“It serves the Spirit of Water’s purpose, and the Wilds’,” replied Drek’Thar. “I do not know their needs and plans. They certainly do not tell me of them. This time, it did not serve Water’s needs, and it would not flood and drown hundreds of humans it saw as innocent. Later, once the rage had faded, I understood that the Spirit of Water was right.”
“When else?”
Drek’Thar hesitated. “You probably assume I have always been old, guiding the clan spiritually.”
Thrall chuckled. “No one is born old, Wise One.”
“Sometimes I wish I had been. But I was once young, as you are, and the blood flowed hot in my veins. I had a mate and child. They died.”
“In battle against the humans?”
“Nothing so noble. They simply fell ill, and all my pleas to the elements were to no avail. I raged in my grief.” Even now, his voice was laden with sorrow. “I demanded that the spirits return the lives they had snatched. They grew angry with me, and for many years, refused my call. Because of my arrogant demand that my loved ones come back to life, many others of our clan suffered from my inability to summon the spirits. When I saw the foolishness of my request, I begged the spirits to forgive me. They did.”
“But . . . it is only natural to want your loved ones to stay alive,” said Thrall. “Surely the spirits must understand that.”
“Oh, they understood. My first request was humble, and the element listened with compassion before it refused. My next request was a furious demand, and the Spirit of the Wilds was offended that I so abused the relationship between shaman and element.”
Drek’Thar extended a hand and placed it on Thrall’s shoulder. “It is more than likely you will endure the pain of losing loved ones, Thrall. You must know that the Spirit of the Wilds has reasons for doing what it does, and you must respect those reasons.”
Thrall nodded, but privately he completely sympathized with Drek’Thar’s desires, and did not blame the old orc one bit for raging at the spirits in his torment.
“Where is Wise-ear?” he asked, to change the subject.
“I don’t know.” Drek’Thar seemed singularly unconcerned. “He is a companion, not a slave. He leaves when he wishes, returns when it is his will.”
As if to reassure him that she was not about to go anywhere, Snowsong placed her head on Thrall’s knee. He patted her head, bade his teacher good night, and went to his own cave to sleep.
The days passed in a routine fashion. Thrall now spent most of his time studying with Drek’Thar, though on occasion he went hunting with a small group. He utilized his newfound relationship with the elements to aid his clan: asking the Spirit of Earth for advice on where the herds were, asking the Spirit of Air to change the course of the wind so that their scent would not betray them to the watchful creatures. Only once did he ask the Spirit of the Wilds for aid, when supplies were running dangerously low and their luck in hunting had taken a turn for the worse.
They knew deer were in the area. They had found gnawed tree bark and fresh droppings. But the canny creatures continued to elude them for several days. Their bellies were empty, and there was simply no more food left. The children were beginning to grow dangerously thin.
Thrall closed his eyes and extended his mind. Spirit of the Wilds, who breathes life into all, I ask for your favor. We will take no more than we need to feed the hungry of our clan. I ask you, Spirit of the deer, to sacrifice yourself for us. We will not waste any of your gifts, and we will honor you. Many lives depend upon the surrendering of one.
He hoped the words were right. They had been couched with a respectful heart, but Thrall had never attempted this before. But when he opened his eyes, he saw a white stag standing not two arms’ length in front of him. His companions seemed to see nothing. The stag’s eyes met Thrall’s, and the creature inclined its head. It bounded away, and Thrall saw that it left no trace in the snow.
“Follow me,” he said. His fellow Frostwolves did so at once, and they went some distance before they saw a large, healthy stag lying in the snow. One of its legs jutted out at an unnatural angle, and its soft brown eyes were rolling in terror. The snow all around it was churned up, and it was obvious that it was unable to rise.
Thrall approached it, instinctively sending out a message of calm. Do not fear, he told it. Your pain will soon be ended, and your life continue to have meaning. I thank you, Brother, for your sacrifice.
The deer relaxed, and lowered its head. Thrall touched its neck gently. Quickly, to cause it no pain, he snapped the long neck. He looked up to see the others staring at him in awe. But he knew it was not by his will, but the deer’s, that his people would eat tonight.
“We will take this animal and consume its flesh. We will make tools from the bones and clothing from its hide. And in so doing, we will remember that it honored us with this gift.”
Thrall worked side by side with Drek’Thar to send energy to the seeds beneath the soil, that they would grow strong and flower in the spring that was so near, and to nurture the unborn beasts, be they deer or goat or wolf, growing in their mothers’ wombs. They worked together to ask Water to spare the village from the spring snowmelts and the avalanches that were a constant danger. Thrall grew steadily in strength and in skill, and was so engrossed in this new, vibrant path he was walking that when he saw the first yellow and purple spring flowers poking their heads up through the melting snows, he was taken by surprise.
When he returned from his walk to gather the sacred herbs that aided the shaman’s contact with the elements, he was surprised to find that the Frostwolves had another guest.
This orc was large, though from weight or muscle, Thrall could not say as the stranger’s cloak was wrapped tightly around him. He huddled close to the fire and seemed not to feel the spring warmth.
Snowsong rushed forward to sniff noses and tails with Wise-ear, who had at long last returned. Thrall turned to Drek’Thar.
“Who is the stranger?” he asked softly.
“A wandering hermit,” Drek’Thar replied. “We do not know him. He says that Wise-ear found him lost in the mountains, and led him here to safety.”
Thrall looked at the bowl of stew the stranger clutched in one big hand, at the polite concern shown to him by the rest of the clan. “You receive him with more kindness than you received me,” he said, not a little annoyed.
Drek’Thar laughed. “He comes asking only for refuge for a few days before pressing on. He didn’t come with a torn Frostwolf swaddling cloth asking to be adopted by the clan. And he comes at springtime, when there is bounty to be had and shared, and not at the onset of winter.”
Thrall had to acknowledge the shaman’s points. Anxious to behave properly, he sat down by the stranger. “Greetings, stranger. How long have you been traveling?”
The orc looked at him from under a shadowing hood. His gray eyes were sharp, though his answer was polite, even deferential.
“Longer than I care to recall, young one. I am in your debt. I had thought the Frostwolves only a legend, told by Gul’dan’s cronies to intimidate all other orcs.”
Clan loyalty stirred inside Thrall. “We were banished wrongly, and have proved our worth by being able to make a life for ourselves in this harsh place,” he replied.
“But it is my understanding that not so long ago, you were as much a stranger to this clan as I,” the stranger said. “They have spoken of you, young Thrall.”
“I hope they have spoken well,” Thrall answered, unsure as to how to respond.
“Well enough,” the stranger replied, enigmatically. He returned to eating his stew. Thrall saw that his hands were well muscled.
“What is your own clan, friend?”
The hand froze with the spoon halfway to the mouth. “I have no clan, now. I wander alone.”
“Were they all killed?”
“Killed, or taken, or dead where it counts . . . in the soul,” the orc answered, pain in his voice. “Let us speak no more of this.”
Thrall inclined his head. He was uncomfortable around the stranger, and suspicious as well. Something was not quite right about him. He rose, nodded his head, and went to Drek’Thar.
“We should watch him,” he said to his teacher. “There is something about this wandering hermit that I mislike.”
Drek’Thar threw back his head and laughed. “We were wrong to suspect you when you came, yet you are the only one who mistrusts this hungry stranger. Oh, Thrall, you have yet so much to learn.”
Over dinner that night, Thrall continued to watch the stranger without appearing too obvious. He had a large sack, which he would let no one touch, and never removed the bulky cape. He answered questions politely, but briefly, and revealed very little about himself. All Thrall knew was that he had been a hermit for twenty years, keeping to himself and nursing dreams of the old days without appearing to do very much to actually help bring them back.
At one point, Uthul asked, “Have you ever seen the internment camps? Thrall says the orcs imprisoned there have lost their will.”
“Yes, and it is no surprise that this is so,” said the stranger. “There is little to fight for anymore.”
“There is much to fight for,” said Thrall, his anger flaring quickly. “Freedom. A place of our own. The remembrance of our origins.”
“And yet you Frostwolves hide up here in the mountains,” the stranger replied.
“As you hide in the southlands!” Thrall retorted.
“I do not purport to rouse the orcs to cast off their slaves and revolt against their masters,” the stranger replied, his voice calm, not rising to the bait.
“I will not be here long,” said Thrall. “Come spring, I will rejoin the undefeated orc chieftain Grom Hellscream, and help his noble Warsong clan storm the camps. We will inspire our brethren to rise up against the humans, who are not their masters, but merely bullies who keep them against their will!” Thrall was on his feet now, the anger hot inside him at the insult this stranger dared to utter. He kept expecting Drek’Thar to chide him, but the old orc said nothing. He merely stroked his wolf companion and listened. The other Frostwolves seemed fascinated by the interchange between these two and did not interrupt.
“Grom Hellscream,” sneered the stranger, waving his hand dismissively. “A demon-ridden dreamer. No, you Frostwolves have the right of it, as do I. I have seen what the humans can do, and it is best to avoid them, and seek the hidden places where they do not come.”
“I was raised by humans, and believe me, they are not infallible!” cried Thrall. “Nor are you, I would think, you coward!”
“Thrall —” began Drek’Thar, speaking up at last.
“No, Master Drek’Thar, I will not be silent. This . . . this . . . he comes seeking our aid, eats at our fire, and dares to insult the courage of our clan and his own race. I will not stand for it. I am not the chieftain, nor do I claim that right, though I was born to it. But I will claim my individual right to fight this stranger, and make him eat his words sliced upon my sword!”
He expected the cowardly hermit to cringe and ask his pardon. Instead, the stranger laughed heartily and rose. He was almost as big as Thrall, and now, finally, Thrall could glimpse beneath the cloak. To his astonishment, he saw that this arrogant stranger was completely clad in black plate armor, trimmed with brass. Once, the armor must have been stunning, but though it was still impressive, the plates had seen better days and the brass trim was sorely in need of polishing.
Uttering a fierce cry, the stranger opened the pack he had been carrying and pulled out the largest warhammer Thrall had ever seen. He held it aloft with seeming ease, then brandished it at Thrall.
“See if you can take me, whelp!” he cried.
The other orcs cried aloud as well, and for the second time in as many moments Thrall received a profound shock. Instead of leaping to the defense of their clansman, the Frostwolves backed away. Some even fell to their knees. Only Snowsong stayed with him, putting herself between her companion and the stranger, hackles raised and white teeth bared.
What was happening? He glanced over at Drek’Thar, who seemed relaxed and impassive.
So be it, then. Whoever this stranger might be, he had insulted Thrall and the Frostwolves, and the young shaman was prepared to defend his honor and theirs with his life.
He had no weapon ready, but Uthul pressed a long, sharp spear into Thrall’s outstretched hand. Thrall’s fingers closed on it, and he began to stamp.
Thrall could feel the Spirit of the Earth responding questioningly. As gently as he could, for he had no wish to upset the element, he declined an offer of aid. This was not a battle for the elements; there was no dire need here. Only Thrall’s need to teach this arrogant stranger a sorely needed lesson.
Even so, he felt the earth tremble beneath his pounding feet. The stranger looked startled, then oddly pleased. Before Thrall could even brace himself, the armored stranger launched into a punishing attack.
Thrall’s spear came up to defend himself, but while it was a fierce weapon, it was never meant to block the blow of an enormous warhammer. The mighty spear snapped in two as if it were a twig. Thrall glanced around, but there was no other weapon. He prepared for his adversary’s next blow, deciding to utilize the strategy that had worked so well for him in the past when he was fighting weaponless against an armed opponent.
The stranger swung his hammer again. Thrall dodged it, and whirled deftly to reach out and seize the weapon, planning to snatch it from its wielder. To his astonishment, as his hands closed on the shaft, the stranger tugged swiftly. Thrall fell forward, and the stranger straddled his now fallen body.
Thrall twisted like a fish, and managed to hurl himself to the side while catching one of his foe’s legs tightly between his ankles. He jerked, and the stranger staggered and lost his balance. Now they were both on the earth. Thrall slammed his clenched fist down on the wrist of the hand that clutched the warhammer. The stranger grunted and reflexively loosed his hold. Seizing the opportunity and the warhammer both, Thrall leaped to his feet, swinging the weapon high over his head.
He caught himself just in time. He was about to bring the massive stone weapon crunching down on his opponent’s skull. But this was a fellow orc, not a human he faced on the battlefield. This was a guest in his encampment, and a warrior he would be proud to have serve alongside him when he and Hellscream achieved their goal of storming the encampments and liberating their imprisoned kin.
The hesitation and the sheer weight of the weapon caused him to stumble. That moment was all the stranger needed. Growling, he utilized the same move Thrall had used on him. He kicked forward, knocking Thrall’s feet out from under him. Still clutching the warhammer, Thrall fell, unable to stop himself. Before he even realized what was happening, the other orc was on top of him with his hands at Thrall’s throat.
Thrall’s world went red. Instinct kicked in and he writhed. This orc was almost as large as he and armored as well, but Thrall’s fierce desire for victory and extra bulk gave him the edge he needed to twist his body around and pin the other warrior beneath him.
Hands closed on him and pulled him off. He roared, the hot bloodlust in him demanding satisfaction, and struggled. It took eight of his fellow Frostwolves to pin him down long enough for the red haze to clear and his breathing to slow. When he nodded that he was all right, they rose and let him sit up on his own.
Before him stood the stranger. He stomped forward and shoved his face to within a hand’s breadth of Thrall’s. Thrall met his eyes evenly, panting with exertion.
The stranger drew himself up to his full height and then let out a huge roar of laughter.
“Long has it been since anyone could even challenge me,” he bellowed cheerfully, not seeming the least displeased that Thrall had nearly managed to smear his entrails into the earth. “And it has been even longer since anyone could best me, even in a friendly tussle. Only your father ever did that, young Thrall. May his spirit walk in peace. Hellscream
did not lie, it seems. I appear to have found my second in command.”
He extended a hand to Thrall. Thrall stared at it, and snapped, “Second in command? I beat you, stranger, with your own weapon. I know not what code makes the victor second!”
“Thrall!” Drek’Thar’s voice cracked like a lightning strike.
“He does not yet understand,” chuckled the stranger. “Thrall, son of Durotan, I have come a long way to find you, to see if the rumors were true — that there was yet a worthy second in command for me to take under my wing and trust in when I liberate the encampments.”
He paused, and his eyes twinkled with laughter.
“My name, son of Durotan, is Orgrim Doomhammer.”
FIFTEEN
Thrall’s mouth dropped open in chagrin and shock. He had insulted Orgrim Doomhammer, the Warchief of the Horde? His father’s dearest friend? The one orc he had held up as inspiration for so many years? The armor and the warhammer ought to have given the game away at once. What a fool he had been!
He fell to his knees and prostrated himself. “Most noble Doomhammer, I ask your forgiveness. I did not know —” He shot a look at Drek’Thar. “My teacher might have warned me —”
“And that would have spoiled everything,” Doomhammer replied, still laughing a little. “I wanted to pick a fight, see if you indeed had the passion and the pride of which Grom Hellscream had spoken so glowingly. I got more than I bargained for . . . I got beaten!” He laughed again, loudly, as if were the funniest thing that had happened to him in years. Thrall began to relax. Doomhammer’s mirth subsided and he placed an affectionate hand on the younger orc’s shoulder.
“Come and sit with me, Thrall, son of Durotan,” he said. “We will finish our meal and you will tell me your story, and I will tell you tales of your father you have never heard.”
Joy flooded Thrall. Impulsively he reached out and gripped the hand that lay on his shoulder. Suddenly serious, Doomhammer met Thrall’s eyes and nodded.
Lord Of The Clans Page 14
