied beast?” he asked as his boot smacked against the face of the ogre. When no response came, he just sighed before using a simultaneous strike with both war hammers to cave in its skull. He scowled in disgust at the gore stuck to his beautifully engraved tools and attempted to awkwardly wipe the mess on the grass at his feet without much success. The irritated dwarf just groaned to himself as he walked back to the others.
Fangdarr reached his animal companion in short order and dropped to his knees to embrace her. His loving affection came as a surprise to Bitrayuul, who stood quietly watching the encounter. The orc’s hands rubbed Bear’s ears in comfort before moving down to inspect her haunch. After a while he said, “No break. Just sore from twisting.” He walked over to their packs that had been dropped at the beginning of the ambush and produced a cloth bandage.
After the cloth was wound tightly around her ankle, Fangdarr helped Bear back to her feet. He watched in concern as she tested the weight on her foot. A few moments of tenderly pressing on the haunch passed before she resumed a normal stance and hopped excitedly at her master. The orc hugged her tightly once more, glad for her safety. His brother speculated that the love Fangdarr had for the beast had grown considerably since their last meeting. Bitrayuul was glad to see that his barbaric sibling was not only capable of death and ruin.
Fangdarr stood and faced his brother. “Now Cormac.”
Bitrayuul nodded in acceptance as he allowed his kin to tend to his companions—as Bitrayuul would have done. Meanwhile, he turned his attention to the paralyzed ogre nearby. Its face still down in the dirt, the monster struggled for breath. Upon seeing the half-orc approach, it raised its eyes painfully.
“Kill me,” it pleaded.
The half-orc was not unsympathetic of the disabled creature. Knowing the creature was immobilized, Bitrayuul sat next to the ogre. “I have questions. If you answer in truth, I will end your misery. Agreed?”
Teeth bared in anger at being manipulated, the ogre growled at its tormentor. “Agreed.”
“You know of Crepusculus?”
A smile found its way to the fiend’s face. He did not need to answer.
“Good. Now, where in the mountains does it rest?”
The smile faded instantly. “Dono,” it replied.
Bitrayuul sighed. He pushed downward on the arrow protruding from the back of the ogre’s neck. Blood squelched from the wound as the creature cried out in pain. “You’re lying, monster.”
With hatred in its eyes, the ogre clamped its teeth down onto its own tongue, severing it completely. The gray in its eyes became clouded by wetness as the pain overcame the beast.
“Where is the dragon?!” Bitrayuul shouted, pressing the arrow even more. The ogre only laughed, spewing blackened blood on the green grass beneath its mouth. It continued laughing until finally choking itself on its lifeblood. Gurgles and sputters escaped the monster as it struggled to breath. Groaning in frustration, Bitrayuul walked away in hopelessness.
Tormag and Malice stood waiting for him near the horses as Fangdarr carried Cormac from the tree where he had been lying. “Will he be alright, Fang?” his adoptive father asked.
The orc looked to his cargo before nodding in affirmation. Tormag was glad for that. Dwarves are a tightly-knitted race and look after their own. “Thank you for saving us,” Fangdarr started, pausing for a moment to acknowledge each of his three saviors.
“What now?” Malice prodded impatiently. Though she did not show it, the woman struggled immensely to maintain self-control upon seeing Fangdarr—fighting back every conditioned response to gut him on sight. Nevertheless, the stress brought its fair share of agitation.
Bitrayuul handed Driktarr to his brother. He had stopped to gather the weapon while Fangdarr was occupied caring for his injured companions. The orc gripped the weapon in familiarity, pleased to hold it once again in his grasp. Bitrayuul spoke before Fangdarr had the chance, informing his brother of the reason for his appearance. “Now, we hunt a dragon.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
PLAN
“Bothain’s beard, ye sure are tall fer a dwarf,” Tormag stated bluntly as he inspected Cormac. The younger dwarf, still groggy from being knocked out, peered at Tormag curiously as he came to.
“Wh-where am I? Who ye be?” he whispered from a dry mouth. Cormac’s small hand reached up to rub the last remnants of weariness from his good eye. He could feel his bald skull resting on a folded blanket, though it did not help the throb in his head.
Tormag reached over and readjusted the makeshift pillow beneath the guard captain’s head, drawing a nod of appreciation from the patient. “We’re still in the forest, lad. Ye took quite a smashin’ against them ogres. Me name’s Tormag Double-Hammers. I’m with Fang’s brother, Bitrayuul. Ye be Cormac, captain of the Shield, aye?” he asked.
Cormac nodded. “Aye, though, can’t say me shields be used to blockin’ damned trees used as clubs.” His light chuckle seemed to appeal to the old dwarf as Tormag erupted in a boom of laughter.
Tormag then drew the Cormac’s attention to Bitrayuul and Fangdarr who sat a few paces away, discussing something at length over a map. “What do ye reckon they’re discussin’?” he asked.
The captain simply shrugged. “Probably tryin’ to figure out which village to raid,” he added with a smile that was soon interrupted by a cough.
“Bahahaha! Oh, lad, we’re goin’ t’ get along just fine.”
Malice tapped Tormag with her foot. The dwarf grunted in confusion at the woman until she nodded her head in the orcish siblings’ direction. “They’re coming over.”
Walking side by side, the brothers approached their companions with determination, Bear close behind Fangdarr. Bitrayuul held his helmet in one hand and a rolled map in the other. He smiled, flashing the two bottom fangs that protruded twice the length of his human-like teeth, yet still only a quarter the size of Fangdarr’s enlarged tusks. Apart from Tormag, this was the first time their companions had a chance to compare the two.
Though Bitrayuul’s stature was large by human standards, the half-orc seemed dwarfed by his sibling—even in his heavy armor. The glow of Fangdarr’s eyes was the only color that stood out from his black skin, which still managed to peek around the hundreds of white scars of varying dimension etched over his body. Malice forcibly restrained herself as the full-blooded orc approached, fighting every instinct she had to take to arms and eliminate the threat. Fangdarr shared some resemblance of his father—the source of her torment. It took every shred of her willpower to not cut him down.
“Friends, it seems we have our course,” Bitrayuul stated as he set his helmet down and retied his long, black hair. “As you all know, we are nearly to the base of the Tusks,” he added, extending his hand south to the nearby mountain range. “We will traverse around the base to the west, where we will encounter a river. We will then follow that river east through Hell’s Throat, which will lead us up through the mountain.”
Tormag’s eyes grew wide at the name. “Hell’s Throat? Are ye mad!?” he asked incredulously. All eyes shifted to him in curiosity. “Why do ye think it be named such? We won’t be spottin’ fairies and pixies, don’t ye doubt!”
“What threat lies there?” Malice asked.
The old dwarf shook his head. “I only know stories, long since passed. One tale told o’ trolls pickin’ off caravans at the bridge, grantin’ it the name ‘Carrion Bridge’. Trolls would come down from their caves by the dozen; lyin’ in wait, ready t’ ambush any who crossed the bridge. There be a reason that map in yer hand ends there, do it not?”
Fangdarr grabbed the parchment from his brother and inspected the document. A low groan rolled in his throat. It was true. The orc handed the paper back to Bitrayuul who likewise confirmed the statement.
“Right,” Tormag continued, “so anyway, the huma
ns sent a battalion t’ Hell’s Throat nearly a thousand years ago. They were tired o’ bein’ picked off one by one, so they sent a small army t’ eradicate the vermin.” His head shook once more as he spoke. “Naught a single man left that passage, Bit. Now ye want us t’ tempt the same?”
The group waited in silence for someone to speak. Malice, ever impatient, broke the tension. “Is there another way?”
“We could dig! Bahaha!” Cormac replied, though his laughter died quickly as his audience had no interest in humor, even Tormag.
“The mountain faces are all sheer, a climb would be impossible,” Bitrayuul said. “There may be a more suitable path far to the east, though we cannot be certain. Even still, if we were to travel that far to scale a mountain, the task would remain to then backtrack over all the mountains we passed. No, it seems this is our only option,” Bitrayuul said with a disappointing sigh.
Malice chimed in with sarcasm. “So, it’s between certain death and a slow death. I, for one, prefer certain death.”
Fangdarr did not catch on to her tone, but he agreed with the words. He pounded his chest in boastful pride. “I will take passage!”
The woman rolled her eyes at his obliviousness. “Why are we doing this again? Oh, right, to slay a dragon that has been terrorizing Crein for as long as any can remember and that has defeated any that have attempted to dispose of it.” Her hands went up at the futility of their goal. It seemed an impossible task, to be sure.
As if on cue, the party started bickering amongst themselves. Finally, Cormac raised his hand to request calmness and motioned for everyone to sit down. The banter died down and everyone took a seat. Tormag removed a pipe from his bag to light a pinch of burnberry and nodded to his dwarf companion to speak.
“We need to be askin’ the difficult questions,” Cormac said. “All our lives be on the line here, Fangdarr. So, ask yerself, if the dragon be slain, what will ye do after? Will ye return to yer clan?”
Fangdarr wanted to shout in anger at the insulting nature of such a question. However, he kept his knee-jerk reaction in check and pondered it in silence, searching for what his honest answer was. In truth, the journey had come with more than a few obstacles that caused the orc to grow distant from his kind. Orc blood had been spilled by his hands in the protection of humans. What if he returned to his village only to learn they had discovered his actions? His first slumber would end with a knife to his throat.
Fangdarr exhaled painfully, “Don’t know.” He looked up at his allies. “That was plan. But . . . journey difficult. I have killed orcs. My own kind. I am always proud to be orc. But I do not think I can go back . . .” he stated plainly, as surprised to hear the words as the others.
“Where will you go?” Bitrayuul asked, hoping his sibling would choose to reside in Tarabar.
The orc took a steadying breath. “Not sure, Bit. I want to stay with Cormac and Bear.” His dwarven friend smiled in response while Bear happily rested against a tree.
Tormag took it all in. He was glad to know that Fangdarr had developed much over his travels. However, he was keener on the finer details hidden in plain sight. “I’m proud o’ ye, lad, don’t ye doubt,” he stated with a smile that was returned by his adoptive son. “However, ye all be forgettin’ why Fangdarr came t’ slay this beast in the first place. It was t’ prevent the Zharnik clan from waging war on Wiston or Tarabar. If Fangdarr does not kill the drake or does not return t’ steer the blood-thirsty orcs, another will simply take his place.
“Ye laid the pieces fer conquest, son. They’ve had a taste o’ it. Next in line won’t be so good-natured as ye, sure as stones.” The old dwarf took a long draw from his pipe before blowing a ring of smoke into the air.
Fangdarr’s eyes looked down in distress. “So . . . I must return?”
His half-blooded brother spoke up in vigor. “Wait, wait! No! They would kill him if his actions were discovered. In any case, Fangdarr, you said that the orcs do not have the strength to challenge either Wiston or Tarabar, right?” he pleaded, looking for any reason not to send his recently reunited kin to his death.
“Aye, that’s what he said, Bit,” Tormag added. “But don’t be thinkin’ that means they won’t try. The orcs will devastate every village along the way before smashin’ against the doors o’ a city.”
The realization of that fact hit Bitrayuul like a battering ram. He did not need Tormag to elaborate on the specifics. Was he really willing to let thousands die in the place of his kin? The half-orc’s head pounded with the stress as he tried to think of a rebuttal, but he could not.
Luckily, it was Fangdarr who spoke for him. “I do not want innocent humans or dwarves to die for me.” A proud smile stretched the cheeks of both dwarves, astounded at how the orc had grown. “I will return to my clan—alone—convince my people not to wage war.”
“But what if they kill you!?” Bitrayuul shouted in frustration.
A scarred fist thumped against his pectoral, twice. “I am Fangdarr! Greatest chieftain of my clan. I will return dragging head of shadow dragon. My word never be challenged. I will be revered—God to my people!”
Moments of silence followed with no argument. It seemed incredibly stupid—suicide, even—though the logic seemed sound enough, at least when considering the average intelligence of orcs.
“To Hell’s Throat, then?” Malice asked in irritation. Her patience had dwindled due to the needless bickering. As far as she was concerned, her life was forfeit already, so she cared little for the outcome.
Cormac groaned audibly, “Should just dig . . .” This time he drew a hearty laugh from the party. Even a Malice managed to crack a smile.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
MEMORIES
Gray hues saturated the sky as the sun sank behind the relentless, unchanging clouds. As their party had increased in number, the horses were released. It was with reluctance that Tormag had to send them away, but the dwarf knew the tremendous steeds could never hope to traverse the mountains. To keep his mind from the returning stinging pain in his feet, Tormag clung near his new dwarven ally to share stories of their journey.
“Naked!?” the veteran commander barked in laughter as Cormac told of the first conflict he had faced in Fangdarr’s company. “Aye, reckon the orcs would’ve at least spared yer . . .,” Tormag started while pointing to his groin before breaking into another outburst of laughter.
Ahead, Bitrayuul and Fangdarr, too, shared the encounters each had faced. Mostly, the half-orc was curious as to the events that brought such a change about in his barbaric kin. Despite Fangdarr’s reluctance to discuss the hateful rejection from humans, he explained all that had transpired. The half-orc sibling listened intently to every word.
Years had separated them; each following his own path. Bitrayuul considered his path to be more honorable, more good. In truth, Fangdarr’s path had started as one driven by greed and a lust for power. Though he never spoke ill of his mother or her choices, the orc had been denied his youth within his culture. The draw to return to his kind—of blood, war, and pride—had been severe. However, once he had achieved his goal and sated his desire, Fangdarr realized the profound truth that Vrutnag and Bitrayuul had hoped to hide from him. His hands were stained with the blood of innocents. The orc had raided, murdered, raped, and so much more.
Bitrayuul walked in silence, listening with a mixture of eagerness, awe, and emotional tumult as his brother described the transformation of his former self into the orc he had become. Fangdarr was still one of orcish heritage and proud to be so. He still lusted for battle, glory, and the never-ending flow of blood from the wounds he inflicted upon his enemies. Yet, he no longer wished for his enemies to be undeserving. He felt no remorse for the ogres they had slain or even for the orcs he had culled, once his mind took the time to analyze his actions. Fangdarr told his attentive sibling—with more than a little hesitation and shame—that he simply wanted to know peace and to hold no regrets.
Bitrayuul felt that
sentiment deeply. Once his kin had completed his tales, the conversation turned to the half-orc. He started with the easy events: encountering Lilyana, Meilan’s prejudice—which Fangdarr was all too familiar with, and the splendor of Riveton. But eventually, his words slipped to unease as he relived the fate of the girl. Bitrayuul was brought to tears as he relayed the scene to Fangdarr.
The full-blood orc’s eyes went wide as Bitrayuul spoke of his familial ties to the girl, and the woman walking behind them. A dozen questions instantly rushed to mind, though he hurriedly clamped his mouth shut to allow his brother to continue his story. With a sense of relief, Bitrayuul told of his shame—the guilt he felt for his actions, or lack thereof—and how it brought on an insomnia that only heightened his torment. How he feared sleep, knowing that the demons sat at the very precipice of the place he had to travel each night. Fangdarr nodded knowingly, for he had experienced a similar torment within the Echoed Marshes.
Bitrayuul’s face was full of tears now, much to his shame. He wiped them away thinking himself weak compared to his brother, who maintained his stoic expression even when recalling his pain. At last, the half-orc stopped and cleared his throat.
Orcblood Legacy - Honor Page 24
