Lord of the Clans (17 page)

“Was Doomhammer killed?”

“We do not believe so, but nothing has been heard from him since. The odd rumor reaches us now and then, that he has become a hermit, gone into hiding, or that he has been taken prisoner. Many think of him as a legend, who will return to free us when the time is right.”

Thrall looked carefully at his teacher. “And what is it you think, Drek’Thar?”

The old orc chuckled deep in his throat. “I think,” he said, “that I have told you enough, and that it is time for you to rest. The morrow will bring your initiation, if it is meant to be. You’d best be prepared.”

Thrall rose and bowed respectfully. Even if the shaman could not see the gesture, he made it, for himself. “Come, Snowsong,” he called, and the white wolf padded obediently into the night with her life’s companion.

Drek’Thar listened, and when he was certain they had gone, he called to Wise-ear. “I have a task for you, my friend. You know what to do.”

Although he had tried to get as much rest as he could, Thrall found sleep elusive. He was too excited, too apprehensive, about what his initiation would bring. Drek’Thar had told him nothing. He wished desperately he had some kind of idea as to what to expect.

He was wide awake when the gray dawn filled his cave with faint light. He rose and made his way outside, and was surprised to find that everyone else was awake and gathered silently outside his cave.

Thrall opened his mouth to speak, but Drek’Thar held up a commanding hand. “You are not to speak again until I give you leave,” he said. “Depart at once, to go alone into the mountains. Snowsong must stay. You are not to eat or drink, but think hard about the path upon which you are about to set foot. When the sun has set, return to me, and the rite will begin.”

Obediently, Thrall turned at once and left. Snow-song, knowing what was expected of her, did not follow. She did throw her head back and begin to howl. All the other wolves joined in, and the savage, sweet chorus accompanied Thrall as he went, alone, to meditate.

The day passed more swiftly than he would have expected. His mind was filled with questions, and he was surprised when the light changed and the sun, orange
against the winter sky, began to move toward the horizon. He returned just as its last rays bathed the encampment.

Drek’Thar was waiting for him. Thrall noticed that Wise-ear was nowhere to be seen, which was unusual, but he assumed that this was part of the rite. Snowsong was also not present. He approached Drek’Thar and waited. The old orc gestured that Thrall follow.

He led Thrall over a snow-covered ridge to an area that Thrall had never seen before. In answer to the unvoiced question, Drek’Thar replied, “This place has always been here, but it does not wish to be seen. Therefore, only now, when it welcomes you, is it visible to you.”

Thrall felt nervousness rise in him, but refrained from speaking. Drek’Thar waved his hands, and the snow melted right before Thrall’s eyes, leaving a large, circular, rocky platform. “Stand in the center, Thrall, son of Durotan,” said Drek’Thar. His voice was no longer raspy and quavering, but was filled with a power and authority Thrall had never heard from him before. He obeyed.

“Prepare to meet the spirits of the natural world,” said Drek’Thar, and Thrall’s heart leaped.

Nothing happened. He waited. Still nothing happened. He shifted, uneasily. The sun had fully set and the stars were beginning to appear. He was growing impatient and angry when a voice spoke very loudly inside his head:
Patience is the first test.

Thrall inhaled swiftly. The voice spoke again.

I am the Spirit of Earth, Thrall, son of Durotan. I am the soil that yields the fruit, the grasses that feed the beasts. I am the rock, the bones of this world. I am all that grows and lives in my womb, be it worm or tree or flower. Ask me.

Ask you what?
thought Thrall.

There was a strange sensation, almost as of a warm chuckle.
Knowing the question is part of your test.

Thrall panicked, then calmed himself, as Drek’Thar had taught. A question came calmly into his mind:

Will you lend me your strength and power when I need it, for the good of the Clan and those we would aid?

Ask
, came the reply.

Thrall began to stamp his feet. He felt power rising inside him, as he always did, but for the first time it was not accompanied by bloodlust. It was warm and strong and he felt as solid as the bones of the earth themselves. He was barely aware of the very earth trembling beneath him, and it was only when an unbearably sweet scent filled his nostrils that he opened his eyes.

The earth had erupted into enormous fissures, and on every inch of what was rock, flowers bloomed. Thrall gaped.

I have agreed to lend you my assistance, for the good of the Clan and those you would aid. Honor me, and that gift shall always be yours.

Thrall felt the power recede, leaving him trembling with shock at what he had summoned and controlled. But he had only a moment to marvel at it, for another voice was in his head now.

I am the Spirit of Air, Thrall, son of Durotan. I am the winds that warm and cool the earth, that which fills your lungs and keeps you alive. I carry the birds and insects and dragons, and all things that dare soar to my challenging heights. Ask me.

Thrall knew what to do this time, and asked the same question. The sensation of power that filled him was different this time: lighter, freer. Even though he had been forbidden to speak, he could not help the laughter that bubbled forth from his soul. He felt warm winds caress him, bringing all manner of delicious scents to his nostrils, and when he opened his eyes, he was floating high above the ground. Drek’Thar was so far below him he seemed as a child’s toy. But Thrall was not afraid. The Spirit of Air would support him; he had asked, and it had answered.

Gently, he floated down, until he felt the solid stone beneath his feet. Air caressed him with a gentle touch, then dissipated.

Power again filled Thrall, and this time it was almost painful. Heat churned in his belly, and sweat popped out on his green skin. He felt an almost overpowering desire to leap into the nearby snowbanks. The Spirit of Fire was here, and he asked for its aid. It responded.

There was a loud crackling overhead, and Thrall, startled by the sound, looked up. Lightning danced its dangerous dance across the night sky. Thrall knew that it was his to command. The flowers that had strewn the broken earth exploded into flames, crisping
and burning to ashes in the space of a few heartbeats. This was a dangerous element, and Thrall thought of the pleasant fires that had kept his clan alive. At once, the fires went out, to re-form in a small, contained, cozy area.

Thrall thanked the Spirit of Fire, and felt its presence depart. He was feeling drained by all this strange energy alternately coursing through him and then departing, and was grateful that there was only one more element to acknowledge.

The Spirit of Water flowed into him, calming and cooling the burn the Spirit of Fire had left behind. Thrall had a vision of the ocean, though he had never seen one before, and extended his mind to probe its darkling depths. Something cold touched his skin. He opened his eyes to see that it was snowing thick and fast. With a thought, he turned it to rain, and then halted it altogether. The comfort of the Spirit of Water within him soothed and strengthened, and he let it go with deep, heartfelt thanks.

He looked over at Drek’Thar, but the shaman shook his head. “Your test is not yet completed,” he said.

And then suddenly Thrall was shaken from head to toe with such a rush of power that he gasped aloud. Of course. The fifth element.

The Spirit of the Wilds.

We are the Spirit of the Wilds, the essence and souls of all things living. We are the most powerful of all, surpassing the quakes of Earth, the winds of Air, the flames of Fire, and the
floods of Water. Speak, Thrall, and tell us why you think you are worthy of our aid.

Thrall couldn’t breathe. He was overwhelmed by the power churning within and without him. Forcing his eyes to open, he saw pale white shapes swirling about him. One was a wolf, the other a goat, another an orc, and a human, and a deer. He realized that every living thing had spirits, and felt despair rise up in him at the thought of having to sense and control all of them.

But faster than he could have dreamed, the spirits filled and then vacated him. Thrall felt pummeled by the onslaught, but forced himself to try to focus, to address each one with respect. It became impossible and he sank to his knees.

A soft sound filled the air, and Thrall struggled to lift a head that felt as heavy as stone.

They floated calmly around him now, and he knew that he had been judged and found worthy. A ghostly stag pranced about him, and he knew that he would never simply be able to bite into a haunch of venison without feeling its Spirit, and thanking it for the nourishment it provided. He felt a kinship with every orc that had ever been born, and even the human Spirit felt more like Taretha’s sweet presence than Blackmoore’s dark cruelty. Everything was bright, even if sometimes it embraced the dark; all life was connected, and any shaman who tampered with the chain without the utmost care and respect for that Spirit was doomed to fail.

Then they were gone. Thrall fell forward, utterly drained. He felt Drek’Thar’s hand on his shoulder, shaking him. The old shaman assisted Thrall in sitting up. Thrall had never felt so limp and weak in his life.

“Well done, my child,” said Drek’Thar, his voice trembling with emotion. “I had hoped they would accept . . . Thrall, you must know. It has been years, nay, decades, since the spirits have accepted a shaman. They were angry with us for our warlocks’ dark bargain, their corruption of magic. There are only a few shamans left now, and all are as old as I. The spirits have waited for someone worthy upon whom to bestow their gifts; you are the first in a long, long time to be so honored. I had feared that the spirits would forever refuse to work with us again, but . . . Thrall, I have never seen a stronger shaman in my life, and you are only beginning.”

“I . . . I thought it would feel so powerful,” stammered Thrall, his voice faint. “But instead . . . I am so humbled. . . .”

“And it is that which makes you worthy.” He reached and stroked Thrall’s cheek. “Durotan and Draka would be so proud of you.”

W
ith the Spirits of Earth, Air, Fire, Water and the Wilds as his willing companions, Thrall felt stronger and more confident than ever in his life. He worked together with Drek’Thar to learn the specific “calls,” as the elder called them. “Warlocks would term them spells,” he told Thrall, “but we — shamans — term them simply ‘calls.’ We ask, the powers we work with answer. Or not, as they will.”

“Have they ever not answered?” asked Thrall.

Drek’Thar was silent. “Yes,” he answered slowly. They were sitting together in Drek’Thar’s cave, talking late at night. These conversations were precious to Thrall, and always enlightening.

“When? Why?” Thrall wanted to know, then immediately added, “Unless you do not wish to speak of it.”

“You are a shaman now, although a fledgling one,”
said Drek’Thar. “It is right that you understand our limitations. I am ashamed to admit that I asked for improper things more than once. The first time, I asked for a flood to destroy an encampment of humans. I was angry and bitter, for they had destroyed many of our clan. But there were many wounded and even women and children at this place, and Water would not do it.”

“But floods happen all the time,” said Thrall. “Many innocents die, and it serves no purpose.”

“It serves the Spirit of Water’s purpose, and the Wilds’,” replied Drek’Thar. “I do not know their needs and plans. They certainly do not tell me of them. This time, it did not serve Water’s needs, and it would not flood and drown hundreds of humans it saw as innocent. Later, once the rage had faded, I understood that the Spirit of Water was right.”

“When else?”

Drek’Thar hesitated. “You probably assume I have always been old, guiding the clan spiritually.”

Thrall chuckled. “No one is born old, Wise One.”

“Sometimes I wish I had been. But I was once young, as you are, and the blood flowed hot in my veins. I had a mate and child. They died.”

“In battle against the humans?”

“Nothing so noble. They simply fell ill, and all my pleas to the elements were to no avail. I raged in my grief.” Even now, his voice was laden with sorrow. “I demanded that the spirits return the lives they had
snatched. They grew angry with me, and for many years, refused my call. Because of my arrogant demand that my loved ones come back to life, many others of our clan suffered from my inability to summon the spirits. When I saw the foolishness of my request, I begged the spirits to forgive me. They did.”

“But . . . it is only natural to want your loved ones to stay alive,” said Thrall. “Surely the spirits must understand that.”

“Oh, they understood. My first request was humble, and the element listened with compassion before it refused. My next request was a furious demand, and the Spirit of the Wilds was offended that I so abused the relationship between shaman and element.”

Drek’Thar extended a hand and placed it on Thrall’s shoulder. “It is more than likely you will endure the pain of losing loved ones, Thrall. You must know that the Spirit of the Wilds has reasons for doing what it does, and you must respect those reasons.”

Thrall nodded, but privately he completely sympathized with Drek’Thar’s desires, and did not blame the old orc one bit for raging at the spirits in his torment.

“Where is Wise-ear?” he asked, to change the subject.

“I don’t know.” Drek’Thar seemed singularly unconcerned. “He is a companion, not a slave. He leaves when he wishes, returns when it is his will.”

As if to reassure him that she was not about to go anywhere, Snowsong placed her head on Thrall’s knee.
He patted her head, bade his teacher good night, and went to his own cave to sleep.

The days passed in a routine fashion. Thrall now spent most of his time studying with Drek’Thar, though on occasion he went hunting with a small group. He utilized his newfound relationship with the elements to aid his clan: asking the Spirit of Earth for advice on where the herds were, asking the Spirit of Air to change the course of the wind so that their scent would not betray them to the watchful creatures. Only once did he ask the Spirit of the Wilds for aid, when supplies were running dangerously low and their luck in hunting had taken a turn for the worse.