Lord Of The Clans

by Christie Golden

  “What do you understand our people to be, then, orc who bears the name of slave?” Iskar taunted.

  Thrall was breathing heavily, but summoned the control that Sergeant had taught him. “They are strong. Cunning. Powerful. They are a terror in battle. They have spirits that cannot be quenched. Let me see Hellscream, and he will know that I am worthy.”

  “We will be the judge of that,” said Iskar. He raised his hand, and three orcs entered the cavern. They began to don armor and reach for various weapons. “These three are our finest warriors. They are, as you have said, strong, cunning, and powerful. They fight to kill or die, unlike what you are used to in the gladiator ring. Your playacting will not serve you here. Only real skill will save you. If you survive, Hellscream may grant you an audience, or he may not.”

  Thrall gazed at Iskar. “He will see me,” he said confidently.

  “You had best hope so. Begin!” And with no further warning, all three orcs charged at a weaponless, armor-less Thrall.

  TEN

  For the briefest of moments, Thrall was caught off guard. Then years of training took over. While he had no desire to fight his own people, he was able to quickly regard them as combatants in the ring and react accordingly. As one of them charged, Thrall swiftly dodged and then reached upward, snatching the huge battle-ax from the orc’s hands. In the same fluid motion, he swung. The blow bit deeply, but the armor deflected most of the strike. The orc cried out and stumbled to his feet, clutching his back. He would survive, but that quickly, the odds had been reduced to two to one.

  Thrall whirled, snarling. The bloodlust, sweet and familiar, filled him again. Bellowing his own challenge, a second adversary charged, wielding an enormous broadsword that more than compensated for his lack of arm length. Thrall twisted to the side, avoiding a killing blow but still feeling the hot pain as the blade bit into his side.

  The orc pressed his attack, and at the same time, the third orc came in from behind. Thrall, though, now had a weapon. He ignored the blood pumping from his side, making the stone floor slick and treacherous, and swung the huge ax first toward one attacker, then letting the momentum swing it back to strike the second.

  They parried with enormous shields. Thrall had no armor or shielding, but fighting this way was something he was used to. These were clever opponents, but so had the human fighters been. They were strong and physically powerful, but so were the trolls Thrall had faced and defeated. He moved from a place of calm surety, dodging and screaming and striking. Once, they might have been a threat to him. Now, though, even at two to one, as long as Thrall was able to keep his eye on strategy and not succumb to the sweet call of bloodlust, he knew he would triumph.

  His arm moved as if of its own accord, striking blow after blow. Even when his feet slipped and he fell, he used it to his advantage. He angled his body so it would strike one opponent, while extending his arm to its full length so that the huge ax would swipe the other orc’s legs out from under him. He was careful to angle the ax so that the blunt end struck, not the blade. He did not wish to kill these orcs; he only wished to win the fight.

  Both orcs went down hard. The orc Thrall had struck with the ax clutched his legs and howled his frustration. It appeared they had both been broken. The other orc staggered to his feet and tried to impale Thrall with the broadsword.

  Thrall made his decision. Steeling himself for the pain, he reached upward with both hands, grasped the blade, and yanked it forward. The orc lost his balance and fell atop Thrall’s body. Thrall twisted and in a heartbeat found himself straddling the other orc, his hands at his throat.

  Squeeze, instinct cried. Squeeze tight. Kill Blackmoore for what he did to you.

  No! he thought. This was not Blackmoore. This was one of his people, whom he had risked everything to find. He rose and extended a hand to the defeated orc to help him up.

  The orc stared at the hand. “We kill,” said Iskar, his voice as calm as before. “Kill your opponent, Thrall. It’s what a real orc would do.”

  Thrall shook his head slowly, reached down to clasp his opponent’s arm, and hauled the vanquished foe to his feet. “In battle, yes. I would kill my foe in battle, so that he did not rise up against me at another time. But you are my people, whether you will own me as one of you or not. We are too few in number for me to kill him.”

  Iskar looked at him strangely, seemed to be waiting for something, then continued speaking.

  “Your reasoning is understandable. You have honorably defeated our three finest warriors. You have passed the first test.”

  First? Thrall thought, one hand going to his bleeding side. A suspicion began to form that no matter how many “tests” he passed, they would not let him see Hellscream. Perhaps Hellscream was not even here.

  Perhaps Hellscream was no longer even alive.

  But Thrall knew in his heart of hearts that even if this were so, he would rather die here than return to his life under Blackmoore’s boot.

  “What is the next challenge?” he asked quietly. He could tell by the reaction that his calm demeanor impressed them.

  “A question of will,” said Iskar. There was a slight smirk on his heavy-jawed face. He gestured, and an orc emerged from one of the caves carrying what appeared at first glance to be a heavy sack on his back. But when he carelessly tossed the “sack” onto the stone floor, Thrall realized that it was a male human child, bound hand and foot and with a gag thrust into his mouth. The child’s black hair was tangled. He was filthy, and where dirt did not cover his pale flesh, Thrall saw the purple and green of bruises. His eyes were the same color as Thrall’s own, a rich blue, and those eyes were wide with terror.

  “You know what this is,” said Iskar.

  “A child. A human child,” Thrall replied, perplexed. Surely they did not expect him to fight the boy.

  “A male child. Males mature to become orc-killers. They are our natural enemies. If you indeed chafed at the whip and rod, and wish for revenge on those who enslaved you and even gave you a name to mark your low position in life, then exact your revenge now. Kill this child, before he grows to be of an age to kill you.”

  The boy’s eyes widened, for Iskar had been speaking in the human tongue. He squirmed frantically and muffled sounds came from his mouth. The orc who had carried him out kicked him disinterestedly in the stomach. The child curled up tightly, whimpering past the gag.

  Thrall stared. Surely they were not serious. He looked over at Iskar, who regarded him without blinking.

  “This is no warrior,” said Thrall. “And this is no honorable combat. I had thought that orcs prized their honor.”

  “So we do,” agreed Iskar, “but before you lies a future threat. Defend your people.”

  “He is a child!” Thrall exclaimed. “He is no threat now, and who can say what he will be? I know the clothes he wears, and what village he was taken from. The people there are farmers and herders. They live on what they raise, both fruit and flesh. Their weapons are for hunting coneys and deer, not orcs.”

  “But there is a good chance that, if we again go to war, this boy will be in the front line, charging at one of us with a spear and calling for our blood,” Iskar retorted. “Do you wish to see Hellscream or not? If you do not slay the child, you may rest assured that you will not leave this cave alive.”

  The boy was crying now, silently. Thrall was instantly reminded of his parting with Taretha, and her description of weeping. Her image filled his mind. He thought of her, and of Sergeant. He thought of how saddened he had been when his appearance had frightened the little girl in the village.

  And then he thought of Blackmoore’s handsome, contemptuous face; of all the men who had spat upon him and called him “monster” and “greenskin” and worse.

  But those memories did not condone cold-blooded murder. Thrall made his decision. He dropped the bloody ax to the floor.

  “If this child takes up arms against me in the future,” he said, choosing his words slowly and deliberately
, “then I shall kill him on the battlefield. And I shall take a certain pleasure in the doing, because I will know that I am fighting for the rights of my people. But I will not kill a bound child who lies helpless before me, human though he is. And if this means I never see Hellscream, so be it. If it means I must fight all of you and fall beneath your numbers, I say again, so be it. I would rather die than commit such a dishonorable atrocity.”

  He steadied himself, arms outstretched, waiting for the attack that would come. Iskar sighed.

  “A pity,” he said, “but you have chosen your own destiny.” He lifted his hand.

  At that moment, a terrible scream pierced the still, cool air. It echoed and reverberated through the cavern, hurting Thrall’s ears and piercing him to the bone. He shrank back from the noise. The animal skin covering one of the caves was torn down and a tall, red-eyed orc emerged. Thrall had gotten used to the appearance of his people, but this orc was unlike any he had yet seen.

  Long black hair flowed down his back in a thick tangle. Each large ear was pierced several times, reminding Thrall oddly of Sergeant, and the dozen or so rings glinted in the firelight. His leather clothing of red and black contrasted strikingly with his green skin, and several chains attached to various places on his body swayed with his movements. His entire jaw seemed to be painted black, and at the moment, it was open wider than Thrall would have believed possible. It was he who was making the terrifying noise, and Thrall realized that Grom Hellscream had gotten his name for a very good reason.

  The shriek faded, and Grom spoke. “Never had I thought to see this!” He marched up to Thrall and stared at him. His eyes were flame-colored, and something dark and frightening seemed to dance in their centers in place of pupils. Thrall assumed the comment to be derogatory, but he was not about to be cowed. He drew himself up to his full imposing height, determined to meet death with an unbowed head. He opened his mouth to reply to Grom’s comment, but the orc chieftain continued.

  “How is it you know of mercy, Thrall of Durnholde? How is it you know when to offer it, and for what reasons?”

  The orcs were murmuring among themselves now, confused. Iskar bowed.

  “Noble Hellscream,” he began, “we had thought that this child’s capture would please you. We expected —”

  “I would expect that its parents would track it down to our lair, you fool!” cried Grom. “We are warriors, fierce and proud. At least we once were.” He shuddered, as if from a fever, and for a moment seemed to Thrall to be pale and tired. But that impression was gone as quickly as it had come. “We do not butcher children. I assume whoever caught the whelp had the presence of mind to blindfold it?”

  “Of course, lord,” said Rekshak, looking offended.

  “Then take him back where you found him the same way.” Hellscream marched over to the child and removed the gag. The boy was too terrified to cry out. “Listen to me, tiny human. Tell your people that the orcs had you, and chose not to harm you. Tell them,” and he looked over at Thrall, “that they showed you mercy. Also tell them if they try to find us, they will fail. We will be on the move soon. Do you understand?”

  The boy nodded. “Good.” To Rekshak, he said, “Take him back. Now. And the next time you find a human pup, leave it be.”

  Rekshak nodded. With a definite lack of gentleness, he took the boy by the arm and hauled him to his feet.

  “Rekshak,” said Grom, his harsh voice heavy with warning. “If you disobey me and the boy comes to harm, I shall know of it. And I shall not forgive.”

  Rekshak scowled impotently. “As my lord wills,” he said, and, still roughly hauling the boy, began to ascend one of the many winding stone corridors that emptied into the cavern.

  Iskar looked confused. “My lord,” he began, “this is the pet of Blackmoore! He stinks of humans, he brags of his fear of killing — ”

  “I have no fear of killing those who deserve to die,” Thrall growled. “I do not choose to kill those who do not.”

  Hellscream reached out and put a hand on Iskar’s shoulder, then placed the other on Thrall’s, reaching up to do so. “Iskar, my old friend,” he said, his rough voice soft, “you have seen me when the bloodlust has come upon me. You have seen me wade in blood up to my knees. I have killed the children of the humans ere now. But we gave all we had fighting in that manner, and where has it brought us? Low and defeated, our kind slouch in camps and lift no hand to free themselves, let alone fight for others. That way of fighting, of making war, has brought us to this. Long have I thought that the ancestors would show me a new way, a way to win back what we have lost. It is a fool who repeats the same actions expecting a different outcome, and whatever I may be, I am not a fool. Thrall was strong enough to defeat the finest we had to offer. He has tasted humankind’s ways and turned his back on them to be free. He has escaped from the camps and against the odds managed to find me. I agree with his choices here today. One day, my old friend, you, too, will see the wisdom in this.”

  He squeezed Iskar’s shoulder affectionately. “Leave us, now. All of you.”

  Slowly, reluctantly, and not without a few hostile glances in Thrall’s direction, the orcs all ascended into different levels of the cave. Thrall waited.

  “We are alone now,” said Hellscream. “Are you hungry, Thrall of Durnholde?”

  “I am ravenous,” said Thrall, “but I would ask that you not call me Thrall of Durnholde. I escaped Durnholde, and I loathe the thought of it.”

  Hellscream lumbered over to another cave, pulled the skin aside, and withdrew a large chunk of raw meat. Thrall accepted it, nodded his thanks, and bit into it eagerly. His first honestly earned meal as a free orc. Deer flesh had never tasted so fine to him.

  “Should we then change your other name? It is the term of a slave,” said Hellscream, squatting and watching Thrall closely with red eyes. “It was meant to be a badge of shame.”

  Thrall thought as he chewed and swallowed. “No. Blackmoore gave me the name so that I would never forget that I was something he owned, that I belonged to him.” His eyes narrowed. “I never will. I will keep the name, and one day, when I see him again, he will be the one who remembers what he did to me, and regret it with all his heart.”

  Hellscream regarded him closely. “You would kill him, then?”

  Thrall did not answer immediately. He thought of the time when he had almost killed Sergeant and seen Blackmoore’s face instead, of the countless times since that moment when he had visualized Blackmoore’s handsome, taunting visage while fighting in the ring. He thought of Blackmoore’s slurred speech and the agony that his kicks and fists had caused. He thought of the anguish on Taretha’s lovely face as she spoke of the master of Durnholde.

  “Yes,” he said, his voice deep and hard. “I would. If any creature deserves death, it is certainly Aedelas Blackmoore.”

  Hellscream cackled, a strange, wild sound. “Good. At least you’re willing to kill somebody. I was starting to wonder if I’d made the right choice.” He gestured to the tattered cloth that Thrall had tucked into the waistband of his trousers. “That doesn’t look human-made.”

  Thrall tugged the swaddling cloth free. “It isn’t. This is the cloth in which Blackmoore found me, when I was an infant.” He handed it to Hellscream. “That’s all I know.”

  “I know this pattern,” said Hellscream, opening the cloth and regarding the symbol of the white wolf’s head on a blue background. “This is the symbol of the Frostwolf clan. Where did Blackmoore find you?”

  “He always told me it wasn’t very far from Durnholde,” said Thrall.

  “Then your family was a long way from home. I wonder why.”

  Hope seized Thrall. “Did you know them? Could you tell me who my parents were? There is so much I don’t know.”

  “I can only say that this is the emblem of the Frostwolf clan, and that they live a great distance from here, somewhere up in the mountains. They were exiled by Gul’dan. I never did learn why. Durotan and his people seemed
loyal to me. Rumor has it they have formed bonds with the wild white wolves, but one cannot always believe everything that one hears.”

  Thrall tasted disappointment. Still, it was more than he had known before. He ran a big hand over the small square of old fabric, amazed that he had ever been little enough to be wrapped in it.

  “Another question, if you can answer it,” he said to Hellscream. “When I was younger, I was training outside, and a wagon passed, carrying several. . . .” He paused. What was the correct term? Inmates? Slaves? “Several orcs to the internment camps. One of them broke free and attacked me. He kept screaming something over and over. I was never able to learn what he said, but I vowed I would remember the words. Perhaps you can tell me what they mean.”

  “Speak, and I shall tell you.”

  “Kagh! Bin mog g’thazag cha!” said Thrall.

  “That was no attack, my young friend,” said Hellscream. “The words are, ‘Run! I will protect you!’”

  Thrall stared. All this time, he had assumed that he was the object of the charge, when all along. . . .

  “The other fighters,” he said. “We were doing a training exercise. I was without armor or shield, in the center of a ring of men. . . . He died, Hellscream. They cut him to bits. He thought they were making sport of me, that I was being attacked twelve to one. He died to protect me.”

  Hellscream said nothing, merely continued to eat while watching Thrall closely. Famished though he was, Thrall let the haunch of meat drip its juices onto the stone floor. Someone had given his life to protect an unknown young orc. Slowly, without the keen pleasure he had experienced before, he bit into the flesh and chewed. Sooner or later, he would have to find the Frostwolf clan, and learn exactly who he was.