Orcblood Legacy: Skirmishes: Orcs by Bernard Bertram (good inspirational books .TXT) 📕

the community. The crudely built abodes, the bustling orcs going about their day. Children, even. Fangdarr’s heart skipped a beat as he realized he had never really seen his own people before. A swelling sense of pride filled within him.

It had never occurred to the orc just how many others of his kind there may be. Hundreds were out and about, brawling, lounging, or cooking large, succulent hunks of meat over the many fire pits within the village. As he watched his people, he noticed almost immediately that only the females seemed to be doing work. Every male just lazed around watching their mate work or playfully challenged other males to fights.

To Fangdarr, such an unfair division of labor seemed absurd and out of the ordinary. His mother had never told him of such practices. Instead, he and Bitrayuul—and even Tormag—had always aided Vrutnag with the work to be done. The prideful smile on the orc’s face faded, replaced with a scowl of disappointment. He let out a low growl as he watched one male down the path get up from the patch of grass in which he had rested just to scold and beat his mate. Fangdarr eyed each of the couple’s surrounding neighbors, hoping someone would step in. But his disappointment grew as none even batted an eye.

Fangdarr sighed and continued walking toward the center of the village again, reminded of his purpose to be there—to become chieftain. He knew he needed to tread carefully, however. Already he would be seen as an outsider. Upon taking his rightful title, Fangdarr knew that pushing instant reform would bring him nothing more than a knife in his skull while he slept. Stomping down the path, he passed the orc that had beaten and scolded the female. Holding back his urge to beat the orc to death, Fangdarr offered naught but a hateful glare as he walked past.

As he made his way to the large tent in the center of the village that could only belong to the current chieftain, Fangdarr couldn’t get his mind off the suffering. He had been raised differently, better. Females were nothing less than equals in his mind, and he hated knowing half of his clan was suffering in silence. And for how long? He could only assume such was their way and always had been. Had his father truly seen no fault in such practice? Fangdarr found himself baring his teeth as new truths came to light.

Blinded by his frustration, Fangdarr nearly bumped into a large statue outside the chieftain’s tent. The startlement only made him angrier and he turned toward the tent, nostrils flared. As he turned, he realized that he had been followed by a few curious onlookers. It was clear they knew his marvelous weapon, but not the orc who now wielded it.

It was now or never. “I come to challenge chieftain!” Fangdarr howled at the top of his lungs.

TARABAR

Bitrayuul’s mouth fell open as the marvelous gates came into view, so vast they could be seen even from the edge of the Lithe. His march slowed, taking in the grand spectacle as Tormag continued without notice.

Lined with sharpened spikes and intricate carvings alike, the enormous steel doors stretched to the height of twenty dwarves and were nearly flush against the base of the mountain. The half-orc had often heard Tormag speak of the artisanal craftsmanship of the dwarves and the gates of Tarabar gave undeniable proof to such claims.

Finally taking notice of the awed expression on his adopted son’s face, the dwarf couldn’t help but smile. Tormag beckoned Bitrayuul forth, breaking the half-orc’s trance before the pair continued on the trodden path. As they marched, the dwarf continued to glance at Bitrayuul, whose admiration only grew as the city’s gates drew nearer. By the time their feet had carried them to the base of the barrier, the half-orc’s mouth had become dry.

“What be yer purp—” a guard started to call out from the top of the structure, a bucket of oil and torch at the ready. “Bothain’s beard . . .. Commander Tormag?” he asked incredulously after recognizing the emblems on Tormag’s worn armor.

“Aye, lad. It’s been a bit, don’t ye doubt,” the absent dwarf replied. “I’ve been busy these past six years, bahaha!”

More dwarves poked their heads over the battlements and shared their comrade’s excitement at the return of their lost leader. That is, until they noticed the half-orc at Tormag’s side.

“Have ye been captured?” the first guard asked hesitantly, glaring down at Bitrayuul. Each of the gathered dwarves held their vats of pitch more closely.

Tormag looked around curiously, as if some sort of orc or troll army lay in wait along the forest to prompt such a question. Eventually, the dwarf caught on to their meaning and let out a boisterous laugh. “Bahaha! No, lads. He’s with me.” His hand fell to Bitrayuul’s bicep in reassurance—both for the half-orc and the suspicious guards.

The dwarves manning the enormous gate spoke amongst themselves for a moment before two pairs retreated within small openings in the mountain on each side to operate a set of hidden mechanisms and open the large steel doors. Tormag and Bitrayuul both breathed a sigh of relief as the barrier began to creak loudly.

As Bitrayuul followed his mentor through the doors, he was met with a dozen nervous stares. He could tell by the onlookers’ tensed shoulders that their thick-fingered hands were resting cautiously upon their weapon hilts. He stepped more closely to Tormag as they passed into a tunnel carved into the stone that seemed a plain contradiction to the masterful gates, eager to be away from the scrutinous gaze of the stout defenders. His concern only grew once the light at their backs was shuttered from the barrier closing behind them, leaving the pair in total blackness. Their vision shifted, allowing them to pick their way through the grayed silhouettes of their surroundings as they traversed downward through the dark tunnel.