Lord of the Clans (15 page)

Thrall started to object, but Hellscream curled his lips back from his sharp yellow teeth and snarled. Having no desire to displease the chieftain who had been so kind to him, or to hear that ear-splitting scream
a second time, Thrall lowered his head so that Grom could place the necklace about his thick neck.

“I will lead the humans away from you,” Thrall reiterated.

“If you do not, it is no matter,” said Hellscream. “We will tear them limb from limb.” He laughed fiercely, and Thrall joined in. Still laughing, he set off in the direction of the cold northlands, the place from which he came.

He made a detour after a few hours, to veer back in the direction of the small village where he had stolen food and frightened the inhabitants. He did not go too near, for his keen ears had already picked up the sound of soldiers’ voices. But he did leave a token for Blackmoore’s men to find.

Though it nearly killed him to do it, he took the swaddling cloth that bore the mark of the Frostwolves and tore a large strip from it. He placed it carefully to the south of the village on a jagged stump. He wanted it to be easily found, but not too obvious. He also made sure that he left several large, easily traceable footprints in the soft, muddy soil.

With any luck, Blackmoore’s men would find the tattered piece of instantly recognizable cloth, see the footprints and assume that Thrall was headed due south. He walked backward carefully in his footprints — a tactic he had learned from his reading — and sought out stone and hard earth for the next several paces.

He looked toward the Alterac Mountains. Grom
had told him that even at the height of summer, their peaks were white against the blue sky. Thrall was about to head into their heart, not knowing for certain where he was going, just as the weather was beginning to turn. It had snowed once or twice, lightly, already. Soon the snows would come thick and heavy, heaviest of all in the mountains.

The Warsong clan had sent him off well supplied. They had given him several strips of dried meat, a waterskin in which he could collect and melt snow, a thick cape to help ward off the worst of the winter’s bite, and a few rabbit snares so he could supplement the dried meat.

Fate and luck, and the kindness of strangers and a human girl, had brought him this far. Grom had indicated that Thrall had a role to play yet. He had to trust that, if this was indeed the truth, he would be guided to his destiny as he had been guided thus far.

Hoisting the sack over his back, without a single glance behind him, Thrall began to stride toward the beckoning mountains, whose jagged peaks and hidden valleys were home somewhere to the Frostwolf clan.

T
he days turned into weeks, and Thrall began to judge how much time had passed not by how many sunrises he saw, but by how many snowfalls. It did not take long for him to exhaust the dried meat the Warsong clan had given him, although he rationed it carefully. The traps proved only intermittently successful, and the farther up in the mountains he went, the fewer animals he caught.

At least water was not a problem. Everywhere around him were icy streams, and then thick, white drifts. More than once he was caught off guard by a sudden storm, and made a burrow in the snow until it passed. Each time, he could only hope that he could dig his way out to safety.

The harsh environment began to take its grim toll. His movements were slower and slower, and more
than once he would stop to rest and almost not rise again. The food ran out, and no rabbits or marmots were foolish enough to get caught in his traps. The only way he knew there was any animal life at all was by the occasional print of hoof or paw in the snow, and the eerie howling of distant wolves at night. He began eating leaves and tree bark just to quiet his furious stomach, sometimes with less than digestible results.

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 gestured 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.