Lord of the Clans (3 page)

“Blessed Light,” said Tammis, riding up beside him on his small gray pony. “What a mess.”

Three orcs and a huge white wolf lay sprawled on the forest floor. Blackmoore assumed that they had died recently. There was as yet no stink of decomposition, though the blood had congealed. Two males, one female. Who cared what sex the wolf had been. Damned orcs. It would save humans like him a lot of trouble if the brutes turned on themselves more often.

Something moved, and Blackmoore saw what it was that had been shrieking so violently. It was the ugliest thing he had ever seen . . . an orc baby, wrapped in what no doubt passed for a swaddling cloth among the creatures. Staring, he dismounted and went to it.

“Careful, sir!” yelped Tammis. “It might bite!”

“I’ve never seen a whelp before,” said Blackmoore. He nudged it with his boot toe. It rolled slightly out of its blue and white cloth, screwed its hideous little green face up even more, and continued wailing.

Though he had already downed the contents of one bottle of mead and was well into the second, Blackmoore’s mind was still sharp. Now, an idea began to form in his head. Ignoring Tammis’s unhappy warnings, Blackmoore bent over and picked up the small monster, tucking the blue and white cloth snugly about it. Almost immediately, it stopped crying. Blue-gray eyes locked with his.

“Interesting,” said Blackmoore. “Their infants have blue eyes when they are young, just as humans do.” Soon enough those eyes would turn piggy and black, or red, and gaze upon all humans with murderous hate.

Unless. . . .

For years, Blackmoore had worked twice as hard to be half as well regarded as other men of equal birth and rank. He had labored under the stigma of his father’s treachery, and had done everything possible to gain power and position. He was still skeptically regarded by many; “blood of a traitor” was often muttered when those around him thought him unable to hear. But now, perhaps he might one day not have to listen to those cutting comments any longer.

“Tammis,” he said thoughtfully, gazing intently into the incongruously soft blue of the baby orc’s eyes, “did
you know that you have the honor to serve a brilliant man?”

“Of course I did, sir,” Tammis replied, as was expected. “May I inquire as to why this is particularly true at this moment?”

Blackmoore glanced up at the still-mounted servant, and grinned. “Because Lieutenant Aedelas Blackmoore holds in his hands something that is going to make him famous, wealthy, and best of all, powerful.”

T
ammis Foxton was in a state of high agitation, due directly and inevitably to the fact that his master was terribly displeased. When they had brought the orc whelp home Blackmoore had been much as he was on the battlefield: alert, interested, focused.

The orcs were proving less and less of a challenge each day, and men used to the excitement of almost daily battles were growing bored. The planned bouts were proving extremely popular, giving men an outlet for their pent-up energies and providing a chance for a little money to change hands as well.

And this orc was going to be raised firmly under human control. With the speed and power of the orcs, but the knowledge that Blackmoore would impart,
he would be all but unconquerable in the planned matches that were beginning to spring up.

Except the ugly little thing wouldn’t eat, and had grown pale and quiet over the last several days. Nobody said the words, but everyone knew. The beast was dying.

That had enraged Blackmoore. Once, he had even seized the small monster and tried to shove finely chopped meat down its throat. He succeeded only in nearly choking the orc, whom he had named “Thrall,” and when Thrall had spat up the meat he had literally dropped the orc on the straw and strode, cursing, from the stable in which the orc was temporarily housed.

Now Tammis walked around his master with the utmost discretion, choosing his words even more carefully than usual. And yet, more often than not, he had left an encounter with Lieutenant Blackmoore with a bottle — sometimes empty, sometimes not — flying behind him.

His wife Clannia, a fair-haired, apple-cheeked woman who served in the kitchens, now set a plate of cold food in front of him on the wooden table and rubbed his tight neck as he sat down to eat. Compared to Blackmoore, the beefy, loud cook who ran the kitchens was a veritable Paladin.

“Any word?” Clannia asked hopefully. She awkwardly sat down beside him at the rough wooden table. She had given birth a few weeks ago and still moved with hesitation. She and their eldest daughter, Taretha, had eaten many hours ago. Unseen by either parent, the girl, who slept with her baby brother in a small bed
beside the hearth, had woken at her father’s entrance. Now she sat up, her yellow curls covered by a sleeping cap, and watched and listened to the adult conversation.

“Aye, and all bad,” said Tammis heavily as he spooned congealing potato soup into his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and continued. “The orc is dying. It won’t take anything Blackmoore tries to feed it.”

Clannia sighed and reached for her mending. The needle flashed back and forth, stitching together a new dress for Taretha. “It’s only right,” she said softly. “Blackmoore had no business bringing something like that into Durnholde. Bad enough we’ve got the mature ones screaming all day long. I can’t wait until the internment camps are finished and they’re no longer Durnholde’s problem.” She shuddered.

Taretha watched, silent. Her eyes were wide. She had heard vague mutterings about a baby orc, but this was the first chance she had had to hear her parents discussing it. Her young mind raced. Orcs were so big and scary-looking, with their sharp teeth, green skin, and deep voices. She’d only caught the barest glimpses of them, but she had heard all the stories. But a baby wouldn’t be big and scary. She glanced over at the small figure of her brother. Even as she watched, Faralyn stirred, opened his rosebud mouth, and announced that he was hungry with a shrill cry.

In a smooth motion, Clannia rose, put down her sewing, picked up her son, bared a breast, and set him
to nursing. “Taretha!” she scolded. “You should be asleep.”

“I was,” Taretha said, rising and running to her father. “I heard Da come in.”

Tammis smiled tiredly and permitted Taretha to climb in his lap. “She won’t go back to sleep until Faralyn is done,” he told Clannia. “Let me hold her for a while. I so seldom get to see her, and she’s growing like a weed.” He pinched her cheek gently and she giggled.

“If the orc dies, it will go badly with all of us here,” he continued.

Taretha frowned. The answer was obvious. “Da,” she said, “if it’s a baby, why are you trying to make it eat meat?”

Both adults stared at her, stunned. “What do you mean, little one?” asked Tammis in a strained voice.

Taretha pointed to her nursing brother. “Babies drink milk, like Faralyn does. If this baby orc’s mother is dead, it can’t drink its milk.”

Tammis continued to stare; then a slow smile spread across his weary face. “Out of the mouths of babes,” he whispered, and then hugged his daughter to him so tightly that she began to squirm in protest.

“Tammis. . . .” Clannia’s voice was taut.

“My dearest,” he said. He held Taretha with one arm and reached across the table to his wife with the other. “Tari’s right. For all their barbaric ways, the orcs do nurse their young, as we do. Our best guess is that the orc infant is but a few months old. It’s no wonder it
can’t yet eat meat. It doesn’t even have any teeth yet.” He hesitated, but Clannia’s face grew pale, as if she knew what he was going to say.

“You can’t mean . . . you can’t ask me to. . . .”

“Think what it will mean to our family!” Tammis exclaimed. “I’ve served Blackmoore for ten years. I’ve never seen him this excited about anything. If that orc survives because of us, we will lack for nothing!”

“I . . . I
can’t
,” stammered Clannia.

“Can’t what?” asked Taretha, but they both ignored her.

“Please,” begged Tammis. “It’s only for a little while.”

“They’re monsters, Tam!” cried Clannia. “Monsters, and you . . . you want me to. . . .” She covered her face with one hand and began to sob. The baby continued to nurse, unperturbed.

“Da, why is Ma crying?” asked Taretha, anxious.

“I’m not crying,” said Clannia thickly. She wiped her wet face and forced a smile. “See, darling? All is well.” She looked at Tammis, and swallowed hard. “Your Da just has something he needs me to do, that’s all.”

When Blackmoore heard that his personal servant’s wife had agreed to wet-nurse the dying orc baby, the Foxton family was deluged with gifts. Rich fabrics, the freshest fruits and choicest meats, fine beeswax tapers — all began to appear regularly at the door of the small room that the family called their home. Soon, that room was exchanged for another, and then for
larger quarters still. Tammis Foxton was given his own horse, a lovely bay he named Ladyfire. Clannia, now called Mistress Foxton, no longer had to report to the kitchens, but spent all her time with her children and tending to the needs of what Blackmoore called his “special project.” Taretha wore fine clothes and even had a tutor, a fussy, kind man named Jaramin Skisson, sent to teach her to read and write, like a lady.

But she was never allowed to speak about the small creature that lived with them for the next full year, who, when Faralyn died of a fever, became the only baby in the Foxton household. And when Thrall had learned to eat a vile concoction of blood, cow’s milk, and porridge with his own small hands, three armed guards came and wrested him away from Taretha’s arms. She cried and protested, and received a harsh blow for her pleas.

Her father held her and shushed her, kissing her pale cheek where a red hand imprint was visible. She quieted after a while, and, like the obedient child she wished to appear, agreed never to speak of Thrall again except in the most casual of terms.

But she vowed she would never forget this strange creature that had been almost like a younger brother to her.

Never.

“No, no. Like this.” Jaramin Skisson stepped beside his pupil. “Hold it thus, with your fingers here . . . and
here. Ah, that’s better. Now make this motion . . . like a snake.”

“What is a snake?” asked Thrall. He was only six years old, but already almost as big as his tutor. His large, clumsy hands did not hold the delicate, thin stylus easily, and the clay tablet kept slipping out of his grasp. But he was stubborn, and determined to master this letter that Jaramin called an “S.”

Jaramin blinked behind his large spectacles. “Oh, of course,” he said, more to himself than Thrall. “A snake is a reptile with no feet. It looks like this letter.”

Thrall brightened with recognition. “Like a worm,” he said. He had often snacked on those small treats that found their way into his cell.

“Yes, it does resemble a worm. Try it again, on your own this time.” Thrall stuck his tongue out to aid his concentration. A shaky form appeared on the clay, but he knew it was recognizable as an “S.” Proud of himself, he extended it to Jaramin.

“Very good, Thrall! I think it may be time we started teaching you numbers,” said the tutor.

“But first, it’s time to start learning how to fight, eh, Thrall?” Thrall looked up to see the lean form of his master, Lieutenant Blackmoore, standing in the doorway. He stepped inside. Thrall heard the lock click shut on the other side of the door. He had never tried to flee, but the guards always seemed to expect him to.

At once Thrall prostrated himself as Blackmoore
had taught him. A kindly pat on his head told him he had permission to rise. He stumbled to his feet, suddenly feeling even bigger and clumsier than usual. He looked down at Blackmoore’s boots, awaiting whatever it was his master had in store for him.

“How is he coming in his lessons?” Blackmoore asked Jaramin, as if Thrall weren’t present.

“Very well. I hadn’t realized orcs were quite so intelligent, but —”

“He is intelligent not because he is an orc,” Blackmoore interrupted, his voice sharp enough to make Thrall flinch. “He is intelligent because humans taught him. Never forget that, Jaramin. And you.” The boots turned in Thrall’s direction. “You aren’t to forget that either.”

Thrall shook his head violently.

“Look at me, Thrall.”

Thrall hesitated, then lifted his blue-eyed gaze. Blackmoore’s eyes bored into his own. “Do you know what your name means?”

“No, sir.” His voice sounded so rough and deep, even in his own ears, next to the musical lilt of the humans’ voices.

“It means ‘slave.’ It means that you belong to me.” Blackmoore stepped forward and prodded the orc’s chest with a stiff forefinger. “It means that
I own you
. Do you understand that?” For a moment, Thrall was so shocked he didn’t reply. His name meant
slave
? It sounded so pleasant
when humans spoke it, he thought it must be a good name, a worthy name.

Blackmoore’s gloved hand came up and slapped Thrall across the face. Although the lieutenant had swung his hand with vigor, Thrall’s skin was so thick and tough that the orc barely felt it. And yet the blow pained him deeply. His master had struck him! One large hand came up to touch the cheek, its black fingernails clipped short.

“You answer when you’re spoken to,” snapped Blackmoore. “Do you understand what I just said?”

“Yes, Master Blackmoore,” replied Thrall, his deep voice barely a whisper.

“Excellent.” Blackmoore’s angry face relaxed into an approving smile. His teeth showed white against the surrounding black hair of his goatee. That quickly, all was well again. Relief surged through Thrall. His lips turned up in his best approximation of Blackmoore’s smile.

“Don’t do that, Thrall,” said Blackmoore. “It makes you look uglier than you already are.”

Abruptly, the smile vanished.

“Lieutenant,” said Jaramin softly, “he’s just trying to mimic your smile, that’s all.”

“Well, he shouldn’t. Humans smile. Orcs don’t. You said he was doing well in his lessons, yes? Can he read and write, then?”

“He is reading at quite an advanced level. As for writing, he understands how, but those thick fingers are having a difficult time with some of the lettering.”