Lord Of The Clans

by Christie Golden

  ELEVEN

  Thrall had never known such joy. For the next several days, he feasted with the Warsong clan, sang their fierce battle chants and songs, and learned at Hellscream’s feet.

  Far from being the mindless killing machines the books had painted them, Thrall learned that the orcs were of a noble race. They were masters on the battlefield, and had been known to revel in the spray of blood and the crack of bone, but their culture was a rich, elaborate one. Hellscream spoke of a time when each clan was separate unto itself. Each had its own symbols, customs, even speech. There were spiritual leaders among them, called shamans, who worked with the magic of nature and not the evil magic of demonic, supernatural powers.

  “Isn’t magic magic?” Thrall, who had very little experience with magic in any form, wanted to know.

  “Yes and no,” said Grom. “Sometimes the effect is the same. For instance, if a shaman was to summon lightning to strike his foes, they would be burned to death. If a warlock was to summon hell’s flames against an enemy, they would be burned to death.”

  “So magic is magic,” said Thrall.

  “But,” Grom continued, “lightning is a natural phenomenon. You call it by requesting it. With hell’s fire, you make a bargain. It costs a little of yourself.”

  “But you said that the shamans were disappearing. Doesn’t that mean that the warlock’s way was better?”

  “The warlock’s way was quicker,” said Grom. “More effective, or so it seemed. But there comes a time when a price must be paid, and sometimes, it is dear indeed.”

  Thrall learned that he was not the only one appalled by the peculiar lethargy demonstrated by the vast majority of orcs, now languishing apathetically in the internment camps.

  “No one can explain it,” said Hellscream, “but it claimed nearly all of us, one by one. We thought it some kind of illness at first, but it does not kill and it does not worsen after a certain point.”

  “One of the orcs in the camp thought it had something to do with —” Thrall fell silent, having no desire to give offense.

  “Speak!” demanded Grom, annoyed. “To do with what?”

  “With the redness of the eyes,” said Thrall.

  “Ah,” said Grom, with, Thrall thought, a trace of sorrow. “Perhaps it does, at that. There is something we wrestle with that you, blue-eyed youngling, cannot understand. I hope you never do.” And for the second time since Thrall had met him, Hellscream appeared to him to be small and frail. He was thin, Thrall realized; it was his ferocity, his battle cry, which made him appear to be so threatening and powerful. Physically, the charismatic leader of the Warsongs was wasting away. Even though he barely knew Hellscream, the realization moved Thrall. It seemed as though the orc chieftain’s will and powerful personality was the only thing keeping him alive, that he was bone and blood and sinew tied together by the barest of threads.

  He did not voice his perception; Grom Hellscream knew it. Their eyes met. Hellscream nodded, and then changed the subject.

  “They have nothing to hope for, nothing to fight for,” Hellscream said. “You told me that one orc was able to rally enough to fight with a friend in order to provide a way for you to escape. That gives me hope. If these people thought that there was some way they could matter, take their destinies into their own hands — I believe they would rouse themselves. None of us has ever been in one of these accursed camps. Tell us all you know, Thrall.”

  Thrall willingly obliged, pleased to be of some help. He described the camp, the orcs, the guards, and the security measures in as much detail as he could. Hellscream listened intently, now and then interrupting with a question or asking him to elaborate. When Thrall was finished, Hellscream was silent for a moment.

  “It is well,” he said at last. “The humans are lulled into a sense of safety by our shameful lack of honor. We can use this to our advantage. It has long been a dream of mine, Thrall, to storm these wretched places and liberate the orcs held captive there. Yet I fear that once the gate is down, like the cattle they seem to have become, they will not fly to freedom.”

  “Regrettably, that seems true,” said Thrall.

  Grom swore colorfully. “It is up to us to awaken them from their strange dreams of despair and defeat. I think it no accident, Thrall, that you have come at this time. Gul’dan is no more, and his warlocks are scattered. It is time for what we once were to reemerge.” His crimson eyes glittered. “And you will be part of that.”

  There was no relief for Blackmoore any longer.

  With each day that crept by, he knew there was less and less a chance that Thrall would be located. They had been probably only moments behind him at the internment camp, and the incident had left a bitter taste in his mouth.

  Which he tried to wash away with beer, mead, and wine.

  After that, nothing. Thrall had seemingly vanished, a difficult task for something as big and ugly as an orc. Sometimes, when the empty bottles began to pile up beside him, Blackmoore was convinced that everyone was conspiring against him to keep Thrall away. This theory was lent credence by the fact that at least one person close to him had most certainly betrayed him. He held her close at night, lest she suspect he knew; enjoyed her physically, perhaps with more roughness than usual; spoke fairly to her. And yet sometimes, when she slept, the pain and anger were so overwhelming that he crawled out of the bed they shared and drank himself into a stupor.

  And of course, with Thrall gone, all hope of leading an orcish army against the Alliance had disappeared like morning mist under a harsh sun. What then would become of Aedelas Blackmoore? Bad enough that he had to overcome the stigma of his father’s name and prove himself a dozen times over, whereas lesser men were accepted at face value. They had told him, of course, that his present position was an honor, one he had richly earned. But he was far from the seat of power, and out of sight meant out of mind. Who in any real position of power thought of Blackmoore? No one, that was who, and it was making Blackmoore sick to his stomach.

  He took another long, thirsty drink. A cautious tap came on his door. “Go away,” he snarled.

  “My lord?” The tentative voice of the betraying whore’s rabbit of a father. “There is news, my lord. Lord Langston is here to see you.”

  Hope surged through Blackmoore and he struggled to rise from the bed. It was midafternoon and Taretha was off doing whatever it was she did when she wasn’t serving him. He swung his booted feet to the floor and sat there a moment while the world swirled about him. “Send him in, Tammis,” he ordered.

  The door opened and Langston entered. “Wonderful news, my lord!” he exclaimed. “We have had a sighting of Thrall.”

  Blackmoore sniffed. “Sightings” of Thrall had become quite commonplace, considering there was a substantial reward offered. But Langston wouldn’t come rushing to Blackmoore with unverified rumors. “Who saw him? Where?”

  “Several leagues from the internment camp, headed due west,” said Langston. “Several villagers were awakened when an orc tried to break into their homes. Seems it was hungry. When they surrounded it, it spoke fair to them, and when they pressed their attack, it fought back and overcame them.”

  “Anyone killed?” Blackmoore hoped not. He would have to pay the village if his pet had killed someone.

  “No. In fact, they said the orc deliberately refrained from killing. A few days later, one of the farmer’s sons was kidnapped by a group of orcs. He was taken to a subterranean cavern and they ordered a large orc to kill him. The orc refused, and the orc chieftain agreed with the decision. The boy was released and immediately told his story. And my lord — the confrontation took place with the orcs speaking in the human tongue, because the large orc could not understand the language of his fellows.”

  Blackmoore nodded. It all rang true with what he knew Thrall to be, versus what the populace assumed Thrall would be. Plus, a young boy wouldn’t likely be clever enough to realize that Thrall didn’t know much orcish.

  By the Light . . .
maybe they would find him.

  There had been another rumor as to Thrall’s whereabouts, and once again, Blackmoore had left Durnholde to follow up on it. Taretha had two passionate, conflicting thoughts. One was that she desperately hoped that the rumors were false, that Thrall was miles away from wherever it was he had been reportedly seen. The other was the overwhelming sense of relief she experienced whenever Blackmoore was not present.

  She took her daily stroll around the grounds outside the fortress. It was safe these days, save for the occasional highwayman, and they skulked by the main roads. She would come to no harm in the forests that she had grown to know so intimately.

  She undid her hair and let it cascade about her shoulders, enjoying the freedom of it. It was not seemly for a woman to have unbound hair. Gleefully, Taretha combed her fingers through the thick golden mass and shook her head in defiance.

  Her gaze fell to the welts on her wrists. Instinctively, one hand reached to cover the other.

  No. She would not hide what was not her own shame. Taretha forced herself to uncover the bruises. For the sake of her family, she had to submit to him. But she would not aid in hiding the wrongs he had done.

  Taretha took a deep breath. Even here, it would seem, Blackmoore’s shadow followed. Deliberately, she banished it, and turned her face up toward the sun.

  She wandered up to the cave where she had said her farewells to Thrall and sat there for a while, hugging her long legs to her chest. There was no sign that anyone save the creatures of the woods had been here in a long time. She then rose and strolled to the tree where she had told Thrall to hide the necklace she’d given him. Peering down into its blackened depths, she saw no glint of silver. She was relieved and saddened at the same time. Taretha desperately missed writing to Thrall and hearing his kind, wise replies.

  If only the rest of her people felt that way. Couldn’t they see that the orcs were not a threat anymore? Couldn’t they understand that with education and a little bit of respect, they could be valuable allies and not enemies? She thought of all the money and time being poured into the internment camps, of how foolish and small-minded it seemed.

  Too bad she couldn’t have run away with Thrall. As Taretha walked slowly back to the fortress, she heard a horn blow. The master of Durnholde had returned. All the sense of lightness and freedom she had experienced bled out of her, as if from an open wound.

  Whatever betide, Thrall at least is free, she thought. My days as a slave loom numberless ahead of me.

  Thrall fought, and ate food prepared in the traditional way, and learned. Soon he was speaking fluent, if heavily accented, orcish. He could go with the hunting parties and be more of a help than a hindrance in bringing down a stag. Fingers that, despite their thickness, had learned to master a stylus had no difficulty helping build snares for rabbits and other smaller animals. Bit by bit, the Warsong clan was accepting him. For the first time in his life, Thrall felt as though he belonged.

  But then came the news from the scouting parties. Rekshak returned one evening, looking even more angry and sour than usual. “A word, my lord,” he said to Hellscream.

  “You may speak in front of us all,” said Hellscream. They were above ground tonight, enjoying a crisp late autumn evening and feasting upon the kill that Thrall himself had brought back to the clan.

  Rekshak cast an uneasy glance in Thrall’s direction, then grunted. “As you wish. Humans are beginning to scour the forests. They wear red and gold livery, with a black falcon on their standard.”

  “Blackmoore,” said Thrall, sickened. Would the man never let him be? Was he going to be hunted to the ends of the earth, dragged back in chains to perform again for Blackmoore’s twisted amusement?

  No. He would take his own life before he would consent again to a life of slavery. He burned to speak, but courtesy demanded that Hellscream answer his own man.

  “As I suspected,” said Hellscream, more calmly than Thrall would have thought.

  Clearly Rekshak was also taken by surprise. “My lord,” he said, “the stranger Thrall has put us all in danger. If they find our caves, then they have us at their mercy. We will either be killed or rounded up like sheep into their camps!”

  “Neither shall happen,” said Hellscream. “And Thrall has not put us in danger. It was by my decision that he stayed. Do you question that?”

  Rekshak lowered his head. “No, my chieftain.”

  “Thrall shall stay,” Hellscream declared.

  “With thanks, great chieftain,” said Thrall, “Rekshak is right. I must leave. I cannot put the Warsong clan in further danger. I will go and make sure that they have a spurious trail to follow, one that will lead them away from you and yet not lead them to me.”

  Hellscream leaned closer to Thrall, who was sitting on his right. “But we need you, Thrall,” he said. His eyes glowed in the darkness. “I need you. We will move quickly, then, to liberate our brothers in the camps.”

  But Thrall continued to shake his head. “The winter comes. It will be hard to feed an army. And . . . there is something I must do before I am ready to stand at your side to free our brethren. You told me that you knew my clan, the Frostwolves. I must find them and learn more about who I am, where I came from, before I can be ready to stand by your side. I had hoped to travel to them in the spring, but it seems that Blackmoore has forced my hand.”

  For a long time, Hellscream gazed at Thrall. The bigger orc did not look away from those terrible red eyes. Finally, sadly, Hellscream nodded.

  “Though I burn with desire for revenge, I find that yours is the wiser head. Our brothers suffer in confinement, but their lethargy may ease their pain. Time enough when the sun shows its head more brightly to liberate them. I do not know for certain where the Frostwolves dwell, but somehow, I know in my heart that you will find them if you are meant to do so.”

  “I will depart in the morning,” said Thrall, his heart heavy in his chest. Across the flickering fire, he saw Rekshak, who had never liked him, nod in approval.

  That next morning Thrall bade a reluctant farewell to the Warsong clan and Grom Hellscream.

  “I wish you to have this,” said Hellscream, as he lifted a bone necklace from around his too-thin throat. “These are the remains of my first kill. I have carved my symbols in them; any orc chieftain will know them.”

  Thrall started to object, but Hellscream curled his lips back from his sharp yellow teeth and snarled. Having no desire to displease the chieftain who had been so kind to him, or to hear that ear-splitting scream a second time, Thrall lowered his head so that Grom could place the necklace about his thick neck.

  “I will lead the humans away from you,” Thrall reiterated.

  “If you do not, it is no matter,” said Hellscream. “We will tear them limb from limb.” He laughed fiercely, and Thrall joined in. Still laughing, he set off in the direction of the cold northlands, the place from which he came.

  He made a detour after a few hours, to veer back in the direction of the small village where he had stolen food and frightened the inhabitants. He did not go too near, for his keen ears had already picked up the sound of soldiers’ voices. But he did leave a token for Blackmoore’s men to find.

  Though it nearly killed him to do it, he took the swaddling cloth that bore the mark of the Frostwolves and tore a large strip from it. He placed it carefully to the south of the village on a jagged stump. He wanted it to be easily found, but not too obvious. He also made sure that he left several large, easily traceable footprints in the soft, muddy soil.

  With any luck, Blackmoore’s men would find the tattered piece of instantly recognizable cloth, see the footprints and assume that Thrall was headed due south. He walked backward carefully in his footprints — a tactic he had learned from his reading — and sought out stone and hard earth for the next several paces.

  He looked toward the Alterac Mountains. Grom had told him that even at the height of summer, their peaks were white against the blue sky. Thrall was a
bout to head into their heart, not knowing for certain where he was going, just as the weather was beginning to turn. It had snowed once or twice, lightly, already. Soon the snows would come thick and heavy, heaviest of all in the mountains.

  The Warsong clan had sent him off well supplied. They had given him several strips of dried meat, a waterskin in which he could collect and melt snow, a thick cape to help ward off the worst of the winter’s bite, and a few rabbit snares so he could supplement the dried meat.

  Fate and luck, and the kindness of strangers and a human girl, had brought him this far. Grom had indicated that Thrall had a role to play yet. He had to trust that, if this was indeed the truth, he would be guided to his destiny as he had been guided thus far.

  Hoisting the sack over his back, without a single glance behind him, Thrall began to stride toward the beckoning mountains, whose jagged peaks and hidden valleys were home somewhere to the Frostwolf clan.

  TWELVE

  The days turned into weeks, and Thrall began to judge how much time had passed not by how many sunrises he saw, but by how many snowfalls. It did not take long for him to exhaust the dried meat the Warsong clan had given him, although he rationed it carefully. The traps proved only intermittently successful, and the farther up in the mountains he went, the fewer animals he caught.

  At least water was not a problem. Everywhere around him were icy streams, and then thick, white drifts. More than once he was caught off guard by a sudden storm, and made a burrow in the snow until it passed. Each time, he could only hope that he could dig his way out to safety.

  The harsh environment began to take its grim toll. His movements were slower and slower, and more than once he would stop to rest and almost not rise again. The food ran out, and no rabbits or marmots were foolish enough to get caught in his traps. The only way he knew there was any animal life at all was by the occasional print of hoof or paw in the snow, and the eerie howling of distant wolves at night. He began eating leaves and tree bark just to quiet his furious stomach, sometimes with less than digestible results.