Orcblood Legacy: Skirmishes: Orcs Bernard Bertram (good books to read TXT) đ
- Author: Bernard Bertram
Book online «Orcblood Legacy: Skirmishes: Orcs Bernard Bertram (good books to read TXT) đ». Author Bernard Bertram
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. âBit!? Wake up, Bit. Weâre here now, lad.â
When no response came, the old commander turned to his friend with a curious expression. âW-whatâs wrong with âim, Theiran?â 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. âNo, no. He canât be. His bloodâs still warm.â
A hand fell upon Tormagâs shoulder. He looked up to see Theiranâs wet, somber eyes staring apologetically at him. âHe saved me life. I ainât even knowed âim. I figured I was lost to the trolls, but he came. Yer boy came.â
Though distraught at the consequences of such actions, the commander couldnât help but force a weak smile through his anguish. Aye, that was him, he thought. The one whoâd charge into a tunnel of trolls just to save someone he hardly knew. His gaze drifted to Bitrayuulâs petrified face. And it cost him everything . . ..
All fell silent. Even the dwarves who had accompanied Tormag on his rescue missionâthose who had held naught but discontent for Bitrayuulâs arrivalâheld 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 Bitrayuulâs 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 Bitrayuulâs 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, âI can save him.â
Tormag sat perplexed, not registering her words. âY-ye what?â Perhaps he didnât 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. Thatâs all that remained.
The female dwarf removed her hand from Tormagâs 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 Bitrayuulâs neck.
Moments passed with every dwarf on the tips of their toes. Slowly, the deafening silence was replaced by the femaleâs 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 femaleâs 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 magicâs efficacy, he turned his head as Bitrayuul groaned in agony.
GRATITUDE
âHeâs awake!â Tormag chirped as he wrapped his arms around Bitrayuul. âOh, me boy, I thought ye lost.â
Bitrayuul instinctively returned the hug, though he knew not why it was received. âW-what happened?â 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.
âEasy, lad. Easy.â Laying his sonâs head gently against the stone, Tormag couldnât contain his smile. âYe took quite a beatinâ, donât ye doubt.â
The half-orcâs eyes widened. âTheiran! Is he safe?â 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. âWho are you?â
Offering a soft laugh, the cleric turned to Tormag. âWell, heâs alive. But he doesnât seem to remember much.â Her voice was edged with the gruff dialect of dwarves but still managed to remain soft.
âAye, heâll be fine,â the commander responded. He placed his hand on her shoulder and his tears began anew. âI canât thank ye enough, cleric. Me boy owes ye his life.â
Bitrayuul, finally catching on, groaned as he forced himself to sit up slowly. âW-what is your name?â
The cleric smiled at him once more as she slid a finger along her brow to tuck back her dulled hair. âDonât fret, love. Yeâll be just fine with time.â With that, she stood and turned to Theiran and the remaining company of dwarves. âTheiran, he should be carried home to rest. Can ye lads handle him?â
Still awestruck by what had happenedâand knowing Bitrayuul deserved no less than their careâeach 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. âNo words are needed, Senator. Bothain chose to spare him. He has earned his right to live.â 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
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