Jaramin blinked behind his large spectacles. “Oh, of course,” he said, more to himself than Thrall. “A snake is a reptile with no feet. It looks like this letter.”
Thrall brightened with recognition. “Like a worm,” he said. He had often snacked on those small treats that found their way into his cell.
“Yes, it does resemble a worm. Try it again, on your own this time.” Thrall stuck his tongue out to aid his concentration. A shaky form appeared on the clay, but he knew it was recognizable as an “S.” Proud of himself, he extended it to Jaramin.
“Very good, Thrall! I think it may be time we started teaching you numbers,” said the tutor.
“But first, it’s time to start learning how to fight, eh, Thrall?” Thrall looked up to see the lean form of his master, Lieutenant Blackmoore, standing in the doorway. He stepped inside. Thrall heard the lock click shut on the other side of the door. He had never tried to flee, but the guards always seemed to expect him to.
At once Thrall prostrated himself as Blackmoore had taught him. A kindly pat on his head told him he had permission to rise. He stumbled to his feet, suddenly feeling even bigger and clumsier than usual. He looked down at Blackmoore’s boots, awaiting whatever it was his master had in store for him.
“How is he coming in his lessons?” Blackmoore asked Jaramin, as if Thrall weren’t present.
“Very well. I hadn’t realized orcs were quite so intelligent, but —”
“He is intelligent not because he is an orc,” Blackmoore interrupted, his voice sharp enough to make Thrall flinch. “He is intelligent because humans taught him. Never forget that, Jaramin. And you.” The boots turned in Thrall’s direction. “You aren’t to forget that either.”
Thrall shook his head violently.
“Look at me, Thrall.”
Thrall hesitated, then lifted his blue-eyed gaze. Blackmoore’s eyes bored into his own. “Do you know what your name means?”
“No, sir.” His voice sounded so rough and deep, even in his own ears, next to the musical lilt of the humans’ voices.
“It means ‘slave.’ It means that you belong to me.” Blackmoore stepped forward and prodded the orc’s chest with a stiff forefinger. “It means that I own you. Do you understand that?” For a moment, Thrall was so shocked he didn’t reply. His name meant slave? It sounded so pleasant when humans spoke it, he thought it must be a good name, a worthy name.
Blackmoore’s gloved hand came up and slapped Thrall across the face. Although the lieutenant had swung his hand with vigor, Thrall’s skin was so thick and tough that the orc barely felt it. And yet the blow pained him deeply. His master had struck him! One large hand came up to touch the cheek, its black fingernails clipped short.
“You answer when you’re spoken to,” snapped Blackmoore. “Do you understand what I just said?”
“Yes, Master Blackmoore,” replied Thrall, his deep voice barely a whisper.
“Excellent.” Blackmoore’s angry face relaxed into an approving smile. His teeth showed white against the surrounding black hair of his goatee. That quickly, all was well again. Relief surged through Thrall. His lips turned up in his best approximation of Blackmoore’s smile.
“Don’t do that, Thrall,” said Blackmoore. “It makes you look uglier than you already are.”
Abruptly, the smile vanished.
“Lieutenant,” said Jaramin softly, “he’s just trying to mimic your smile, that’s all.”
“Well, he shouldn’t. Humans smile. Orcs don’t. You said he was doing well in his lessons, yes? Can he read and write, then?”
“He is reading at quite an advanced level. As for writing, he understands how, but those thick fingers are having a difficult time with some of the lettering.”
“Excellent,” Blackmoore said again. “Then we have no more need of your services.”
Thrall inhaled swiftly and looked over at Jaramin. The older man appeared to be as surprised as he by the statement.
“There’s much he doesn’t know yet, sir,” stammered Jaramin. “He knows little of numbers, of history, of art —”
“He doesn’t need to master history, and I can teach him what he needs to know about numbers myself. And what does a slave need to know of art, hmm? I fancy you think that would be a waste of time, eh, Thrall?”
Thrall thought briefly of the one time Jaramin had brought in a small statue and told him how it was carved, of how they had discussed how his swaddling cloth with its once-bright colors of blue and white had been woven. That, Jaramin had said, was “art,” and Thrall had been eager to learn more about making such beautiful things.
“As my master wishes, so does Thrall,” he said obediently, giving the lie to the feelings in his heart.
“That’s right. You don’t need to know those things, Thrall. You need to learn how to fight.” With uncharacteristic affection, Blackmoore reached out a hand and placed it on Thrall’s enormous shoulder. Thrall flinched, then stared at his master.
“I wanted you to learn reading and writing because it might one day give you an advantage over your opponent. I’m going to see to it that you are skilled with every weapon I have ever seen. I’m going to teach you about strategy, Thrall, and trickery. You are going to be famous in the gladiator ring. Thousands will chant your name when you appear. How does that sound, eh?”
Thrall saw Jaramin turn and gather up his things. It pained him strangely to see the stylus and the clay tablet disappear for the last time into Jaramin’s sack. With a quick, backward glance, Jaramin moved to the door and knocked on it. It opened for him. He slipped out, and the door was closed and locked.
Blackmoore was waiting for Thrall’s response. Thrall was a fast learner, and did not wish to be struck again for hesitating in his answer. Forcing himself to sound as if he believed it, he told his master, “That sounds exciting. I am glad my master wishes me to follow this path.”
For the first time he could remember, Thrall the orc stepped out of his cell. He gazed in wonder as, with two guards in front of him, two guards behind, and Blackmoore keeping pace, he went through several winding stone corridors. They went up a set of stairs, then across, then down a winding stair that was so small it seemed to press in on Thrall.
Ahead was a brightness that made Thrall blink. They were approaching that brightness, and the fear of the unknown set in. When the guards ahead of him went through and into this area, Thrall froze. The ground ahead was yellow and brown, not the familiar gray of stone. Black things that resembled the guards lay on the ground, following their every movement.
“What are you doing?” snapped Blackmoore. “Come out. Others held here would give their right arms to be able to walk out into the sunlight.”
Thrall knew the word. “Sunlight” was what came through in small slats in his cell. But there was so much sunlight out there! And what of the strange black things? What were they?
Thrall pointed at the black human-shaped things on the ground. To his shame, all the guards started laughing. One of them was soon wiping tears of mirth from his face. Blackmoore turned red.
“You idiot,” he said, “those are just — By the Light, have I gotten myself an orc who’s afraid of his own shadow?” He gestured and one of the guards pricked Thrall’s back deeply with the point of a spear. Although his naturally thick skin protected him, the prod stung and Thrall lurched forward.
His eyes burned, and he lifted his hands to cover them. And yet the sudden warmth of the . . . sunlight . . . on his head and back felt good. Slowly he lowered his hands and blinked, letting his eyes become accustomed to the light.
Something huge and green loomed in front of him.
Instinctively, he drew himself up to his full height and roared at it. More laughter from the guards, but this time, Blackmoore nodded in approval at Thrall’s reaction.
“That’s a mock fighter,” he said. “It’s only made of burlap and stuffing and paint, Thrall. It’s a troll.”
Again embarrassment flamed through Thrall
. Now that he looked more closely, he could tell it was no living thing. Straw served the mock fighter for hair, and he could see where it was stitched together.
“Does a troll really look like that?” he asked.
Blackmoore chuckled. “Only vaguely,” said Blackmoore. “It wasn’t designed for realism, but for practice. Watch.”
He extended a gloved arm and one of the guards handed him something. “This is a wooden sword,” Blackmoore explained. “A sword is a weapon, and we use wood for practice. Once you’re sufficiently trained with this, you’ll move on to the real thing.”
Blackmoore held the sword in both hands. He centered himself, then raced at the practice troll. He managed to strike it three times, once in the head, once in the body, and once along the false arm that held a cloth weapon, without breaking stride. Breathing only slightly heavily, he turned around and trotted back. “Now you try,” he said.
Thrall held out his hand for the weapon. His thick fingers closed around it. It fit his palm much better than the stylus had. It felt better, too, almost familiar. He adjusted the grip, trying to do what he had seen Blackmoore do.
“Very good,” said Blackmoore. To one of the guards, he said, “Look at that, will you? He’s a natural. As I knew he would be. Now, Thrall . . . attack!”
Thrall whirled. For the first time in his life, his body seemed willing to do what he asked of it. He lifted the sword, and to his surprise, a roar burst forth from his throat. His legs began to pump almost of their own accord, smoothly and swiftly carrying him toward the mock troll. He lifted the sword — oh, it was so easy — and brought it down in a smooth arc across the troll’s body.
There was a terrible crack and the troll went sailing through the air. Suddenly afraid he had done something terribly wrong, Thrall’s grace turned to clumsiness and he stumbled over his own feet. He hit the earth hard and felt the wooden sword crack underneath him.
Thrall scrambled to his feet and prostrated himself, sure that some sort of terrible punishment was about to ensue. He had broken the mock troll and destroyed the practice sword. He was so big, so clumsy . . . !
Loud whoops filled the air. Other than Jaramin, the silent guards, and the occasional visit from Blackmoore, Thrall had not had much interaction with humans. Certainly he had not learned to discern the finer points in their wordless noises, but he had a strange suspicion that these were not sounds of anger. Cautiously he looked up.
Blackmoore had an enormous smile on his face, as did the guards. One of them was bringing the palms of his hands together to create a loud smacking sound. When he caught sight of Thrall, Blackmoore’s smile widened even more.
“Did I not say he would surpass all expectations?” cried Blackmoore. “Well done, Thrall! Well done!”
Thrall blinked, uncertain. “I . . . that wasn’t wrong?” he asked. “The troll and the sword . . . I broke them.”
“Damn right you did! First time ever swinging a sword and the troll sails across the courtyard!” Blackmoore’s giddiness subsided slightly and he put his arm around the young orc in a friendly manner. Thrall tensed, then relaxed.
“Suppose you were in the gladiator ring,” Blackmoore said. “Suppose that troll was real, that your sword was real. And suppose the first time you charged, you struck him so hard that he fell that far. Don’t you see that that’s a good thing, Thrall?”
The orc supposed he did. His large lips wanted to stretch over his teeth in a smile, but he resisted the impulse. Blackmoore had never been so pleased with him, so kind to him, before, and he wished to do nothing to disturb the moment.
Blackmoore squeezed Thrall’s shoulder, then returned to his men. “You!” he shouted to a guard. “Get that troll back on the pike, and make sure it’s secure enough to withstand my Thrall’s mighty blows. You, get me another practice sword. Hells, get me five of them. Thrall is liable to break them all!”
Out of the corner of his eye, Thrall saw movement. He turned to see a tall, slender man with curly hair dressed in livery red, black, and gold that marked him as one of Blackmoore’s servants. With him was a very small human being with bright yellow hair. It looked nothing like the guards that Thrall knew. He wondered if this was a human child. It looked softer, and its garments were not the trousers and tunics the other wore, but a long, flowing garment that brushed the dusty earth. Was this, then, a female child?
His eyes locked with the blue ones of the child. She did not seem frightened of his ugly appearance at all. On the contrary, she met his gaze evenly, and as he watched, she smiled brightly and waved at him, as if she was happy to see him.
How could such a thing be? Even as Thrall watched, trying to determine the proper response, the male accompanying her clamped a hand to the little female’s shoulder and steered her away.
Wondering what had just happened, Thrall turned back to the cheering men, and closed his large, green hand about another practice sword.
THREE
A routine was quickly established, one that Thrall would follow for the next several years. He would be fed at dawn, his hands and feet clapped in manacles that permitted him to shuffle out to the courtyard of Durnholde, and there he would train. At first, Blackmoore himself conducted the training, showing him the basic mechanics and often praising him effusively. Sometimes, though, Blackmoore’s temper was sharp and nothing Thrall could do would please him. At such times, the nobleman’s speech was slightly slurred, his movements haphazard, and he would berate the orc for no reason that Thrall could discern. Thrall came to simply accept the fact that he was unworthy. If Blackmoore berated him, it must be because he deserved it; any praise was simply the lord’s own kindness.
After a few months, though, another man stepped in and Thrall ceased to see Blackmoore regularly. This man, known to Thrall only as Sergeant, was huge by human standards. He stood well over six feet, with a thick barrel chest covered with curly red hair. The hair on his head was bright red, its tousled mop matched by the long beard. He wore a black scarf knotted around his throat and in one ear sported a large earring. The first day he came to address Thrall and the other fighters who were being trained alongside him, he had fixed each one with a hard stare and shouted out the challenge.
“See this?” He pointed with a stubby forefinger to the glistening hoop in his left ear. “I haven’t taken this out in thirteen years. I’ve trained thousands of recruits just like you pups. And with each group I offer the same challenge: Rip this earring from my ear and I’ll let you beat me to a pulp.” He grinned, showing several missing teeth. “You don’t think it now, p’raps, but by the time I’m done with you, you’d sell your own mother for the chance to take a swing at me. But if I’m ever so slow that I can’t fend off an attack by any of you ladies, then I deserve to have my ear ripped off and be forced to swallow what’s left of my teeth.”
He had been walking slowly down the line of men and now stopped abruptly in front of Thrall. “That goes double for you, you overgrown goblin,” Sergeant snarled.
Thrall lowered his gaze, confused. He had been taught never, ever, to raise his hand against humans. And yet it appeared as though he was to fight them. There was no way he would ever try to rip Sergeant’s earring from his lobe.
A large hand slipped underneath Thrall’s chin and jerked it up. “You look at me when I talk to you, you understand?”
Thrall nodded, now hopelessly confused. Blackmoore didn’t want him to meet his gaze. This man had just ordered him to do exactly that. What was he to do?
Sergeant divided them into pairs. The number was uneven and Thrall stood alone. Sergeant marched right up to him and tossed a wooden sword to him. Instinctively, Thrall caught it. Sergeant grunted in approval.
“Good eye-hand coordination,” he said. Like all the other men, he carried a shield and was wearing heavy, well-cushioned armor that would protect his body and head. Thrall had none. His skin was so thick that he barely felt the blows as it was, and he was growing so quickly that any clothing or armor fashioned f
or him would soon be far too small.
“Let’s see how you defend yourself, then!” And with no further warning, Sergeant charged Thrall.
For the briefest second, Thrall shrank from the attack. Then something inside him seemed to click into place. He no longer moved from a place of fear and confusion, but a place of confidence. He stood up straight, to his full height, and realized that he was growing so quickly that he was taller even than his opponent. He lifted his left arm, which he knew would one day hold a shield heavier than a human, in defense against the wooden sword, and brought his own practice weapon down in a smooth arc. If Sergeant had not reacted with stunning speed, Thrall’s sword would have slammed into his helm. And even with that protection, Thrall knew that the power behind his blow was such that Sergeant probably would have been killed.
But Sergeant was swift, and his shield blocked Thrall’s likely fatal blow. Thrall grunted in surprise as Sergeant landed a blow of his own against Thrall’s bare midsection. He stumbled, thrown briefly off balance.
Sergeant took the opening and pressed, landing three swift blows that would have killed an unarmored man. Thrall regained his footing and felt a strange, hot emotion surge through him. Suddenly, his world narrowed to the figure before him. All his frustration and helplessness fled, replaced by a deadly focus: Kill Sergeant.
He screamed aloud, the power of his own voice startling even him, then charged. He lifted his weapon and struck, lifted and struck, raining blows upon the big man. Sergeant tried to retreat and his booted feet slipped on a stone. He fell backward. Thrall cried out again, as a keen desire to smash Sergeant’s head to a pulp swept through him like a white-hot tide. Sergeant managed to get the sword in front of him and deflected most of the blows, but now Thrall had him pinned between his powerful legs. He tossed aside his sword and reached out with his large hands. If he could just fasten them around Blackmoore’s neck —
Lord Of The Clans Page 3