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

But as his eyes lifted, it was not the wicked gaze of trolls he met. Instead, a score of dwarves stared at him in disbelief. Tormag, spearheading the troop, rushed forward first and headed straight for his adoptive son. “Bit!? Wake up, Bit. We’re here now, lad.”

When no response came, the old commander turned to his friend with a curious expression. “W-what’s wrong with ‘im, Theiran?” Tormag turned back to the half-orc, this time noticing the grievous wounds. Before the senator could even respond, Tormag was already muttering in defiance. “No, no. He can’t be. His blood’s still warm.”

A hand fell upon Tormag’s shoulder. He looked up to see Theiran’s wet, somber eyes staring apologetically at him. “He saved me life. I ain’t even knowed ‘im. I figured I was lost to the trolls, but he came. Yer boy came.”

Though distraught at the consequences of such actions, the commander couldn’t help but force a weak smile through his anguish. Aye, that was him, he thought. The one who’d charge into a tunnel of trolls just to save someone he hardly knew. His gaze drifted to Bitrayuul’s petrified face. And it cost him everything . . ..

All fell silent. Even the dwarves who had accompanied Tormag on his rescue mission—those who had held naught but discontent for Bitrayuul’s arrival—held their heads low in respect and shame. Each endured their self-tormenting thoughts that had they been more open-hearted, perhaps they would have followed the half-orc into the tunnels to save their senator, and spare Bitrayuul’s life in turn.

One such dwarf refused to allow such inactivity to harbor shame any longer. She pushed her way through the group from the rear, drawing confused looks. Suited with a cloth robe lined with iron and a mace still dripping drops of blue, her somber expression turned to steel as she pressed forward.

Kneeling next to Tormag, she inspected Bitrayuul’s wounds. The ancient commander was too lost in his grief to even pay her any heed until her hand fell upon his. Their eyes met, and with pure sympathy she stated, “I can save him.”

Tormag sat perplexed, not registering her words. “Y-ye what?” Perhaps he didn’t hear her right? But how could those words have been spoken? He looked down at his son once more, seeing his wounds still slowly oozing blood. Still pumping blood. A flicker. That’s all that remained.

The female dwarf removed her hand from Tormag’s with a smile. As with every other dwarf in that tunnel, none expected to be owing so much to an orcish creature when they rose that morning. Her thick fingers clutched her mace, shaped in the symbol of Bothain. With her free hand, the dwarf gently pressed against the most severe wound near Bitrayuul’s neck.

Moments passed with every dwarf on the tips of their toes. Slowly, the deafening silence was replaced by the female’s low chant. The darkness in the tunnel was driven out by a light irradiating from her palm. At first, no more than a spark. Then, as her prayer grew, so, too, did the light. Soon the dwarves were forced to avert their gaze from the blinding glare.

Then, the chanting halted. And with its cessation the darkness returned. Tormag and the other dwarves watched in awe as the female’s hair turned from a deep brown a few shades duller, as if she had aged a hundred years in a single moment. They all had known she was a cleric, yet not even Tormag or Theiran had come to witness such healing in person for the healers were few and far between. For such actions, though a mighty gift, came with a heavy cost, as evidenced by the withering of her appearance.

Before Tormag could even question the magic’s efficacy, he turned his head as Bitrayuul groaned in agony.

GRATITUDE

“He’s awake!” Tormag chirped as he wrapped his arms around Bitrayuul. “Oh, me boy, I thought ye lost.”

Bitrayuul instinctively returned the hug, though he knew not why it was received. “W-what happened?” As he attempted to sit up, he clutched his shoulder in pain. It felt as if he had taken a hammer to his collarbone and blood had stained over half of his gear.

“Easy, lad. Easy.” Laying his son’s head gently against the stone, Tormag couldn’t contain his smile. “Ye took quite a beatin’, don’t ye doubt.”

The half-orc’s eyes widened. “Theiran! Is he safe?” He felt a hand press lightly on his chest to calm him and turned his head. In front of him sat a female dwarf, her face touched with tenderness as she smiled at him. Bitrayuul eyed her curiously. “Who are you?”

Offering a soft laugh, the cleric turned to Tormag. “Well, he’s alive. But he doesn’t seem to remember much.” Her voice was edged with the gruff dialect of dwarves but still managed to remain soft.

“Aye, he’ll be fine,” the commander responded. He placed his hand on her shoulder and his tears began anew. “I can’t thank ye enough, cleric. Me boy owes ye his life.”

Bitrayuul, finally catching on, groaned as he forced himself to sit up slowly. “W-what is your name?”

The cleric smiled at him once more as she slid a finger along her brow to tuck back her dulled hair. “Don’t fret, love. Ye’ll be just fine with time.” With that, she stood and turned to Theiran and the remaining company of dwarves. “Theiran, he should be carried home to rest. Can ye lads handle him?”

Still awestruck by what had happened—and knowing Bitrayuul deserved no less than their care—each dwarf nodded quickly before moving toward the prone half-orc. Theiran approached the cleric, his grateful expression speaking volumes.

Before words fell from his mouth, the cleric raised a hand to silence him. “No words are needed, Senator. Bothain chose to spare him. He has earned his right to live.” Her cheeks remained raised with a smile as she spoke, leaving Theiran with nothing left to say. Without another word, the cleric began walking back down the tunnel the way they had come.

As he watched her depart, the