Lord of the Clans (12 page)

“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 himself 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.”

“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.

F
or 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.