Lord Of The Clans

by Christie Golden

  “We did find some things he had stolen,” said Waryk, brightening. He snapped his fingers and one of his men raced off, returning in a few moments with a large sack. “Do you recognize this?” He extended a plain dagger to Blackmoore, hilt first as etiquette demanded.

  Blackmoore’s breath caught in his throat. He had wondered where that had gone to. It wasn’t a very expensive one, but he had missed it. . . . He ran his gloved thumb over the symbol of his crest, the black falcon. “This is mine. Anything else?”

  “Some papers . . . Major Remka has not had time to look at them yet. . . .” Waryk’s voice trailed off, but Blackmoore understood. The idiot couldn’t read. What kind of papers could Thrall possibly have had? Leaves torn from his books, no doubt. Blackmoore snatched the sack and rummaged through the papers at the bottom. He drew one out into the light.

  . . . wish I could talk to you instead of just sending you these letters. I see you in the ring and my heart breaks for you. . . .

  Letters! Who could possibly . . . he seized another one.

  . . . harder and harder to find time to write. Our Master demands so much of both of us. I heard that he beat you, I am so sorry my dear friend. You don’t deserve . . .

  Taretha.

  A greater pain than any he had ever known clutched at Blackmoore’s chest. He pulled out more letters . . . by the Light, there had to be dozens here . . . maybe hundreds. How long had the two been conspiring? For some reason his eyes stung and breathing became difficult. Tari . . . Tari, how could you, you never lacked for anything. . . .

  “My lord?” Remka’s concerned voice brought Blackmoore out of his painful shock. He took a deep breath and blinked the telltale tears back. “Is all well?”

  “No, Major Remka.” His voice was as cool and composed as ever, for which he was grateful. “All is not well. You had my orc Thrall, one of the finest gladiators ever to have graced the ring. He’s made me a great deal of money over the years and was supposed to make me a great deal more. Beyond a doubt, it was he your man captured. And it is he whom I do not see in this line at all.”

  He took keen pleasure in watching the color drain from Remka’s face. “He could be hiding inside the camp,” she offered.

  “He could be,” said Blackmoore, drawing back his lips from white teeth in a rictus of a smile. “Let us hope so, for your continued good fortune, Major Remka. Search the encampment. Now.”

  She scurried away to do his bidding, shouting orders. Thrall certainly wouldn’t have been stupid enough to come to a lineup, like a dog responding to a whistle. It was possible he was still here. But somehow, Blackmoore sensed that Thrall was gone. He was elsewhere, doing . . . ? What? What kind of scheme had he and that bitch Taretha cooked up?

  Blackmoore was right. An extensive search turned up nothing. None of the orcs, curse them, would even admit to seeing Thrall. Blackmoore demoted Remka, put Waryk in her place, and rode slowly home. Langston met him halfway, and commiserated with him, but even Langston’s cheerful, brainless chatter could not stir Blackmoore from his gloom. In one fiery night, he had lost the two things most important to him: Thrall and Taretha.

  He climbed the steps to his quarters, went to his bedchamber, and eased open the door. The light fell across Taretha’s sleeping face. Gently, so as not to wake her, Blackmoore sat down on the bed. He removed his gloves and reached to touch the soft, creamy curve of her cheek. She was so beautiful. Her touch had thrilled him, her laughter moved him. But no more.

  “Sleep well, pretty traitor,” he whispered. He bent and kissed her, the pain in his heart still present but ruthlessly suppressed. “Sleep well, until I have need of you.”

  NINE

  Thrall had never been so exhausted or hungry in his life. But freedom tasted sweeter than the meat he had been fed, and felt more restful than the straw upon which he had slept as Blackmoore’s prisoner at Durnholde. He was unable to catch the coneys and squirrels that flitted through the forest, and wished that somehow survival skills had been taught to him along with battle histories and the nature of art. Because it was autumn, there were ripe fruits on the trees, and he quickly became adept at finding grubs and insects. These did little to appease the mammoth hunger that gnawed at his insides, but at least he had ready access to water in the form of the myriad small streams and brooks that wound through the forest.

  After several days, the wind shifted while Thrall steadily pushed through the undergrowth and brought the sweet scent of roasting meat to his nostrils. He inhaled deeply, as if he could obtain sustenance by the smell alone. Ravenous, he turned to follow the smell.

  Even though his body was crying out for food, Thrall did not let his hunger overcome his caution. That was well, for as he moved to the edge of the forested area, he saw dozens of humans.

  The day was bright and warm, one of the last few such days of the fall, and the humans were joyfully preparing a feast that made Thrall’s mouth water. There were baked breads, barrels of fresh fruits and vegetables, crocks of jams and butters and spreads, wheels of cheeses, bottles of what he assumed were wine and mead, and in the center, two pigs turned slowly on spits.

  Thrall’s knees gave way and he sank slowly to the forest floor, staring enraptured at the foodstuffs spread before him as if to taunt him. Over in the cleared field, children played with hoops and banners and other toys Thrall could not attach names to. Mothers suckled their babes, and maidens danced shyly with young men. It was a scene of happiness and contentment, and more than the food, Thrall wanted to belong here.

  But he did not. He was an orc, a monster, a green-skin, a black-blood, and any of a hundred other epithets. So he sat and watched while the villagers celebrated, feasted, and danced until the night encroached upon them.

  The moons rose, one bright and white, one cool and blue-green, as the last of the furniture, plates, and food items were gathered up. Thrall watched the villagers wander down the winding path through the field, and saw small candles appear in tiny windows. Still he waited, and watched the moons move slowly across the sky. Many hours after the last candle was extinguished in the windows, Thrall rose, and moved with skillful silence toward the village.

  His sense of smell had always been acute, and it was sharpened now that he was giving it leave to enjoy the smells of food. He followed the scents, reaching into windows and snatching whole loaves of bread which he gobbled down at once, uncovering a basket of apples set out by the door and crunching the small, sweet fruits greedily.

  Juice ran down his bare chest, sweet and sticky. He absently wiped at it with one large green hand. Slowly, the hunger was beginning to be sated. At each house, Thrall took something, but never too much from any one home.

  At one window, Thrall peered in to see figures sleeping by the dying hearth fire. He quickly withdrew, waited a moment, and then slowly looked in again. These were children, sleeping on straw mattresses. There was three of them, plus one in a cradle. Two were boys; the third was a little girl with yellow hair. As Thrall watched, she rolled over in her sleep.

  A sharp pang stabbed Thrall. As if no time at all had passed, he was transported in his mind back to that day when he had first seen Taretha, when she had smiled broadly and waved at him. This girl looked so much like her, with her round cheeks, her golden hair —

  A harsh noise startled him and Thrall whirled just in time to see something four-legged and dark charge at him. Teeth snapped near his ear. Reacting instinctively, Thrall clutched the animal and closed his hands around the beast’s throat. Was this a wolf, one of the creatures his people sometimes befriended?

  It had erect, pointed ears, a long muzzle, and sharp white teeth. It resembled the woodcuts of wolves he had seen in the books, but was very different in coloring and head shape.

  Now the house was awake, and he heard human voices crying in alarm. He squeezed, and the creature went limp. Dropping the body, Thrall looked inside to see the little girl staring at him with eyes wide in horror. As he watched, she screamed and pointed. “Monster
, Da, monster!”

  The hateful words coming from her innocent lips wounded Thrall to the quick. He turned to flee only to see that a ring of frightened villagers surrounded him. Some of them carried pitchforks and scythes, the only weapons this farming community possessed.

  “I mean you no harm,” Thrall began.

  “It talks! It’s a demon!” screamed someone, and the little band charged.

  Thrall reacted instinctively and his training kicked in. When one of the men shoved a pitchfork at him, Thrall deftly seized the makeshift weapon and used it to knock the other forks and scythes out of the clumsy villagers’ hands. At one point he screamed his battle cry, the bloodlust high within him, and swung the pitchfork at his attackers.

  He stopped just short of impaling the fallen man, who stared up at him wildly.

  These men were not his enemies, even though it was clear they feared and hated him. They were simple farmers, living off the crops they grew and the animals they raised. They had children. They were afraid of him, that was all. No, the enemy was not here. The enemy was sleeping soundly on a featherbed in Durnholde. With a cry of self-loathing, Thrall hurled the pitchfork several yards away and took advantage of the break in the circle to flee for the safety of the forest.

  The men did not pursue. Thrall had not expected them to. They only wished to be left in peace. As he ran through the forest, utilizing the energy engendered by the confrontation to his advantage, Thrall tried, and failed, to erase the image of a little blond girl screaming in terror and calling him “monster.”

  Thrall ran through the next day and into the night, when he finally collapsed in exhaustion. He slept the sleep of the dead, with no dreams to plague him. Something roused him before the dawn, and he blinked sleepily.

  There came a second sharp prod to the belly, and now he was fully awake — and staring up at eight angry orc faces.

  He tried to rise, but they fell upon him and bound him before he could even struggle. One of them shoved a large, angry face with yellowed tusks within an inch of Thrall’s. He barked something completely unintelligible, and Thrall shook his head.

  The orc frowned even more terribly, grabbed one of Thrall’s ears and uttered more gibberish.

  Guessing at what the other might be saying, Thrall said in the human tongue, “No, I’m not deaf.”

  An angry hiss came from all of them. “Hu-man,” said the big orc, who seemed to be their leader. “You not speak orcish?”

  “A little,” Thrall said in that language. “My name is Thrall.”

  The orc gaped, then opened his mouth and guffawed. His cronies joined him. “Hu-man who looks like an orc!” he said, extending a black-nailed finger in Thrall’s direction. In orcish, he said, “Kill him.”

  “No!” Thrall cried in orcish. One thing about this fairly dire encounter gave him hope — these orcs were fighters. They did not slouch about in exhausted despair, too dispirited to even climb an easily scalable stone wall. “Want find Grom Hellscream!”

  The big orc froze. In broken human, he said, “Why find? You sent to kill, huh? From human, huh?”

  Thrall shook his head. “No. Camps . . . bad. Orcs. . .” He couldn’t find the words in this alien tongue, so he sighed deeply and hung his head, trying to look like the pitiable creatures he had met in the internment camp. “Me want orcs. . . .” He lifted his roped hands and bellowed. “Grom help. No more camps. No more orcs. . . .” Again, he mimed looking despondent and hopeless.

  He risked a look up, wondering if his broken orcish had managed to convey what he wanted. At least they weren’t trying to kill him anymore. Another orc, slightly smaller but equally as dangerous-looking as the first, spoke in a gruff voice. The leader responded heatedly. They argued back and forth, and then finally the big one seemed to give in.

  “Tragg say, maybe. Maybe you see Hellscream, if you worthy. Come.” They hauled him to his feet and marched him forward. The prod of the spear in his back encouraged Thrall to pick up the pace. Even though he was bound and at the center of a ring of hostile orcs, Thrall felt a surge of joy.

  He was going to see Grom Hellscream, the one orc that remained uncowed. Perhaps together, they could free the imprisoned orcs, rouse them into action, and remind them of their birthrights.

  While it was difficult for Thrall to summon many words of orc speech, he was able to understand much more than he could articulate. He remained quiet, and listened.

  The orcs escorting him to see Hellscream were surprised by his vigor. Thrall had noticed that most of them had brown or black eyes, not the peculiar, burning red of most of the orcs in the internment camps. Kelgar had indicated that there might be some kind of connection between the glowing, fiery orbs and the peculiar lethargy that had all but overcome the orcs. What it was, Thrall didn’t know, and by listening, he hoped to learn.

  While the orcs said nothing of glowing red eyes, they did comment on the listlessness. Many of the words that Thrall did not understand were nonetheless comprehensible because of the tone of contempt in which they were uttered. Thrall was not alone in his revulsion and disgust at seeing the once-legendary fighting force brought lower than common cattle. At least a bull would charge you if you irritated it.

  Of their great warlord, they spoke words of praise and awe. They also spoke of Thrall, wondering if he was some sort of new spy sent to discover Grom’s lair and lead the humans to a cowardly ambush. Thrall desperately wished there were some way to convince them of his sincerity. He would do anything they wanted of him to prove himself.

  At one point, the group came to a halt. The leader, whom Thrall had learned was named Rekshak, untied a sash from around his broad chest. He held it in both hands and went to Thrall. “You be. . . .” He said something in orcish that Thrall didn’t understand, but he knew what Rekshak wanted. He lowered his head obediently, for he towered over all the other orcs, and permitted himself to be blindfolded. The sash smelled of new sweat and old blood.

  Certainly, they might kill him now, or abandon him to die, bound and blindfolded. Thrall accepted that possibility and thought it preferable to another day spent risking his life in the gladiator pit for the glory of the cruel bastard who had beaten him and tried to break Tari’s spirit.

  Now he strode with less certain steps, though at one point two orcs silently went to either side of him and grasped his arms. He trusted them; he had no choice.

  With no way to gauge the passing of time, the journey seemed to take forever. At one point the soft, springy forest loam gave way to chill stone, and the air around Thrall turned colder. By the way the other orcs’ voices were altered, Thrall realized they were descending into the earth.

  At last, they came to a halt. Thrall bowed his head and the sash was removed. Even the dim lighting provided by torches made him blink as his eyes adjusted from the utter darkness of the blindfold.

  He was in an enormous underground cavern. Sharp stones thrust from both stone ceiling and floor. Thrall could hear the drip of moisture in the distance. There were several smaller caves leading out from this one large cavern, many with animal skins draped over the entrances. Armor that had seen better days, and weapons that looked well used and well cared for were scattered here and there. A small fire burned in the center, its smoke wafting up to the stone roof. This, then, must be where the legendary Grom Hellscream and the remnants of the once-fierce Warsong clan had retreated.

  But where was the famous chieftain? Thrall looked around. While several more orcs had emerged from various caves, none had the bearing or garb of a true chieftain. He turned to Rekshak.

  “You said you would take me to Hellscream,” he demanded. “I do not see him here.”

  “You do not see him, but he is present. He sees you,” said another orc, brushing aside an animal skin and emerging into the cavern. This one was almost as tall as Thrall, but without the bulk. He looked older, and very tired. The bones of various animals and quite possibly humans were strung on a necklace about his thin throat. He carried hi
mself in a manner that demanded respect, and Thrall was willing to give it. Whoever this orc was, he was a personage of importance in the clan. And it was clear he spoke the human tongue almost as fluently as Thrall.

  Thrall inclined his head. “This may be. But I wish to speak with him, not merely bask in his unseen presence.”

  The orc smiled. “You have spirit, fire,” he said. “That is well. I am Iskar, adviser to the great chieftain Hellscream.”

  “My name is —”

  “You are not unknown to us, Thrall of Durnholde.” At Thrall’s look of surprise, Iskar continued, “Many have heard of Lieutenant General Blackmoore’s pet orc.”

  Thrall growled, softly, deep in his throat, but he did not lose his composure. He had heard the term before, but it rankled more coming from the mouth of one of his own people.

  “We have never seen you fight, of course,” Iskar continued, clasping his hands behind his back and walking a slow circle around Thrall, looking him up and down all the while. “Orcs aren’t allowed to watch the gladiator battles. While you were finding glory in the ring, your brethren were beaten and abused.”

  Thrall could take it no longer. “I received none of the glory. I was a slave, owned by Blackmoore, and if you do not think I despise him, look at this!” He twisted around so that they could see his back. They looked, and then to his fury they laughed.

  “There is nothing to see, Thrall of Durnholde,” Iskar said. Thrall realized what had happened; the healing salve had worked its magic all too well. There was not even a scar on his back from the terrible beating he had received from Blackmoore and all of his men. “You ask for our compassion, and yet you seem hale and healthy to us.”

  Thrall whirled. Anger filled him, and he tried to temper it, but to little avail. “I was a thing, a piece of property. Do you think I benefited from my sweat and blood shed in the ring? Blackmoore hauled in gold coins while I was kept in a cell, brought out for his amusement. The scars on my body are not visible, I realize that now. But the only reason I was healed was so that I could go back in the ring and fight again to enrich my master. There are scars you cannot see that run much deeper. I escaped, I was thrown into the camps, and then I came here to find Hellscream. Although I begin to doubt his existence. It seems too much to hope for that I could still find an orc who exemplifies all that I understood our people to be.”