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

considered how much to divulge of his kin’s beliefs and heritage. He had never mentioned much during their time in the cave out of respect for Vrutnag. The dwarf’s last wish was to interfere with anything she might have taught them about their culture.

“Eh, Bothain ain’t technically a god, but he be considered one,” Tormag explained with a bit of reluctance. Bitrayuul raised an eyebrow, pressing the dwarf for further details. With a low sigh, Tormag continued. “He was just a dwarf, like the rest o’ us. Except he was the one behind all this.” His arms spread wide to take in the whole city. Thousands and thousands o’ years ago, we dwarves were livin’ in the mountain caves, no better than trolls—save fer our boundless handsomeness and a bit o’ civility, don’t ye doubt!”

Slumping down onto a stool, Tormag took a seat at a table away from spectators and eavesdroppers who may not be fond of their history being shared with one of orcish descent. Bitrayuul slowly slid onto the adjacent seat, hardly able to squeeze his knees beneath the table.

“Anyways, we were at war with the trolls over claims t’ the mountains. They’re called ‘The Tusks’ because they be infested with trolls. Dwarves have been here all along, just keep t’ ourselves. Our kind hid out in caves, fightin’ t’ survive. The trolls’ numbers were limitless, breedin’ faster than critters. They rooted out most o’ me ancestors. Bothain was the leader o’ the clan at the time. It was he who kept dwarves together, kept ‘em fightin’, and gave ‘em hope. Originally, dwarves resided in the southern wall o’ the Tusks. He convinced everyone t’ leave their homes and migrate here, t’ the eastern wall. Many disagreed, don’t ye doubt!

“But he kept nudgin’. And as more dwarves continued t’ die, he needed t’ nudge less and less. Eventually, the clan was convinced. There weren’t many left, save a thousand or two, perhaps. He led ’em quietly through the mountains. They called it the Stoneprint Path, last I remember.” Tormag’s voice turned somber as he recalled the tales of his ancestors. “It be long gone now I’d imagine . . .. Stones change over time and the beatin’ they take from the elements tends t’ wash history away.”

Bitrayuul listened intently. “What happened next? Did they build Tarabar?”

Tormag spread a small smile across his cheeks at the half-orc’s intrigue. “Bothain first had our people carve a tiny path deep into the mountain—one that could easily be closed off should the trolls discover them. With luck, they went unnoticed fer a few years—enough time t’ get some defenses built. Once those were up, they were safe. Trolls may claim most o’ the mountains, but they be worse diggers than gnomes. Sure, eventually they managed to slowly intersect our many tunnels, but Bothain had plenty o’ time t’ get Tarabar up and runnin’. Forges were always aglow, hammers always pounded, and bellies were always full. He passed on from this world our king and savior, thousands o’ years ago. On this day.”

BOND

Bitrayuul leaned back in his stool. It made him happy to hear the history of Tormag’s people, almost as if he belonged. He looked out at the community of dwarves who had come to celebrate their history and the dwarf who had brought them to salvation. A part of him wondered if orcs had anything similar—though he doubted it. Vrutnag had never spoken of any orc holidays. Whether that was due to their lacking or her disinterest in sharing that part of the orcish culture, Bitrayuul couldn’t be sure.

Frowning as he realized the mug in his hand had already been drained, Tormag checked his surroundings. His eyes lit up as he saw an unconscious dwarf two tables over with a frothing mug in hand. Without a word, the commander quickly left his seat to retrieve the drink and returned with a wide smile.

The half-orc raised an eyebrow as Tormag poured the entire mug into his throat in a single swig. “Aren’t you already drunk, Father?”

Slamming the empty cup down, the dwarf let out a loud exhale of contentedness. Then, Tormag abruptly belched loud enough to wake the nearby dwarf whose drink had been stolen. Disregarding the confused searching of his neighbor, he replied, “Aye, that I be. Ye orcs ain’t had no ale or nothin’ in yer cave. I got six years t’ make up fer! Bahaha!”

Bitrayuul realized the truth of Tormag’s words. Other than the small sip of ale he had in the bar prior—and a few stolen drinks during the celebration—he had never tasted alcohol. He had gotten quite a buzz of dizziness through the day, but nowhere near the point of drunkenness. “Isn’t it . . . bad? To get so drunk?”

“Bahaha! Normally, probably so! Humans and elves can’t hold their drink. Not sure about orcs, t’ be honest.” Tormag seemed to ponder for a moment, then chuckled at his imagination’s illustration of a drunken orc. “But dwarves be different. We love the drink. Our bodies can stomach more without spittin’ it back out. Let’s us drink longer. They used t’ say that the water ye would find in caves weren’t safe t’ drink, so they made ale. I’m guessin’ that’s just some trick by a brewmaster t’ help sell his wares, but, by Bothain’s Hammer, it worked!”

The half-orc joined in the laughter and howled louder still as Tormag left his seat once more to steal another ale. The dwarf had told Bitrayuul plenty of stories about the games that his kin would play while drinking, each ending with tales of fun and bonding.

Bitrayuul yearned for memories of his own. Evenings of fun, overexaggerated retellings of adventure, all of it. It was true that the half-orc cherished his life in the cave with his mother and brother, but he had always strived for more. There had to be more.

Without hesitation—and drawing a curious stare from Tormag—Bitrayuul lifted himself from the small stool and strode to the nearest unconscious dwarf he