Lord of the Clans (20 page)

“You may keep your head,” said Blackmoore,
acutely aware of the bottle that was within arm’s reach. “But only that you may carry a message back to your superiors.”

“Sir,” said the messenger miserably, “there’s more.”

Blackmoore peered up at him with bloodshot eyes. “How much more can there possibly be?”

“This time, the instigator was positively identified. It was —”

“Doomhammer, yes, I’ve heard the rumors.”

“No, my lord.” The messenger swallowed. Blackmoore could actually see sweat popping out on the youth’s brow. “The leader of these rebellions is . . . is Thrall, my lord.”

Blackmoore felt the blood drain from his face. “You’re a damned liar, my man,” he said, softly. “Or at least you’d better tell me you are.”

“Nay, my lord, though I would it were not so. My master said he fought him in hand-to-hand combat, and remembered Thrall from the gladiator battles.”

“I’ll have your master’s tongue for telling such untruths!” bellowed Blackmoore.

“Alas, sir, you’ll have to dig six feet to get his tongue,” said the messenger. “He died only an hour after the battle.”

Overcome with this new information, Blackmoore sank back in his chair and tried to compose his thoughts. A quick drink would help, but he knew that he was drinking too much in front of people. He was
starting to hear the whispers:
drunken fool . . . who’s in command here now. . . .

No. He licked his lips.
I’m Aedelas Blackmoore, Lord of Durnholde, master of the encampments . . . I trained that green-skinned, black-blooded freak, I ought to be able to out-think him . . . by the Light, just one drink to steady these hands. . . .

A strange feeling of pride stole through him. He’d been right about Thrall’s potential all along. He knew he’d been something special, something more than just an ordinary orc. If only Thrall hadn’t spurned the chances Blackmoore had given him! They could be leading the charge against the Alliance even now, with Blackmoore riding at the head of a loyal gathering of orcs, obedient to his every command. Foolish, foolish Thrall. For the briefest of moments, Blackmoore’s thoughts drifted back toward that final beating he had given Thrall. Perhaps that had been a bit much.

But he would not let himself feel guilt, not over his treatment of a disobedient slave. Thrall had thrown it all away to ally with these grunting, stinking, worthless thugs. Let him rot where he would fall.

His attention returned to the trembling messenger, and Blackmoore forced a smile. The man relaxed, smiling tentatively back. With an unsteady hand, Blackmoore reached for a quill, dipped it in ink, and began to write a message. He powdered it to absorb the excess ink and gave it a few moments to dry. Then
he carefully folded the missive into thirds, dripped hot wax on it, and set his seal.

Handing it to the messenger, he said, “Take this to your master. And have a care for that neck of yours, young sir.”

Apparently having difficulty believing his good fortune, the messenger bowed deeply and hurried out, probably before Blackmoore could change his mind. Alone, Blackmoore lunged for the bottle, uncorked it, and took several long, deep pulls. As he lowered the bottle from his lips, it spilled on his black doublet. He wiped at the stains, disinterested. That’s what he had servants for.

“Tammis!” he yelled. At once the door opened and the servant stuck his head in.

“Yes, sir?”

“Go find Langston.” He smiled. “I’ve got a task for him to complete.”

T
hrall had successfully managed to infiltrate and liberate three encampments. After the first, of course, security had been stepped up at the encampments. It was still pathetically lax, and the men who “captured” Thrall never seemed to expect him to stir up trouble.

But during the battle for the third, he had been recognized. The element of surprise had now vanished, and after talking with Hellscream and Doomhammer, it was decided that it would be too risky for Thrall to continue to pose as just another prisoner.

“It is your spirit, my friend, that has roused us. You cannot continue to put yourself into such jeopardy,” said Hellscream. His eyes blazed with what Thrall now knew to be demonic hellfire.

“I cannot sit safely behind our lines, letting everyone else face the danger while I shirk it,” Thrall replied.

“We are not suggesting that,” said Doomhammer. “But the tactic we have utilized has now become too dangerous.”

“Humans talk,” said Thrall, recalling all the rumors and stories he had heard while training. The human trainees had thought him too stupid to comprehend, and had spoken freely in his presence. The thought still rankled, but he had welcomed the knowledge. “The orcs in the prisons cannot help but overhear how the other camps have been freed. Even if they do not care to listen, they will know that something is afoot. Even if I am not there physically to tell them of the way of the shaman, we can hope that somehow our message has gotten through. Once the way is clear, let us hope they will find their own paths to freedom.”

And so it had been. The fourth camp had been bristling with armed guards, but the elements continued to come to Thrall’s aid when he asked it of them. This further convinced him that his cause was right and just, for otherwise, the spirits would surely decline their help. It had been harder to destroy the walls and fight the guards, and many of Doomhammer’s finest warriors had lost their lives. But the orcs imprisoned within those cold stone walls had eagerly responded, flowing through the breach almost before Doomhammer and his warriors were ready for them.

The new Horde grew almost daily. Hunting was
easy at this time of year, and Doomhammer’s followers did not go hungry. When he heard of a small group taking it upon themselves to storm an outlying town, Thrall was furious. Especially when he learned that many unarmed humans had been killed.

He learned who the leader of the excursion was, and that night he marched into that group’s encampment, seized the startled orc, and slammed him hard into the ground.

“We are not butchers of humans!” Thrall cried. “We fight to free our imprisoned brothers, and our opponents are armed soldiers, not milkmaids and children!”

The orc started to protest, and Thrall backhanded him savagely. The orc’s head jerked to the side and blood spilled from his mouth.

“The forest teems with deer and hare! Every camp we liberate provides us with food! There is no call to terrorize people who have offered us no harm simply for our amusement. You fight where I tell you to fight, who I tell you to fight, and if any orc ever again offers harm to an unarmed human, I will not forgive it. Is this understood?”

The orc nodded. Everyone around his campfire stared at Thrall with huge eyes and nodded as well.

Thrall softened a bit. “Such behavior is of the old Horde, led by dark warlocks who had no love for our people. That is what brought us to the internment camps, to the listlessness caused by the lack of demon energy upon which we fed so greedily. I do not wish us
beholden to anyone but ourselves. That way almost destroyed us. We will be free, never question that. But we will be free to be who we truly are, and who we truly are is much, much more than simply a race of beings who exist to slaughter humans. The old ways are no more. We fight as proud warriors now, not as indiscriminate killers. There is no pride in murdering children.”

He turned and left. Stunned silence followed him. He heard a rumble of laughter in the dark, and turned to see Doomhammer. “You walk the hard path,” the great Warchief said. “It is in their blood to kill.”

“I do not believe that,” said Thrall. “I believe that we were corrupted from noble warriors into assassins. Puppets, whose strings were pulled by demons and those of our own people who betrayed us.”

“It . . . is a dreadful dance,” came Hellscream’s voice, so soft and weak that Thrall almost didn’t recognize it. “To be used so. The power they give . . . it is like the sweetest honey, the juiciest flesh. You are fortunate never to have drunk from that well, Thrall. And then to be without it, it is almost . . . unbearable.” He shuddered.

Thrall placed a hand on Hellscream’s shoulder. “And yet, you have borne it, brave one,” he said. “You make my courage as nothing with yours.”

Hellscream’s red eyes glowed in the darkness, and by their hellish crimson light, Thrall could see him smile.

It was in the small, dark hours of the morning when the new Horde, led by Doomhammer, Hellscream, and Thrall, surrounded the fifth encampment.

The outriders returned. “The guards are alert,” they told Doomhammer. “There is double the usual number posted on the walls. They have lit many fires so that their weak eyes can see.”

“And it is full moons’ light,” said Doomhammer, glancing up at the glowing silver and blue-green orbs. “The White Lady and the Blue Child are not our friends tonight.”

“We cannot wait two more weeks,” said Hellscream. “The Horde is eager for a just battle, and we must strike while they are still strong enough to resist the demon listlessness.”

Doomhammer nodded, though he still looked concerned. To the scouts, he said, “Any sign that they are expecting an assault?” One of these days, Thrall knew, their luck would run out. They had been very careful not to select camps in any particular order, so that the humans would not be able to guess where they would strike next and thus could not be lying in wait. But Thrall knew Blackmoore, and knew that somehow, some way, a confrontation was inevitable.

While he relished the thought of finally facing Blackmoore in fair combat, he knew what it would mean to the troops. For their sake, he hoped that tonight was not that night.

The outriders shook their heads.

“Then let us descend,” said Doomhammer, and in steady silence, the green tide flooded down the hill and toward the encampment.

They had almost reached it when the gates flew open and dozens of armed, mounted humans charged out. Thrall saw the black falcon on the red and gold standard, and knew that the day he had both dreaded and anticipated had finally arrived.

Hellscream’s battle cry pierced the air, almost drowning out the screams of humans and the pounding of their horses’ hooves. Rather than being disheartened by the enemy’s strength, the Horde seemed revitalized, willing to rise to the challenge.

Thrall threw back his head and howled his own battle cry. The quarters were too close for Thrall to call on such great powers as lightning and earthquakes, but there were others he could ask to aid him. Despite an almost overwhelming desire to charge into the fray and fight hand to hand, he held back. Time enough for that once he had done all he could to tip the balance in the orcs’ direction.

He closed his eyes, planted his feet firmly on the grass, and sought the Spirit of the Wilds. He saw in his mind’s eye a great white horse, the Spirit of all horses, and sent forth his plea.

The humans are using your children to kill us. They, too, are in danger. If the horses throw their riders, they will be free to reach safety. Will you ask them to do so?

The great horse considered.
These children are trained to fight. They are not afraid of swords and spears.

But there is no need for them to die today. We are only trying to free our people. That is a just cause, and not worth their deaths.

Again, the great horse spirit considered Thrall’s words. Finally, he nodded his enormous white head.

Suddenly, the battlefield was thrown into greater confusion as every horse either wheeled and galloped off, bearing a startled and furious human with it, or began to rear and buck. The human guards fought to stay mounted, but it was impossible.

Now it was time to beseech the Spirit of Earth. Thrall envisioned the roots of the forest that surrounded the camp extending, growing, exploding up from the soil.
Trees who have sheltered us . . . will you aid me now?

Yes
, came a response in his mind. Thrall opened his eyes and strained to see. Even with his superb night vision, it was hard to discern what was happening, but he could just make it out.

Roots exploded from the hard-packed earth just outside the camp walls. They shot up from the soil and seized the men who had been dismounted, wrapping their pale lengths about the humans as firmly as the trap-nets closed about captive orcs. To Thrall’s approval, the orcs did not kill the fallen guards as they lay helpless. Instead they ran on to other targets, pressed inward, and searched for their imprisoned kin.

Another wave of enemies charged out, this one on foot. The trees did not send their roots forth a second time; they had provided all the aid they would. Despite his frustration, Thrall thanked them and racked his brain as to what to do next.

He decided that he had done all he could as a shaman. It was time for him to behave as a warrior. Gripping his mammoth broadsword, a gift from Hellscream, Thrall charged down the hill to aid his brothers.

Lord Karramyn Langston had never been more afraid in his life.

Too young to have charged into battle in the last conflict between humankind and orcs, he had hung on every word his idol Lord Blackmoore had uttered. Blackmoore had made it sound as easy as hunting game in the tame, forested lands that surrounded Durnholde, except much more exciting. Blackmoore had said nothing about the shrieks and groans that assaulted his ears, the stench of blood and urine and feces and the orcs themselves, the bombardment of a thousand images upon the eye at any one time. No, battle with orcs had been described as a heart-pounding lark, which made one ready for a bath and wine and the company of adoring women.

They had had the element of surprise. They had been ready for the green monsters. What had happened? Why had the horses, well-trained beasts every one of them, fled or bucked off their riders? What wicked sorcery made the earth shoot up pale arms to
bind those unfortunate enough to fall? Where were the horrible white wolves coming from, and how did they know whom to attack?

Langston got none of these questions answered. He was ostensibly in command of the unit, but any semblance of control he might have had dissolved once those terrifying tendrils emerged from the earth. Now there was only sheer panic, the sound of sword on shield or flesh, and the cries of the dying.