Lord Of The Clans

by Christie Golden

  Thrall had never seen one of these creatures before, and for a moment simply stood, staring at it. Then he rallied, drew himself up to his full height, and began to swing the morningstar. He threw back his head, tangled long black hair brushing his back, and let loose with a howl to match the ogre’s bellowing.

  The ogre charged, stabbing forward with the spear. There was no finesse in his movements, only brute strength. Thrall easily ducked the clumsy charge, slipped underneath the ogre’s defenses, and swung hard with the morningstar. The ogre cried out and slowed as the spiked ball struck him heavily in the midsection. Thrall had dashed past and now whirled to attack again.

  Before the ogre could even turn around, Thrall had struck him in the back. The ogre fell to his knees, dropping the spear and reaching to clutch his back.

  Blackmoore smiled. Surely that had broken the miserable creature’s spine. These fights weren’t necessarily to the death — in fact, killing one’s opponent was frowned on as it reduced the pool of good fighters — but everyone knew that dying was a very real possibility in this ring. Healers and their salves couldn’t fix everything. And Blackmoore couldn’t manage to find any sympathy at all for an ogre.

  But his pleasure was short-lived. Even as Thrall began to swing the morningstar again, gathering momentum, the ogre lurched to his feet and seized the dropped spear. Thrall swung the morningstar at the creature’s head. To the crowd’s amazement, and obviously to Thrall’s as well, the ogre simply extended a big hand and batted the spike out of the way while shoving forward with the spear.

  The morningstar flew from Thrall’s hand. He was knocked off balance and could not recover in time. Even as he desperately tried to twist out of the way the spear impaled him high in the chest, a few inches from his left shoulder. He screamed in agony. The ogre continued to shove as he approached, and the spear went completely through Thrall’s body. He fell backward, and was pinned to the earth. Now the ogre fell atop him, pummeling the hapless orc madly and uttering horrible grunts and squeals.

  Blackmoore stared in horror. The orc was being beaten, as helpless as a child beneath the onslaught of a bully. The gladiator ring, a showcase for the finest warriors in the kingdom to compete against one another using strength, skill, and cunning, had been reduced to nothing more than one weak monster being beaten to a pulp by another, bigger one.

  How could Thrall have let this happen?

  Men now hastened onto the field. With sharpened sticks, they prodded the ogre, trying to goad him into leaving off his prey. The brute responded to the taunts, abandoning a bloody Thrall and chasing after the men. Three others tossed a magical net, which immediately shrank to engulf the raging ogre and compress his flailing limbs close to his body. He thrashed now like a fish out of water, and the men, not at all gently, hauled the creature onto a cart and took him out of the ring.

  Thrall, too, was being carried out, though with much more gentleness. Blackmoore’s patronage assured that. But Blackmoore realized that he had lost every penny he had bet on Thrall today because of this single fight. Many of his companions had done likewise, and he could feel the heat of their furious glares as they reached for their purses to pay their debts.

  Thrall. Thrall. Thrall. . . .

  Thrall lay gasping on the straw that served him as a bed. He had never known such pain existed. Nor such exhaustion. He wished he would fall unconscious; it would be so much easier.

  Nonetheless, he would not let the welcoming blackness overtake him. The healers would be here soon; Blackmoore always sent them after Thrall had been injured in a bout. Blackmoore also always came to visit him, and Thrall eagerly awaited the comforting words of his master. He had lost the battle, true, and that was a first, but surely Blackmoore would have nothing but praise for how well he had fought nine bouts in a row. That was unheard of, Thrall knew. Thrall also knew he could have beaten the ogre if he had been matched against him in the first bout, or the third, or even the sixth. But no one could expect him to win after a record-breaking eight bouts.

  He closed his eyes as pain seared him. The hot burning in his chest was nigh unbearable. Where were the healers? They should have been here by now. He knew his injuries were bad this time. He estimated he had several broken ribs, a broken leg, several sword slashes, and of course the dreadful hole in his shoulder where the spear had impaled him. They would have to come soon if Thrall were to be able to fight again tomorrow.

  Thrall heard the lock open, but could not lift his head to see who entered his cell.

  “The healers will be here,” came Blackmoore’s voice. Thrall tensed. The voice was slurred and dripped with contempt. His heart began to speed up. Please, not this time . . . not now. . . .

  “But they won’t be here anytime soon. I wan’ see you suffer, you poxy son of a whore.”

  And then Thrall gasped in torment as Blackmoore’s boot kicked him in the stomach. The pain was incredible, but not nearly as searing as the shock of betrayal that shuddered through him. Why would Blackmoore strike him when he was so badly injured? Did he not see how well Thrall had fought?

  Though the pain threatened to cause him to lose consciousness, Thrall raised his head and stared at Blackmoore with blurred vision. The man’s face was contorted in anger, and even as Thrall met his eyes Blackmoore struck him soundly across the face with a mailed fist. Everything went black for an instant and when Thrall could next hear, Blackmoore was still railing.

  “. . . lost thousands, do you hear me, thousands! What is the matter with you? It was one pathetic little fight!”

  He was still raining blows on Thrall, but Thrall was starting to drift away. He felt as if his body only vaguely belonged to him, and the kicks Blackmoore delivered felt more and more like taps. He felt blood sticky on his face.

  Blackmoore had seen him. He knew how exhausted Thrall had been, had watched him rally again and again and again to hold his own eight out of nine times. There was no way anyone could have expected Thrall to win that fight. Thrall had fought with everything he had, and he had lost fairly and honorably. And yet that was not good enough for Blackmoore.

  Finally, the blows stopped. He heard the steps as Blackmoore left, and a single phrase: “Let the others have their turn.”

  The door did not close. Thrall heard more footsteps. He could not raise his head again, though he tried. Several pairs of black military boots appeared in front of him. Thrall now realized what Blackmoore had ordered. One boot drew back slightly, then swung forward, kicking Thrall in the face.

  His world went white, then black; then he knew no more.

  Thrall awoke to warmth and a cessation of the agony that had been his companion for what seemed like an eternity. Three healers were working on him, using their salve to heal his wounds. Breathing was much easier and he guessed his ribs had been healed. They were administering the sweet-smelling, gooey stuff to his shoulder now; clearly that was the most difficult wound.

  Although their touches were gentle, and their salve brought healing, there was no real compassion in these men. They healed him because Blackmoore paid them to do so, not out of any real desire to ease suffering. Once, he had been more naive and had thanked them sincerely for their efforts. One of them looked up, startled at the words.

  A sneer had curled his lip. “Don’t flatter yourself, monster. Once the coins stop flowing, so does the salve. Better not lose.”

  He had winced from the unkind words then, but they did not bother him now. Thrall understood. He understood many things. It was as if his vision had been cloudy, and a thick fog had suddenly lifted. He lay quietly until they had finished; then they rose and left.

  Thrall sat upright and was surprised to see Sergeant standing there, his hairy arms folded across his broad chest. Thrall did not speak, wondering what new torment was coming.

  “I pulled ’em off you,” said Sergeant quietly. “But not before they’d had their sport. Blackmoore had some . . . business . . . he needed to talk w’ me about. I’m sorry for that, lad. I�
�m right sorry. You amazed me in the ring today. Blackmoore ought to be prouder’n hell ’o you. Instead. . . .” His gruff voice trailed off. “Well, I wanted to make sure you knew that you didn’t deserve what he did. What they did. You did fine, lad. Just fine. Better get some sleep.”

  He seemed about to say something more, then nodded and left. Thrall lay back down, absently noting that they had changed the straw. It was fresh and clean, no longer clotted with his blood.

  He appreciated what Sergeant had done, and believed the man. But it was too little, too late.

  He would not let himself be used like this any longer. Once, he would have cringed and vowed to be better, to do something to earn the love and respect he so desperately craved. Now, he knew he would never find it here, not as long as Blackmoore owned him.

  He would not sleep. He would use this time to plan. He reached for the tablet and stylus he kept in the sack, and wrote a note to the only person he could trust: Tari.

  On the next dark moons, I plan to escape.

  SIX

  The grate above his head allowed Thrall to observe the moonslight. He was careful to give no hint, not to the trainees who had beaten him, not to Sergeant, and certainly not to Blackmoore (who treated Thrall as if nothing had happened) about his profound revelation. He was as obsequious as ever, for the first time noticing how he hated himself for that behavior. He kept his eyes lowered, although he knew himself to be the equal of any human. He went docilely into the irons, though he could have torn any four guards to bloody bits before they could have restrained him without his cooperation. In no way did he change his behavior, not in the cell nor out of it, not in the ring nor on the training field.

  For the first day or two, Thrall noticed Sergeant watching him sharply, as if expecting to see the changes Thrall was determined not to show. But he did not speak to Thrall, and Thrall was careful not to arouse suspicion. Let them think they had broken him. His only regret was that he would not be present to see the look on Blackmoore’s face when he discovered his “pet orc” had flown.

  For the first time in his life, Thrall had something to look forward to with anticipation. It roused a hunger in him he had never known before. He had always concentrated so intensely on avoiding beatings and earning praise that he had never permitted himself to really think long and hard about what it meant to be free. To walk in the sunlight without chains, to sleep under the stars. He had never been outside at night in his life. What would that be like?

  His imagination, fueled by books and by letters from Tari, was finally allowed to fly. He lay awake in his straw bed wondering what it would be like to finally meet one of his people. He had read, of course, all the information the humans had on “the vile green monsters from the blackest demon pits.” And there was that disturbing incident when the orc had wrenched himself free to charge Thrall. If only he could have found out what the orc was saying! But his rudimentary orcish did not extend that far.

  He would learn, one day, what that orc had said. He would find his people. Thrall might have been raised by humans, but little enough had been done to win his love and loyalty. He was grateful to Sergeant and Tari, for they had taught him concepts of honor and kindness. But because of their teachings, Thrall better understood Blackmoore, and realized that the Lieutenant General had none of those qualities. And as long as Thrall was owned by him, the orc would never receive them in his own life.

  The moons, one large and silver and one smaller and a shade of blue-green, were new tonight. Tari had responded to his declaration with an offer to assist him, as he had known in his heart she would. Between the two of them, they had been able to come up with a plan that had a strong likelihood of working. But he did not know when that plan would go into effect, and so he waited for the signal. And waited.

  He had fallen into a fitful slumber when the clanging of a bell startled him awake. Instantly alert, he went to the farthest wall of his cell. Over the years, Thrall had painstakingly worked a single stone loose and had hollowed out the space behind it. It was here that he stored his most precious things: his letters from Tari. Now he moved the stone, found the letters, and wrapped them up in the only other thing that meant anything to him, his swaddling cloth with the white wolf against the blue field. For a brief moment, he held them to his chest. Then he turned, and awaited his chance.

  The bell continued to ring, and now shouts and screams joined it. Thrall’s sensitive nose, much more keen than a human’s, could smell smoke. The smell grew stronger with each heartbeat, and now he could see a faint orange and yellow lightening of the darkness of his cell.

  “Fire!” came the cries. “Fire!”

  Not knowing why, Thrall leaped for his makeshift bed. He closed his eyes and feigned sleep, forcing his rapid breathing to become deep and slow.

  “He’s not going anywhere,” said one of the guards. Thrall knew he was being watched. He kept up the illusion of deep sleep. “Heh. Damned monster could sleep through anything. Come on, let’s give them a hand.”

  “I don’t know. . . .” said the other one.

  More cries of alarm, mixed now with the treble shrieks of children and the high voices of women.

  “It’s spreading,” said the first one. “Come on!”

  Thrall heard the sounds of boots striking hard stone. The sounds receded. He was alone.

  He rose, and stood in front of the huge wooden door. Of course it was still locked, but there was no one to see what he was about to do.

  Thrall took a deep breath, then with a rush of speed charged the door, striking it with his left shoulder. It gave, but not entirely. Again he struck, and again. Five times he had to slam his enormous body against it before the old timbers surrendered with a crash. The momentum carried him forward and he landed heavily on the floor, but the brief pain was as nothing compared to the surge of excitement he experienced.

  He knew these hallways. He had no problem seeing in the dim light provided by the few torches positioned in sconces that were fastened here and there to the stone walls. Down this one, up this stairwell, and then. . . .

  As it had earlier in his cell, a deep instinct kicked in. He flattened himself against the wall, hiding his huge form in the shadows as best he could. From across the entryway, several more guards charged. They did not see him, and Thrall let his held breath out in a sigh of relief.

  The guards left the door to the courtyard wide open. Cautiously Thrall approached, and peered out.

  All was chaos. The barns were almost completely engulfed by flames, though the horses, goats, and donkeys ran panic-stricken in the courtyard. This was even better, for there was less chance of him being spotted in the milling madness. A bucket chain had been formed, and even as Thrall watched, several more men hastened up, spilling the precious water in their heedless rush.

  Thrall looked to the right of the courtyard gate entrance. Lying in a crumpled pool of black was the object he was seeking: a huge black cloak. Even as large as it was, it could not possibly cover him, but it would serve. He covered his head and broad chest, crouched so that the short hem would fall lower on his legs, and scurried forward.

  The trip across the courtyard to the main gates could not have lasted more than a few moments, but to Thrall it seemed an eternity. He tried to keep his head low, but he had to look up frequently in order to avoid being run down by a cart carrying barrels of rainwater, or a maddened horse, or a screaming child. His heart pounding, he threaded his way amid the chaos. He could feel the heat, and the bright light of the fire lit up the entire scene almost as brightly as the sun did. Thrall concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, keeping as low as possible, and heading for the gates.

  Finally, he made it. These, too, had been thrown open. More carts carrying rain barrels clattered through, the drivers having a hard time controlling their frightened mounts. No one noticed one lone figure slipping out into the darkness.

  Once clear of the fortress, Thrall ran. He headed straight for the surrounding f
orested hills, leaving the road as soon as possible. His senses seemed sharper than they had ever been. Unfamiliar scents filled his flaring nostrils, and it felt as if he could sense every rock, every blade of grass beneath his running feet.

  There was a rock formation that Taretha had told him about. She said it looked a bit like a dragon standing guard over the forest. It was very dark, but Thrall’s excellent night vision could make out a jut that, if one used one’s imagination, could indeed appear to be the long neck of a reptilian creature. There was a cave here, Taretha said. He would be safe.

  For the briefest moment, he wondered if Taretha might not be setting a trap for him. At once he dismissed the idea, both angry and ashamed that it had even occurred to him. Taretha had been nothing but kind to him via her supportive letters. Why would she betray him? And more to the point, why go to such great lengths when simply showing his letters to Blackmoore would accomplish the same thing?

  There it was, a dark oval against the gray face of the stone. Thrall was not even breathing heavily as he altered his course and trotted for the refuge.

  He could see her inside, leaning against the cave wall, waiting for him. For a moment he paused, knowing that his vision was superior to hers. Even though she was within and he without, she could not see him.

  Thrall had only human values by which to measure beauty, and he could tell that, by those standards, Taretha Foxton was lovely. Long pale hair — it was too dark for him to see the exact color, but he had glimpsed her momentarily in the stands at the matches from time to time — fell in a long braid down her back. She was clad only in nightclothes, a cloak wrapped close about her slender frame, and beside her was a large sack.

  He paused for a moment, and then strode boldly up to her. “Taretha,” he said, his voice deep and gruff.

  She gasped and looked up at him. He thought her afraid, but then she laughed. “You startled me! I did not know you moved so quietly!” The laughter faded, settled into a smile. She strode forward and reached out both hands to him.