Orcblood Legacy - Honor Read online

  Orcblood Legacy: Honor

  BERNARD BERTRAM

  Acknowledgements:

  Dustin Schwindt (Editor)

  Mario Vazquez (Cover Art Illustrator)

  Jackie Schickling (Map Illustrator)

  Disclaimer: This novel is a work of fiction. All characters are fictitious and any likeness or resemblance is strictly coincidental.

  1st Edition

  Copyright © 2018 Bernard Bertram

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1-7327607-2-1

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7327607-2-1

  DEDICATION

  To my wife, for giving me everything Fangdarr sought and understanding that the words on these pages can’t compare to the ones I don’t say.

  Prologue

  Brutigarr and his squadron silently approached the dwarven encampment, weapons unsheathed from their scabbards. Grins cracked their sinister faces as they anxiously awaited the slaughter to come. The chief led his tribe through the brush just outside of where the dwarves were sleeping. After a long pause to ensure his shock troops were primed, he howled a war cry and charged into the camp. Shouting and growling, the other orcs in the war party sprinted headlong into battle behind their fearless leader.

  Brutigarr’s orcs—all fifty of them—headed straight toward the snoozing dwarves at the fire, hoping to cleave them before they even knew what was coming. But the burly dwarves had a different plan. Just as the chieftain and his clan had come within striking distance, their prey vanished from sight.

  Astonished, Grazmung, the chieftain’s younger brother, shouted in dismay, “Find me dwarves!” growling out each word, his discontent evident. Brutigarr, more experienced with battle, became uneasy. Something was wrong.

  Cautiously, he searched one of the blankets the dwarves had been sleeping under. Below the blanket sat a dwarf, tucked away within a pit. As he growled at the dwarf in the trench below, Brutigarr saw a giddy smirk on the face of his enemy.

  “So, yer thinkin’ o’ eatin’ me up, eh?” bellowed the dwarf from his small hole. “Looks to me like ye got yerself in a wee bit o’ a pinch. Bahaha!”

  The orc chieftain spat insult after insult, but the dwarf’s laughter didn’t cease. “Bring spear!” shouted Brutigarr, his words dripping with rage. If there was one thing the orc chieftain hated, it was a dwarf that escaped his mighty battle axe, Driktarr. The weapon was enormous, even to the large orc’s standards. The blade’s many-nicked edge reflected the eerie moonlight, a sinister illumination to those who saw the light before their end. And the curved hook blade protruding from the opposing side was capable of piercing even dwarven steel. It was without a doubt the most marvelous of his clan’s weapons. Orcs often whispered that it was imbued with magic—that the blood it spilled could heal the wielder’s wounds. Whether or not that was true, Driktarr had been the downfall of more foes than all the other weapons in the clan combined. Brutigarr’s right to be chieftain came from the sheer force of reckoning he brought with him.

  Even without the aid of the great battle axe, Brutigarr was a mighty chieftain—one who had seen more battle than even the most seasoned of veterans, and he had the scars to prove it.

  His rippled muscles tensed as he roughly clutched the spear his comrade handed him. He raised it high above his head, measuring the throwing angle he would need to exploit the small opening. Ironically, the pit that had saved the dwarf from the rampaging orcs would now become his tomb.

  A grin spread from ear to ear as Brutigarr shouted, “What funny now, dwarf?” The mighty chieftain howled a guttural laugh at the trapped creature, sucked in breath and retracted his arm in preparation for the throw. Just as he was about to release the spear and skewer the immobile dwarf, a small bolt lodged into his other forearm. He glanced around with a puzzled look on his face, as did the rest of his party. As sudden as the bolt came, so, too, did scores of dwarves. They came from the brush, the trees, under rocks, everywhere it seemed. Within seconds, the orcs were outnumbered and surrounded.

  Chapter one

  Neonate

  Vrutnag stared at her newborn son, watching his labored breaths in the cool morning air. In response, he opened his eyes, an uncommon act for a newborn. She smiled at him, and he did something else very rare: he smiled back. This was no ordinary smile either. As her child spread his lips, two small teeth appeared on his bottom jaw. Such a thing had never been heard of before, a newborn with teeth, even among orcs. His mother stared at him as only a mother could, and lightly said, “Fangdarr. That is your name, child. Fangdarr.” As if he understood, the babe gave a slight grumble of approval. Vrutnag laid back, finally relieved to have completed her labor. There she slept with her newborn son, Fangdarr, the newest member of the Zharnik clan.

  Hours later, a young female orc hesitantly entered the tent. “Vrutnag Chief-mate, where chief?” Her words woke Vrutnag and broke the baby orc’s slumber. Fangdarr began to writhe and whimper.

  Vrutnag rose, clearly aggravated that someone had woken her son, and replied, “The chieftain is with his war party. What is it you require?” The eloquence of her words confused the maiden, as it did every other orc. Orcs are not known for their linguistic skills, and none could understand how it was she had learned to speak so properly. Normally, an orc would be disrespected by such talk. However, as Vrutnag was the chosen mate of Brutigarr, the greatest of chieftains, they knew better than to reproach her.

  If the young orc showed any discontent at the chief-mate’s pronunciation, she did not show it. “We have problem. Caged peoples,” she quickly stated, meaning one of the prisoners Brutigarr had acquired from past raids.

  “Which one, young orc?” spoke Vrutnag clearly, piqued at what could be the problem. They were in a cage after all.

  “Human girl, Chief-mate.”

  “And what precisely is the issue?”

  The young maiden looked around outside the tent to be sure none could hear. “Make youngling. Not human.”

  At that, Vrutnag’s eyes burst open. She had not heard the female prisoner had been pregnant. Why had no one informed her? She knew it was best to leave the prisoners to Brutigarr, but surely, if she had known one was pregnant, she would have demanded slightly better conditions for the woman. “Take me to her at once,” she whispered.

  They walked at a brisk pace across the village to the catacombs, the makeshift prison, where dwarves, humans, elves, and even ogres sat in their respective cages, lifeless eyes fixed on an unchanging floor. All the prisoners exuded shame and hopelessness. Brutigarr was well-known for his conquests, but few knew of his torture tactics to learn of his enemies. Brutigarr pried information out of his captives until they were no longer useful. After that, they were killed, ruthlessly.

  As the woman’s cell came into view, Vrutnag’s mind raced. How could this prisoner be with child? She had been locked in here for over a year, and a human child took no longer than an orc’s to be bred. Had one of the other prisoners managed to break into her cell? Despite her being a human, she still felt sorry for the young woman.

  They reached the compartment and the young orc fumbled with the keys as Vrutnag nervously looked around. After the delay, they entered the cell. All that lay in the room was a torn blanket covered in blood, a pillow, and a small bundle of clothes with a child within its folds. The chief-mate went to retrieve the child, but the young orc reached out to stop her. “Sure want to do that?” she asked, a concerned look on her face. She knew what the child was, and she also knew how her superior might react.

  Vrutnag growled angrily at her, showing she was not to be questioned. At that the young maiden shrank back, ashamed, knowing full well she had escaped a beating. “Where is the woman?” Vrutnag asked, reaching again for the c
hild.

  “Dead. No survive birth,” the orc replied obediently.

  Vrutnag seemed to not notice her reply and pulled the child in close, while peeling back the clothes covering its face. As the cloth slipped away, Vrutnag almost dropped the infant. The child was half-orc! How could this happen? No orcs were prisoners, and no lesser orc would dare touch a prisoner of Brutigarr’s. To do so would mean a slow death. No, this could only be one orc’s doing. The realization almost stopped her heart.

  Chapter two

  Treachery

  For the next few days, Vrutnag remained in her private tent, secretly caring for the half-orc child along with her own. She didn’t know what to do or think. Her supposed life-mate had betrayed her. For a human! But she couldn’t leave Brutigarr. He was the chieftain, and in orc culture, he was above all laws, both moral and political. She knew she could not leave him and remain in the clan. This was her home. Despite orcs’ general lack of emotion, she loved him. Nevertheless, the news of his betrayal stung her, and she wanted to tell him so.

  Unfortunately, there was still no sign of Brutigarr and his warriors returning from their campaign. They had gone to raid a nearby dwarf encampment and should have been back days ago. On top of that, Brutigarr had his son, Fangdarr, to return to. While an orc chieftain is supposed to remain indifferent to such emotions, she knew he genuinely wanted to see his first child. The news it was male would make him a proud father at having a lineage to carry on his name. But he hadn’t returned. Where could he be? she sighed to herself and slumped back into her chair, feeding both Fangdarr and the half-orc child.

  The next morning, she awoke to a sudden uproar in the village. She hastily checked to ensure the two newborns were still asleep. They were, right next to each other, as they had been since the night they were both born. She took a moment to trace her finger along each child’s cherubic face. Side-by-side, their contrast was evident between Fangdarr’s blackened skin and the other’s tanned hue. Vrutnag threw on her robe and stomped out of the tent to see what had the entire village hollering. Grazmung, her mate’s younger sibling, had come through the village’s front gate alone. Bloodied and battered, he shouldered his way through the crowd with a destination in mind. As he saw Vrutnag, he headed her way, and she clambered over to him, wondering where the rest of the party was when she saw it—the Driktarr—slung across his back.

  Grazmung slowly covered the distance to the wide-eyed, halted chief-mate. “Vrutnag, brother-mate.”

  “Grazmung, where is Bru—” she couldn’t even finish the sentence for fear of breaking down. It would be terrible for her status if the entire village saw her emotions on display.

  “Me brother dead. Me warriors dead. We trapped. Barely leave alive. Save the chief-weapon!” Raspy breaths caught between his words. He looked down ashamed with each one until he mentioned the weapon. He seemed so proud of himself for retrieving it.

  “So, you saved his axe, but not him?” She gave him an angry glare of disbelief. How could he not save his own brother?

  “Me try. He kill many dwarves. He not leave. I got stucked,” he said pointing to a bleeding wound in his side, “Then dwarves take him down . . .” At that he dropped his head again in shame.

  Vrutnag took the opportunity to take Driktarr from his back and raise it high over her head. “You’re a coward and a traitor, Grazmung!” she yelled, her emotion-fueled adrenaline granting her the strength to lift an axe that was half her weight. Before Grazmung could react, she planted the nicked edge of the axe in his skull. The crushing blow sent blood and chunks of brain matter showering over her. Many eyes were now upon her, but none questioned her act. Orcs live for battle. For orcs, bloodlust is second only to honor. They might lack intellect, but they all understood that the chieftain’s sibling had run from battle and dishonored himself and the clan. If Vrutnag hadn’t been the one to swing the axe, another would.

  Vrutnag looked around at her followers, knowing they expected her to say something. She blinked away the blood that had splattered into her eyes and turned to address them.

  “The war party has been decimated. Our chieftain is dead. Tomorrow, we will hold the Ring of Challenge for any who wish to take his place. Until that time, I remain in charge.”

  At the notion that a new chieftain would be chosen by feat of strength, the orcs created an uproar in agreement. Orcs live for battle.

  As Vrutnag returned to her tent, she thought about what she would do. As the mate to the current chieftain, she held power. Now that he was gone, she would no longer wield that authority. Most likely, she and her sons would be executed to avoid a power struggle with the new chieftain. The matron looked down at the two children, now awake and poking each other in their crib. She smiled quizzically. How strange it is that an orc child could play with something so different as if it were one of his own. Orcs and half-orcs utterly detest each other. Yet, here is her son, a full orc, playing with a half-orc. If only the world worked that way, she thought.

  “It seems I won’t be able to ask your father about your mother, little one.” As she spoke, she realized that ‘your father’ applied to both of them. Whether she liked it or not, they were kin. “Well, it seems I will need to give you a name as well, half-one.” She thought about it for a bit, then she came across something and her mind was made up. It seemed so fitting that the name be given to this child. The child her mate secretly had with another woman before being abandoned by his brother. “I think I’ll name you Bitrayuul.”

  Chapter Three

  Lineage

  It was a bright spring morning and the woods were calm. Vrutnag looked out of the cave she was living in with her two sons. It had been ten years since she left the Zharnik clan. A decade since her mate had fallen. Vrutnag thought back to the fateful night of her departure. She knew she would not have been able to stay in the orc village, the place she had known as her home, and keep Bitrayuul safe. He might not have been her son by blood, but he had never been loved any less than his full-blooded brother. As she stared into the forest that was now their home, she could feel the breeze move across her face. Vrutnag was glad she had raised her brood here. Yes, they lived in hiding, but it was better than the confines of the Zharnik camp. All that was there was the stench of death and blood. She wanted her boys to be different.

  As if on cue, a clatter of approaching footsteps announced the return of her boys from their hunt. At only ten years old, the boys were well-grown. Fangdarr, due to his full-blood orc nature, was already a head taller than his adoptive brother, and had twice his strength. On the other hand, the half-orc, Bitrayuul, was more intelligent. Other than that, he didn’t resemble a human much, but what did make him stand out was his hair. Fangdarr was forever bald, yet Bitrayuul had a tuft of black hair that he kept tied in a small bunch. As silly as it was, Bitrayuul took much pride knowing that Fangdarr was jealous of his asset, though it was nothing that provoked hatred. Unlike their general races, the boys had grown up together and hence had a bond as strong as any, no matter their differences.

  The boys were dragging a large boar behind them, a fine catch for such young hunters. Of course, being raised in a forest with no other means to obtain food, they had learned to hunt quickly. Fangdarr was adorned in his typical attire: shirtless with a leather kilt. Despite being so young, the orc had a body as fit as the greatest of human warriors and relished that fact and flaunted it as best he could.

  Fangdarr took pride in his orc identity. He loved hearing stories of his ancestral berserkers. His mother often told him of the feral warriors of his race—how they adorned minimal armor and were lust-driven soldiers of battle, who, no matter how many wounds they received, slaughtered as many as they could until they died a glorious death. Fangdarr wished to be a berserker one day. He often chattered excitedly about how he would be the greatest warrior the world had ever seen.

  Bitrayuul fancied a different style of battle. Over his shoulder, he carried Kwip, a large greatbow that would have been much too
large for a human child to shoot, though it was no problem for a half-orc. The boy was an excellent shot and loved to hide out in the woods hunting animals for his family to eat. In addition to his greatbow, he wore a pair of gauntlets with sharpened bone spikes on each knuckle half a finger-length long. It was not often that he got to use them on real targets, but a myriad of trees in the area were marked from the continuous raking of his weapons.

  The young half-orc waved and smiled at his mother as they approached her overhang. “Got a big one, Mother, first shot!” he said with a tremendous pride-filled smile.

  “Bring it in, little warrior. I’ll prepare dinner,” his mother replied sweetly. At that the boys gave the fattened boar a final heave over the rock face that led to their den’s mouth and clambered up after it. “Put your weapons down, boys, and rest a while,” she added.

  “Yes, Mother,” replied Bitrayuul.

  Vrutnag had wanted both her boys to be as equally well-spoken as she was. In truth, Bitrayuul had learned very quickly. Fangdarr, however, avoided speaking properly. It wasn’t that he couldn’t, but he aspired to be a great orc, and he knew that others would misjudge his battle prowess if he insisted on proper enunciation. Whilst living in the woods their whole life, they only encountered a few trespassers—primarily orcs. Fangdarr studied their actions and demeanor from afar, learning how a typical orc acted, and despite his mother’s modeling of politeness and eloquence, he was becoming more and more like his father.