“Enough!” bellowed Blackmoore. He took a deep breath and collected himself. “The damage is done. We must think how to repair it.”
His calmer tone seemed to ease Sergeant as well. In a less belligerent tone, the trainer asked, “Thrall has never known what he looked like, then?”
“Never. No mirrors. No still basins of water. He’s been taught that orcs are scum, which is of course true, and that he is permitted to live only because he earns me money.”
Silence fell as the two men searched their thoughts. Sergeant scratched his red beard pensively, then said, “So he knows. So what? Just because he was born an orc doesn’t mean he can’t be more than that. He doesn’t have to be a brainless brute. He isn’t, in fact. If you encouraged him to think of himself as more human —”
Sergeant’s suggestion infuriated Blackmoore. “He’s not!” he burst out. “He is a brute. I don’t want him getting ideas that he’s nothing less than a big green-skinned human!”
“Then, pray, sir,” said Sergeant, grinding out the words between clenched teeth, “what do you want him to think of himself as?”
Blackmoore had no response. He didn’t know. He hadn’t thought about it that way. It had seemed so simple when he had stumbled onto the infant orc. Raise him as a slave, train him to fight, give him the human edge, then put him in charge of an army of beaten orcs and attack the Alliance. With Thrall at the head of a revitalized orcish army, leading the charges, Blackmoore would have power beyond his most exaggerated fantasies.
But it wasn’t working out that way. Deep inside, he knew that in some ways Sergeant was right. Thrall did need to understand how humans thought and reasoned if he was to take that knowledge to lord over the bestial orcs. And yet, if he learned, mightn’t he revolt? Thrall had to be kept in his place, reminded of his low birth. Had to. By the Light, what was the right thing to do? How best to treat this creature in order to produce the perfect war leader, without letting anyone else know he was more than a gladiator champion?
He took a deep breath. He mustn’t lose face in front of this servant. “Thrall needs direction, and we must give it to him,” he said with remarkable calmness. “He’s learned enough training with the recruits. I think it’s time we relegated him exclusively to combat.”
“Sir, he’s very helpful in training,” began Sergeant.
“We have all but vanquished the orcs,” said Blackmoore, thinking of the thousands of orcs being shoved into the camps. “Their leader Doomhammer has fled, and they are a scattered race. Peace is descending upon us. We do not need to train the recruits to battle orcs any longer. Any battles in which they will participate will be against other men, not monsters.”
Damn. He had almost said too much. Sergeant looked as if he had caught the slip, too, but did not react.
“Men at peace need an outlet for their bloodlust,” he said. “Let us confine Thrall to the gladiator battles. He will fill our pockets and bring us honor.” He smirked. “I’ve yet to see the single man who could stand up to an orc.”
Thrall’s ascendance in the ranks of the gladiators had been nothing short of phenomenal. He had reached his full height when very young; as the years passed, he began to add bulk to his tall frame. Now he was the biggest orc many had ever seen, even heard tell of. He was the master of the ring, and everyone knew it.
When he was not fighting he was shut alone in his cell, which seemed to him to grow smaller with each passing day despite the fact that Blackmoore had ordered him a new one. Thrall now had a small, covered sleeping area and a much larger area in which to practice. Covered by a grate, this sunken ring had mock weapons of every sort and Thrall’s old friend, the battered training troll, upon which he could practice. Some nights, when he could not sleep, Thrall rose and took out his tension on the dummy.
It was the books that Taretha sent him, with their precious messages and now a tablet and stylus, that truly brightened those long, solitary hours. They had been conversing in secret at least once a week, and Thrall imagined a world as Tari painted it: A world of art, and beauty, and companionship. A world of food beyond rotting meat and slop. A world in which he had a place.
Every now and then, his eye would fall upon the increasingly fraying square of cloth that bore the symbol of a white wolf head on a blue field. He would look quickly away, not wanting to let his mind travel down that path. What good would it do? He had read enough books (some of which Blackmoore had no idea that Tari had passed along to Thrall) to understand that the orc people lived in small groups, each with its own distinctive symbol. What could he do, simply tell Blackmoore that he was tired of being a slave, thank you, and would he please let Thrall out so he could find his family?
And yet the thought teased him. His own people. Tari had her own people, her family of Tammis and Clannia Foxton. She was valued and loved. He was grateful that she had such loving support, because it was out of that secure place that she had felt large in heart enough to reach out to him.
Sometimes, he wondered what the rest of the Foxtons thought of him. Tari never mentioned them much anymore. She had told him that her mother Clannia had nursed him at her own breast, to save his life. At first, Thrall had been touched by that, but as he grew older and learned more, he understood that Clannia had not been moved to suckle him out of love, but out of a desire to increase her standing with Blackmoore.
Blackmoore. All roads of thought ended there. He could forget he was a piece of property when he was writing to Tari and reading her letters, or searching for her golden hair in the stands at the gladiator matches. He could also lose himself in the exciting thing Sergeant called “bloodlust.” But these moments were all too brief. Even when Blackmoore himself came to visit Thrall, to discuss some military strategy Thrall had studied, or to play a game of Hawks and Hares with him, there was no link, no sense of family with this man. When Blackmoore was jovial, it was with the attitude of a man toward a child. And when he was irritable and darkly furious, which was more often than not, Thrall felt as helpless as a child. Blackmoore could order him beaten, or starved, or burned, or shackled, or — the worst punishment of all, and one that had, thankfully, not yet occurred to Blackmoore — deny him access to his books.
He knew that Tari did not have a privileged life, not the way Blackmoore did. She was a servant, in her own way, as much in thrall as the orc who bore the name. But she had friends, and she was not spat upon, and she belonged.
Slowly, his hand moved, of its own accord, to reach for the blue swaddling cloth. At that moment, he heard the door unlock and open behind him. He dropped the cloth as if it were something unclean.
“Come on,” said one of the dour-faced guards. He extended the manacles. “Time to go fight. I hear they’ve got quite the opponents for you today.” He grinned mirthlessly, showing brown teeth. “And Master Blackmoore’s ready to have your hide if you don’t win.”
FIVE
More than a decade had passed since one Lieutenant Blackmoore had simultaneously found an orphaned orc and the possible answer to his dreams.
They had been fruitful and happy years for Thrall’s master, and for humanity in general. Aedelas Blackmoore, once Lieutenant, now Lieutenant General, had been mocked about his “pet orc” when he had first brought it to Durnholde, especially when it seemed as though the wretched little thing wouldn’t even survive. Thank goodness for Mistress Foxton and her swollen teats. Blackmoore couldn’t conceive of any human female being willing to suckle an orc, but although the offer had increased his contempt for his servant and his family, it had also saved Blackmoore’s behind. Which was why he hadn’t begrudged them baubles, food, and education for their child, even if she was a girl.
It was a bright day, warm but not too hot. Perfect fighting weather. The awning, bright with his colors of red and gold, provided pleasant shade. Banners of all colors danced in the gentle breeze, and music and laughter floated to his ears. The smell of ripe fruits, fresh bread, and roasted venison teased his nostrils. Everyone here w
as in a good mood. After the battles, some wouldn’t be in such good moods, but right now, all were happy and filled with anticipation.
Lying on a chaise beside him was his young protégé, Lord Karramyn Langston. Langston had rich brown hair that matched his dark eyes, a strong, fit body, and a lazy smile. He was also completely devoted to Blackmoore, and was the one human being Blackmoore had told of his ultimate plans. Though many years his junior, Langston shared many of Blackmoore’s ideals and lack of scruples. They were a good pair. Langston had fallen asleep in the warm sunshine, and snored softly.
Blackmoore reached over and snagged another bite of roasted fowl and a goblet of red wine, red as the blood that would soon be spilled in the arena, to wash it down with. Life was good, and with every challenge Thrall met and passed, life got even better. After each match, Blackmoore left with a heavy purse. His “pet orc,” once the joke of the fortress, was now his pride.
Of course, most of the others that Thrall went up against were nothing more than humans. Some of the meanest, strongest, most cunning humans to be sure, but human nonetheless. The other gladiators were all brutal, hardened convicts hoping to earn their way out of prison by winning money and fame for their patrons. Some did, and earned their freedom. Most found themselves in just another jail, one with tapestries on the wall and women in their beds, but it was a prison nonetheless. Few patrons wanted to see their money-winners walk as free men.
But some of Thrall’s adversaries weren’t human, and that was when things got exciting.
It didn’t hurt Blackmoore’s ambitions at all that the orcs were now a defeated, downtrodden rabble rather than the awesome and fear-inspiring fighting force they had once been. The war was long over, and humans had won the decisive victory. Now the enemy was led into special internment camps almost as easily as cattle into stalls at the end of a day spent grazing. Camps, Blackmoore mused pleasantly, that he was completely in charge of.
At first, his plan was to raise the orc to be a well-educated, loyal slave and a peerless warrior. He would send Thrall to defeat his own people, if “people” was even the proper term for such mindless green thugs, and once they had been defeated, use the broken clans to his, Blackmoore’s, own purpose.
But the Horde had been defeated by the Alliance without Thrall having even tasted battle. At first, Blackmoore had been sour about this. But then another thought came to him on how he could use his pet orc. It required patience, something Blackmoore had only in short supply, but the rewards would be far greater than he could have imagined. Infighting was already rampant among the Alliance. Elf sneered at human, human mocked dwarf, and dwarf mistrusted elf. A nice little triangle of bigotry and suspicion.
He raised himself from his chair long enough to observe Thrall defeat one of the biggest, nastiest-looking men Blackmoore had ever seen. But the human warrior was no match for the unstoppable green beast. The cheers went up, and Blackmoore smiled. He waved Tammis Foxton over, and the servant hastened to obey.
“My lord?”
“How many is that today?” Blackmoore knew his voice was slurred but he didn’t care. Tammis had seen him drunker than this. Tammis had put him to bed drunker than this.
Tammis’s prim, anxious face looked even more concerned than usual. “How many what, my lord?” His gaze flickered to the bottle, then back to Blackmoore.
Sudden rage welled up in Blackmoore. He grabbed Tammis by the shirtfront and yanked him down to within an inch of his face.
“Counting the bottles, you pathetic excuse for a man?” he hissed, keeping his voice low. One of the many threats he held over Tammis was public disgrace; even drunk as Blackmoore was, he didn’t want to play that particular card quite yet. But he threatened it often, as now. Before his slightly swimmy vision he saw Tammis pale. “You farm out your own wife to suckle monsters, and you dare imply that I have weaknesses?”
Sickened by the man’s pasty face, he shoved him away. “I wanned to know how many rounds Thrall has won.”
“Oh, yes, sir, of course. Half dozen, all in a row.” Tammis paused, looking utterly miserable. “With all due respect, sir, this last one taxed him. Are you sure you want to put him through three more matches?”
Idiots. Blackmoore was surrounded by idiots. When Sergeant had read the order of battles this morning, he, too, had confronted Blackmoore, saying the orc needed at least a few moments of rest, and couldn’t they switch the combatant list so that the poor coddled creature could relax.
“Oh, no. The odds against Thrall go higher with ever’ battle. He’s never lost, not once. Of course I want to stop and give all those nice people their money back.” Disgusted, he waved Tammis away. Thrall was incapable of being defeated. Why not make hay while the sun shone?
Thrall won the next battle, but even Blackmoore could see the creature struggling. He adjusted his chair for a better view. Langston imitated him. The battle after that, the eighth of the nine for which the orc was scheduled, saw something that Blackmoore and the crowds had never witnessed.
The mighty orc was tiring. The combatants this time were a pair of mountain cats, caught two weeks ago, penned, tormented, and barely fed until this moment. Once the door to the arena slid open they exploded at the orc as if they had been fired from a cannon. Their creamy brown pelts were a blur as, moving as one, they leaped on him, and Thrall went down beneath their claws and teeth.
A horrified cry arose among the onlookers. Blackmoore sprang to his feet, and immediately had to seize his chair in order to keep from falling down. All that money. . . .
And then Thrall was up! Screaming in rage, shaking the big animals off him as if they were but tree squirrels, he used the two swords that were his assigned weapon in this fight with speed and skill. Thrall was completely ambidextrous, and the blades sparkled in the bright sunlight as they whirled and slashed. One cat was already dead, its long, lithe body sliced nearly in two by a single powerful stroke. The remaining animal, goaded to further rage by the death of its mate, attacked with renewed fury. This time Thrall did not give it an opening. When the cat sprang, all yowls and claws and teeth, Thrall was ready for it. His sword sliced left, right, and left again. The cat fell in four bloody chunks.
“Will you look at that?” said Langston happily.
The crowd roared its approval. Thrall, who normally welcomed the cries with raised fists and stamped his feet almost until the earth itself shook, merely stood there with stooped shoulders. He was breathing raggedly, and Blackmoore saw that the cats had left their mark with several deep, bleeding scratches and bites. As he stared at his prized slave, Thrall slowly turned his ugly head and looked straight up at Blackmoore. Their eyes met, and in their depths Blackmoore saw agony and exhaustion . . . and an unspoken plea.
Then Thrall, the mighty warrior, fell to his knees. Again the crowd reacted vocally. Blackmoore fancied he even heard sympathy in the sound. Langston said nothing, but his brown eyes were watching Blackmoore intently.
Damn Thrall! He was an orc, had been fighting since he was six years old. Most of his matches today had been with humans, mighty warriors to be sure, but nothing to compare with Thrall’s brute strength. This was a ploy to get out of the final round, which Thrall knew would be the toughest of all. Selfish, stupid slave. Wanted to go back to his cozy cell, read his books, and eat his food, did he? Well, Blackmoore would teach him a thing or two.
At that moment, Sergeant trotted onto the field. “Lord Blackmoore!” he cried, cupping his hands around his bearded mouth. “Will you cede this last challenge?”
Heat flared on Blackmoore’s cheeks. How dare Sergeant do this, in front of everyone! Blackmoore, who was still standing unsteadily, gripped the back of the chair harder with his left hand. Langston moved unobtrusively to offer aid if he needed it. Blackmoore extended his right hand straight out in front of him, then brought the hand over to his left shoulder.
No.
Sergeant stared at him for a moment, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Then, he n
odded, and signaled that this final bout would begin.
Thrall climbed to his feet, looking as if he had a ton of stones on his back. Several men scurried onto the field, to remove the dead mountain cats and dropped weapons. They handed Thrall the weapon that he was to use for this battle: the morningstar, a studded, metal ball attached by a chain to a thick stick. Thrall took the weapon, and tried to draw himself up into a threatening posture. Even at this distance Blackmoore could see that he trembled. Usually, before each battle, Thrall stamped on the earth. The steady rhythm both excited the crowd and seemed to help Thrall feel more ready for combat. Today, though, he simply seemed struggling to stay on his feet.
One more bout. The creature could handle that.
The doors opened, but for a moment, nothing emerged from the inner gloom.
Then it came, its two heads crying incoherent challenges, its pale body towering over Thrall as Thrall towered over humans. It had only one weapon, as Thrall did, but it was a superior one for this battle — a long, deadly-looking spear. Between the length of its arms and the shaft of the spear, the ogre would be able to reach Thrall from much farther away. Thrall would need to get in close in order to strike any kind of a blow, let alone a winning one.
This was so unfair! “Who gave the ogre that spear?” Blackmoore bellowed to Langston. “It ought to have something at least similar to what Thrall has been given!” Blackmoore conveniently chose not to remember all the times that Thrall had been equipped with a broadsword or spear himself and his human opponents had had to make do with a short sword or ax.
The ogre marched into the circular arena like a machine of war rather than a living, breathing being. He stabbed forward with his spear, one head turned toward the crowd, one head facing Thrall.
Lord Of The Clans Page 5
