Lord Of The Clans

by Christie Golden

  Snows came and went, blue skies appeared, dimmed to black, and then clouded over with more snows. He began to despair. He did not even know if he was headed in the right direction to encounter the Frostwolves. He put one foot in front of the other steadily, stubbornly, determined to find his people or die here in these inhospitable mountains.

  His mind began to play tricks on him. From time to time, Aedelas Blackmoore would rear out of a snow-drift, screaming harsh words and swinging a broadsword. Thrall could even smell the telltale scent of wine on his breath. They would fight, and Thrall would fall, exhausted, unable to fend off Blackmoore’s final blow. It was only then that the shade would disappear, transforming itself from a loathed image into the harmless outline of a rock outcropping or a twisted, weatherworn tree.

  Other images were more pleasant. Sometimes Hellscream would come rescue him, offering a warm fire that vanished when Thrall stretched out his hands to it. Other times his rescuer was Sergeant, grumbling about having to track down lost fighters and offering a thick, warm cloak. His sweetest and yet most bitter hallucinations were those when Tari would appear, sympathy in her wide blue eyes and comforting words on her lips. Sometimes she would almost touch him before disappearing before his eyes.

  On and on he pressed, until one day, he simply could go no farther. He took one step, and fully intended to take the next, and the one after that, when his body toppled forward of its own accord. His mind tried to command his exhausted, nearly frozen body to rise, but it disobeyed. The snow didn’t even feel cold to him anymore. It was . . . warm, and soft. Sighing, Thrall closed his eyes.

  A sound made him open them again, but he only stared disinterestedly at this fresh mind-trick. This time it was a large pack of white wolves, almost as white as the snow that surrounded him. They had formed a ring about him, and stood silently, waiting. He stared back, mildly interested in how this scenario would play out. Would they charge, only to vanish? Or would they just wait until unconsciousness claimed him?

  Three dark figures loomed up behind the nonexistent wolves. They weren’t anyone who had come to visit him before. They were wrapped from head to toe in thick furs. They looked warm, but not as warm as Thrall felt. Their faces were in shadow from fur-trimmed hoods, but he saw large jaws. That and their size marked them as orcs.

  He was angry at his mind this time. He had gotten used to the other hallucinations that had visited him. Now he feared he was going to die before finding out what these imaginary people had in store for him.

  He closed his eyes, and knew no more.

  “I think he’s awake.” The voice was soft and high-pitched. Thrall stirred and opened heavy-lidded eyes.

  Staring right at him with a curious expression on its face was an orc child. Thrall’s eyes opened wider to regard the small male. There had been no children among the Warsong clan. They had been cobbled together after dreadful battles, their numbers decimated, and Grom had told him that the children had been the first to succumb.

  “Hello,” said Thrall in orcish, the word coming out in a harsh rasp. The boy jumped, then laughed.

  “He’s definitely awake,” the child said, then scurried away. Another orc loomed into Thrall’s field of vision. For the second time in as many minutes, Thrall saw a new type of orc; first the very young one, and now, one who had obviously known many, many winters.

  All the features of the orcs were exaggerated in this aged visage. The jowls sagged, the teeth were even yellower than Thrall’s, and many were missing or broken. The eyes were a strange milky color, and Thrall could see no pupils in them. This orc’s body was twisted and stooped, almost as small as the child’s, but Thrall instinctively shrank back from the sheer presence of the elder.

  “Hmph,” said the old orc. “Thought you were going to die, young one.”

  Thrall felt a twinge of irritation. “Sorry to disappoint you,” he said.

  “Our honor code obliges us to help those in need,” continued the orc, “but it’s always easier if our help proves ineffective. One less mouth to feed.”

  Thrall was taken aback by the rudeness, but chose to say nothing.

  “My name is Drek’Thar. I am the shaman of the Frostwolves, and their protector. Who are you?”

  Amusement rippled through Thrall at the idea of this wizened old orc being the protector of all the Frostwolves. He tried to sit up, and was startled to find himself slammed down on the furs as if from an unseen hand. He looked over at Drek’Thar and saw that the old man had subtly changed the position of his fingers.

  “I didn’t give you leave to rise,” said Drek’Thar. “Answer my question, stranger, or I may reconsider our offer of hospitality.”

  Gazing at the elder with new respect, Thrall said, “My name is Thrall.”

  Drek’Thar spat. “Thrall! A human word, and a word of subjugation at that.”

  “Yes,” said Thrall, “a word that means slave in their tongue. But I am a thrall no longer, though I keep the name to prick myself to my duties. I have escaped my chains and desire to find out my true history.” Without thinking, Thrall tried to sit up again, and was again slammed down. This time, he saw the gnarled old hands twitch slightly. This was a powerful shaman indeed.

  “Why did our wolf friends find you wandering in a blizzard?” Drek’Thar demanded. He stared away from Thrall, and Thrall realized that the old orc was blind.

  “It is a long story.”

  “I’ve got time.”

  Thrall had to laugh. He found himself liking this cranky old shaman. Surrendering to the implacable force that kept him flat on his back, he told his story. Of how Blackmoore had found him as an infant, had raised him and taught him how to fight and to read. He told the shaman of Tari’s kindness, of the listless orcs he had found in the camps, of finally making contact with Hellscream, who had taught him the warrior’s code and the language of his people.

  “Hellscream was the one who told me that the Frostwolves were my clan,” he finished. “He knew by the small piece of cloth in which I was wrapped as a baby. I can show you —” He fell silent, mortified. Of course Drek’Thar could not be “shown” anything.

  He expected the shaman to erupt in offense, but instead Drek’Thar extended his hand. “Give it to me.”

  Now the pressure on his chest eased, and Thrall was able to sit up. He reached in his pack for the tattered remains of the Frostwolf blanket, and wordlessly handed it to the shaman.

  Drek’Thar took it in both hands, and brought it to his chest. He murmured softly words Thrall could not catch, and then nodded.

  “It is as I suspected,” he said, and sighed heavily. He handed the cloth back to Thrall. “The cloth is indeed the pattern of the Frostwolves, and it was woven by the hand of your mother. We had thought you dead.”

  “How could you tell that —” And then Thrall fully understood what Drek’Thar had said. Hope seized him. “You know my mother? My father? Who am I?”

  Drek’Thar lifted his head and stared at Thrall with his blind eyes. “You are the only child of Durotan, our former chieftain, and his courageous mate Draka.”

  Over a hearty stew of meat, broth, and roots, Drek’Thar told Thrall the rest of his history, at least as much as he knew. He had taken the young orc into his cave, and with the fire burning brightly and thick fur cloaks about their bodies, both old shaman and young warrior were warm and comfortable. Palkar, his attendant, who had been so diligent about alerting him when Thrall had awakened, ladled up the stew and gently pressed the warm wooden bowl into Drek’thar’s hands.

  The orc ate his stew, delaying speaking. Palkar sat quietly. The only sound was the crackle of the fire and the slow, deep breathing of Wise-ear, Drek’thar’s wolf companion. It was a difficult story for Drek’Thar, one he had never imagined he would need to speak of ever again.

  “Your parents were the most honored of all the Frostwolves. They left us on a dire errand many winters past, never to return. We did not know what had happened to them . . . until now.” He gestur
ed in the direction of the cloth. “The fibers in the cloth have told me. They were slain, and you survived, to be raised by humans.”

  The cloth was not living, but it had been made of the fur of the white goats that braved the mountains. Because the wool had once belonged to a living being, it had a certain sentience of its own. It could not give details, but it spoke of blood being shed, spattering it with dark red droplets. It also told Drek’Thar a bit about Thrall as well, validating the young orc’s story and giving it a sense of truth that Drek’Thar could believe.

  He could sense Thrall’s doubt that the blanket remnant had “spoken” to him freely. “What was the errand that cost my parents their lives?” the young orc wanted to know.

  But that was information Drek’Thar was not ready to share. “I will tell you in time, perhaps. But now, you have put me in a difficult position, Thrall. You come during the winter, the harshest season of all, and as your clan members we must take you in. That does not mean that you will be kept warm, fed, and sheltered without recompense.”

  “I did not expect to be so treated,” said Thrall. “I am strong. I can work hard, help you hunt. I can teach you some of the ways of humankind, that you will better be prepared to fight them. I can —”

  Drek’Thar held up a commanding hand, silencing Thrall’s eager babble. He listened. The fire was speaking to him. He leaned in to it, to hear its words better.

  Drek’Thar was stunned. Fire was the most undisciplined of the elements. It barely would deign to reply when he addressed it after following all the rituals to appease it. And now, Fire was speaking to him . . . about Thrall!

  He saw in his mind images of brave Durotan, beautiful and fierce Draka. I miss you yet, my old friends, he thought. And yet your blood returns to me, in the form of your son. A son of whom even the Spirit of Fire speaks well. But I cannot just give him the mantle of leadership, not as young as he is, as untested . . . as human-tainted!

  “Since your father left, I have been the leader of the Frostwolves,” said Drek’Thar. “I accept your offer of aid to the clan, Thrall, son of Durotan. But you will have to earn your rank.”

  Six days later, as Thrall battled his way through a snowstorm back to the clan encampment with a large, furry animal he and the frost wolves had brought down slung over his back, he wondered if perhaps slavery hadn’t been easier.

  As soon as the thought struck, he banished it. He was with his own people now, although they continued to regard him with hostility and grudging hospitality. He was always the last to eat. Even the wolves ate their fill before Thrall. He was given the coldest place to sleep, the thinnest cloak, the poorest weapons, the most onerous chores and tasks. He accepted this humbly, recognizing it for what it was: an attempt to test him, to make sure that he had not come to the Frostwolves expecting to be waited on like a king . . . like Blackmoore.

  So he covered the refuse pits, skinned the animals, fetched the firewood, and did everything that was asked of him without a word. At least he had the frost wolves to keep him company in the blizzard this time.

  One evening, he had asked Drek’Thar about the link between the wolves and the orcs. He was familiar with the concept of domesticating animals, of course, but this seemed different, deeper.

  “It is,” Drek’Thar replied. “The wolves are not tamed, not as you understand the word. They have come to be our friends because I invited them. It is part of being a shaman. We have a bond with the things of the natural world, and strive always to work in harmony with them. It would be helpful to us if the wolves would be our companions. Hunt with us, keep us warm when the furs are not enough. Alert us to strangers, as they did with you. You would have died had not our wolf friends found you. And in return, we make sure they are well fed, that their injuries are healed, and their cubs need not fear the mighty wind eagles that scour the mountains during the birthing times.

  “We have made a similar pact with the goats, although they are not as wise as the wolves. They give us their wool and milk, and when we are in extreme need, one will surrender its life. We protect them in return. They are free to break the pact at any time, but in the last thirty years, none has done so.”

  Thrall could not believe what he was hearing. This was potent magic indeed. “You link with things other than animals, though, do you not?”

  Drek’Thar nodded. “I can call the snows, and wind, and lightning. The trees may bend to me when I ask. The rivers may flow where I ask them to.”

  “If your power is so great, then why do you continue to live in such a harsh place?” Thrall asked. “If what you are saying is true, you could turn this barren mountain-top into a lush garden. Food would never be difficult to come by, your enemies would never find you —”

  “And I would violate the primary agreement with the elements, and nothing of nature would ever respond to me again!” bellowed Drek’Thar. Thrall wished he could snatch back the words, but it was too late. He had obviously deeply offended the shaman. “Do you understand nothing? Have the humans sunk their greedy talons in you so deeply that you cannot see what lies at the heart of a shaman’s power? I am granted these things because I ask, with respect in my heart, and I am willing to offer something in return. I request only the barest needs for myself and my people. At times, I ask great things, but only when the cause is good and just and wholesome. In return, I thank these powers, knowing that they are borrowed only, never bought. They come to me because they choose to, not because I demand it! These are not slaves, Thrall. They are powerful entities who come of their own free will, who are companions in my magic, not my servants. Pagh!” He snarled and turned away from Thrall. “You will never understand.”

  For many days, he did not speak with Thrall. Thrall continued to do the lesser jobs, but it seemed that he grew only more distant from the Frostwolves, not closer, as time passed. One evening he was covering the refuse pits when one of the younger males called out, “Slave!”

  “My name is Thrall,” Thrall said darkly.

  The other orc shrugged. “Thrall, slave. It means the same thing. My wolf is ill and has soiled his bedding. Clean it.”

  Thrall growled low in his throat. “Clean it yourself. I am not your servant, I am a guest of the Frostwolves,” he snarled.

  “Oh? Really? With a name like slave? Here, human-boy, take it!” He threw a blanket and it covered Thrall before he could react. Cold moisture clung to his face and he smelled the stench of urine.

  Something snapped inside him. Red anger flooded his vision and he screamed in outrage. He ripped the filthy blanket off and clenched his fists. He began to stamp, rhythmically, angrily, as he had so long ago in the ring. Only there was no cheering crowd here, only a small circle of suddenly very quiet orcs who stared at him.

  The young orc thrust his jaw out stubbornly. “I said, clean it, slave.”

  Thrall bellowed and sprang. The young male went down, though not without fighting. Thrall didn’t feel his flesh part beneath sharp black nails. He felt only the fury, the outrage. He was no one’s slave.

  Then they were pulling him off and throwing him into a snow bank. The shock of the cold wetness brought him to his senses, and he realized that he had ruined any chance of being accepted by these people. The thought devastated him, and he sat waist-deep in the snow, staring down. He had failed. There was no place that he belonged.

  “I had wondered how long it would take you,” said Drek’Thar. Thrall glanced up listlessly to see the blind shaman standing over him. “You surprised me by lasting this long.”

  Slowly, Thrall stood. “I have turned on my hosts,” he said heavily. “I will depart.”

  “You will do no such thing,” said Drek’Thar. Thrall turned to stare at him. “The first test I had was to see if you were too arrogant to ask to be one of us. Had you come in here demanding the chieftainship as your birthright, we would have sent you away — and sent our wolves to make sure you stayed away. You needed first to be humble before we would admit you.

  “B
ut also, we would not respect anyone who would stay servile for too long. Had you not challenged Uthul’s insults, you would not have been a true orc. I am pleased to see you are both humble and proud, Thrall.”

  Gently, Drek’Thar placed a wizened hand on Thrall’s muscular arm. “Both qualities are needed for one who will follow the path of the shaman.”

  THIRTEEN

  Though the rest of that long winter was bitter, Thrall clung to the warmth he felt inside and thought the chill as little. He was accepted now as a member of the clan, and even the Warsongs had not made him feel so valued. Days were spent hunting with clan members who were now family and in listening to Drek’Thar. Nights were spent as part of a loud, happy gathering sitting around a group fire, singing songs and telling tales of past days of glory.

  Though Drek’Thar often regaled him with tales of his courageous father Durotan, Thrall somehow sensed that the old orc was holding something back. He did not press the matter, however. Thrall trusted Drek’Thar completely now, and knew that the shaman would tell him what he needed to know, when he needed to know it.

  He also made a unique friend. One evening, as the clan and their wolf companions gathered around the fire as was their usual wont, a young wolf detached itself from the pack that usually slept just beyond the ring of firelight and approached. The Frostwolves fell silent.

  “This female will Choose,” said Drek’Thar solemnly. Thrall had long since stopped being amazed at how Drek’Thar knew such things as the wolf’s gender and its — her — readiness to Choose, whatever that meant. Not without painful effort, Drek’Thar rose and extended his arms toward the she-wolf.

  “Lovely one, you wish to form a bond with one of our clan,” he said. “Come forward and Choose the one with whom you will be bonded for the rest of your life.”