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

and drank what little remained in a single exaggerated gulp before slamming it to the counter in a flourish.

“Ahh, now that’s good! Barkeep, another!”

ALARM

The proprietor stared at Tormag, eyes wide with rage. Throwing his soiled rag to the floor, the barkeep stomped over to the unwelcome patrons in a huff and grabbed hold of Tormag’s armor.

“Ye listen here, dwar—”

A deep, rumbling horn reverberated through the great stone city, stopping the barkeep’s lips from flapping. Immediately, every dwarf—including Tormag and the disgruntled owner—sprang to their feet and scrambled together their belongings and began funneling out of the tavern. Bitrayuul, confused by the sudden onset of motion, looked around in shock as his adoptive father’s strong hand pulled him toward the doorway.

“What’s going on?” the half-orc asked. But Tormag ignored him, instead focusing on letting the other dwarves pass.

Out in the torchlit street, dwarves were pouring from every building and alleyway, donning their armor and weapons as they rushed off to the heart of the city. Bitrayuul had never seen anything like it. It was as if they were all part of an enormous chain, each quickly falling in line to perform their role—whatever that was, he couldn’t be sure. From the stern visage of determination on every dwarf’s face, it seemed obvious there was some sort of threat, yet none offered any explanation.

Bitrayuul turned to Tormag and pulled his arm back forcefully. “Tormag, what’s going on?!”

The old dwarf just stared dead ahead, watching the flowing army of dwarves rush onward in a stream of steel. “Eh, we picked a bad day to return home, lad.”

The foreboding nature of the seasoned veteran’s tone put a chill in the half-orc’s spine and tugged at his stomach. What sort of threat could make even Tormag waver? Could it be the giants the dwarf had told him of, or a dragon? Bitrayuul’s heart pounded in his chest. Waves of regret at wishing to see the world and its splendors began seeping through him, poisoning his eagerness to explore. Is this the real world? he thought. Constant threat of death and the never-ending fear that each day may be your last? The bland life of simplicity he had lived previously no longer seemed such a dreadful path . . ..

Finally, the rampaging torrent of dwarves had come to an end and Tormag took a few steps out into the street, watching them as they charged onward. He let out a deep exhale then started walking in the same direction, dragging his boots against the stone.

Bitrayuul jogged a few paces to catch up. “Tormag?!” he pressed, growing more and more worried with each step.

The dwarf kept trudging forward. “We picked a bad day, son.” The grim sound of the city’s horn bellowed out its haunting call once more, this time even more eerie than the last due to the unsettling emptiness of the vast chamber. “It’s Bothain’s Day,” Tormag finished with a sigh as an enormous hammer was raised into the air, far in the distance.

Bitrayuul stared at the massive object curiously, hardly able to make out the silhouette in the darkness. Then, a single flaming arrow soared over the mass of dwarves, a beacon among the dim cavern, before connecting against the shrine. Upon impact, the intricately carved hammer ignited in an explosion of light, illuminating the city and bringing the roaring cheer of thousands of dwarves.

Then, to Bitrayuul’s bewilderment, each dwarf turned on one another in a chaotic fistfight around the shrine. Armor and fists clashed against one another, mixed with the cheers and shouts of the festive dwarves taking part in their most favored holiday—the anniversary of their deity’s death. Before long, the smell of ale was so pungent it stung Bitrayuul’s nostrils even from their vantage point.

Tormag stopped in his tracks, taking in the spectacle ahead. A tear fell down his cheek as he realized he had missed the last few years while remaining with the orcs in their cave. With an inhale that could rival a dragon before spewing fire, the commander yelled at the top of his lungs and sprinted forward to join his kin.

BOTHAIN

Tormag rolled to his side with a groan, disregarding the pained grunts from the dwarves beneath him. “Where ye at, Bit?” the aged commander called out to the withering crowd of drunken and bruised warriors. His eyes scanned the masses, wondering why it was so difficult to find the lone half-orc in a sea of dwarves, especially when Bitrayuul was twice their height.

“I’m here!” came a muffled reply. Surely enough, a tan-skinned arm pierced through a sheet of sprawled dwarves, waving frantically a few paces away.

Tormag crawled over top of his kin slowly. He would have apologized, but this was the expectation of Bothain’s Day. Once Tormag had reached his adoptive son, he rolled the sleeping, fatigued, or unconscious warriors away that lay over his trapped companion. Weak rebuttals of discontent came from most of the dwarves as the commander pushed them aside, finally clearing enough room for Bitrayuul to rise to his feet.

The pair stood panting amidst hundreds of resting dwarves. The festivities had lasted all through the night and left the entire city battered. “Dwarves sure throw a party, don’t ye doubt,” Tormag said with a laugh.

“It would seem so,” Bitrayuul responded. His eyes fixated on the enormous steel hammer still burning in the air above. “How does it burn so long?”

Tormag didn’t need to look to know what his pupil was asking about. “Dwarves be pretty handy with tools. There be a line that runs through and feeds from an oil supply. Burns through nearly a hundred barrels o’ the stuff, I reckon, but Bothain’s Day only comes once a year.”

The mention of Bothain reminded the half-orc that he had questions he wished to ask regarding the subject of their devotion. “Bothain is a god, right? I remember you telling us about him in small details back home, though not often.”

Raising a rugged hand to his bearded chin and giving a deep scratch, Tormag