And so it had been. The fourth camp had been bristling with armed guards, but the elements continued to come to Thrall’s aid when he asked it of them. This further convinced him that his cause was right and just, for otherwise, the spirits would surely decline their help. It had been harder to destroy the walls and fight the guards, and many of Doomhammer’s finest warriors had lost their lives. But the orcs imprisoned within those cold stone walls had eagerly responded, flowing through the breach almost before Doomhammer and his warriors were ready for them.
The new Horde grew almost daily. Hunting was easy at this time of year, and Doomhammer’s followers did not go hungry. When he heard of a small group taking it upon themselves to storm an outlying town, Thrall was furious. Especially when he learned that many unarmed humans had been killed.
He learned who the leader of the excursion was, and that night he marched into that group’s encampment, seized the startled orc, and slammed him hard into the ground.
“We are not butchers of humans!” Thrall cried. “We fight to free our imprisoned brothers, and our opponents are armed soldiers, not milkmaids and children!”
The orc started to protest, and Thrall backhanded him savagely. The orc’s head jerked to the side and blood spilled from his mouth.
“The forest teems with deer and hare! Every camp we liberate provides us with food! There is no call to terrorize people who have offered us no harm simply for our amusement. You fight where I tell you to fight, who I tell you to fight, and if any orc ever again offers harm to an unarmed human, I will not forgive it. Is this understood?”
The orc nodded. Everyone around his campfire stared at Thrall with huge eyes and nodded as well.
Thrall softened a bit. “Such behavior is of the old Horde, led by dark warlocks who had no love for our people. That is what brought us to the internment camps, to the listlessness caused by the lack of demon energy upon which we fed so greedily. I do not wish us beholden to anyone but ourselves. That way almost destroyed us. We will be free, never question that. But we will be free to be who we truly are, and who we truly are is much, much more than simply a race of beings who exist to slaughter humans. The old ways are no more. We fight as proud warriors now, not as indiscriminate killers. There is no pride in murdering children.”
He turned and left. Stunned silence followed him. He heard a rumble of laughter in the dark, and turned to see Doomhammer. “You walk the hard path,” the great Warchief said. “It is in their blood to kill.”
“I do not believe that,” said Thrall. “I believe that we were corrupted from noble warriors into assassins. Puppets, whose strings were pulled by demons and those of our own people who betrayed us.”
“It . . . is a dreadful dance,” came Hellscream’s voice, so soft and weak that Thrall almost didn’t recognize it. “To be used so. The power they give . . . it is like the sweetest honey, the juiciest flesh. You are fortunate never to have drunk from that well, Thrall. And then to be without it, it is almost . . . unbearable.” He shuddered.
Thrall placed a hand on Hellscream’s shoulder. “And yet, you have borne it, brave one,” he said. “You make my courage as nothing with yours.”
Hellscream’s red eyes glowed in the darkness, and by their hellish crimson light, Thrall could see him smile.
It was in the small, dark hours of the morning when the new Horde, led by Doomhammer, Hellscream, and Thrall, surrounded the fifth encampment.
The outriders returned. “The guards are alert,” they told Doomhammer. “There is double the usual number posted on the walls. They have lit many fires so that their weak eyes can see.”
“And it is full moons’ light,” said Doomhammer, glancing up at the glowing silver and blue-green orbs. “The White Lady and the Blue Child are not our friends tonight.”
“We cannot wait two more weeks,” said Hellscream. “The Horde is eager for a just battle, and we must strike while they are still strong enough to resist the demon listlessness.”
Doomhammer nodded, though he still looked concerned. To the scouts, he said, “Any sign that they are expecting an assault?” One of these days, Thrall knew, their luck would run out. They had been very careful not to select camps in any particular order, so that the humans would not be able to guess where they would strike next and thus could not be lying in wait. But Thrall knew Blackmoore, and knew that somehow, some way, a confrontation was inevitable.
While he relished the thought of finally facing Blackmoore in fair combat, he knew what it would mean to the troops. For their sake, he hoped that tonight was not that night.
The outriders shook their heads.
“Then let us descend,” said Doomhammer, and in steady silence, the green tide flooded down the hill and toward the encampment.
They had almost reached it when the gates flew open and dozens of armed, mounted humans charged out. Thrall saw the black falcon on the red and gold standard, and knew that the day he had both dreaded and anticipated had finally arrived.
Hellscream’s battle cry pierced the air, almost drowning out the screams of humans and the pounding of their horses’ hooves. Rather than being disheartened by the enemy’s strength, the Horde seemed revitalized, willing to rise to the challenge.
Thrall threw back his head and howled his own battle cry. The quarters were too close for Thrall to call on such great powers as lightning and earthquakes, but there were others he could ask to aid him. Despite an almost overwhelming desire to charge into the fray and fight hand to hand, he held back. Time enough for that once he had done all he could to tip the balance in the orcs’ direction.
He closed his eyes, planted his feet firmly on the grass, and sought the Spirit of the Wilds. He saw in his mind’s eye a great white horse, the Spirit of all horses, and sent forth his plea.
The humans are using your children to kill us. They, too, are in danger. If the horses throw their riders, they will be free to reach safety. Will you ask them to do so?
The great horse considered. These children are trained to fight. They are not afraid of swords and spears.
But there is no need for them to die today. We are only trying to free our people. That is a just cause, and not worth their deaths.
Again, the great horse spirit considered Thrall’s words. Finally, he nodded his enormous white head.
Suddenly, the battlefield was thrown into greater confusion as every horse either wheeled and galloped off, bearing a startled and furious human with it, or began to rear and buck. The human guards fought to stay mounted, but it was impossible.
Now it was time to beseech the Spirit of Earth. Thrall envisioned the roots of the forest that surrounded the camp extending, growing, exploding up from the soil. Trees who have sheltered us . . . will you aid me now?
Yes, came a response in his mind. Thrall opened his eyes and strained to see. Even with his superb night vision, it was hard to discern what was happening, but he could just make it out.
Roots exploded from the hard-packed earth just outside the camp walls. They shot up from the soil and seized the men who had been dismounted, wrapping their pale lengths about the humans as firmly as the trap-nets closed about captive orcs. To Thrall’s approval, the orcs did not kill the fallen guards as they lay helpless. Instead they ran on to other targets, pressed inward, and searched for their imprisoned kin.
Another wave of enemies charged out, this one on foot. The trees did not send their roots forth a second time; they had provided all the aid they would. Despite his frustration, Thrall thanked them and racked his brain as to what to do next.
He decided that he had done all he could as a shaman. It was time for him to behave as a warrior. Gripping his mammoth broadsword, a gift from Hellscream, Thrall charged down the hill to aid his brothers.
Lord Karramyn Langston had never been more afraid in his life.
Too young to have charged into battle in the last conflict between humankind and orcs, he had hung on every word his idol Lord Blackmoore had uttered. Blackmoore had
made it sound as easy as hunting game in the tame, forested lands that surrounded Durnholde, except much more exciting. Blackmoore had said nothing about the shrieks and groans that assaulted his ears, the stench of blood and urine and feces and the orcs themselves, the bombardment of a thousand images upon the eye at any one time. No, battle with orcs had been described as a heart-pounding lark, which made one ready for a bath and wine and the company of adoring women.
They had had the element of surprise. They had been ready for the green monsters. What had happened? Why had the horses, well-trained beasts every one of them, fled or bucked off their riders? What wicked sorcery made the earth shoot up pale arms to bind those unfortunate enough to fall? Where were the horrible white wolves coming from, and how did they know whom to attack?
Langston got none of these questions answered. He was ostensibly in command of the unit, but any semblance of control he might have had dissolved once those terrifying tendrils emerged from the earth. Now there was only sheer panic, the sound of sword on shield or flesh, and the cries of the dying.
He himself didn’t know whom he was fighting. It was too dark to see, and he swung his sword blindly, crying and sobbing with every wild strike. Sometimes Langston’s sword bit into flesh, but most of the time he heard it cutting only the air. He was fueled by the energy of sheer terror, and a distant part of him marveled at his ability to keep swinging.
A solid, strong blow on his shield jangled his arm all the way to his teeth. Somehow, he kept it lifted under the onslaught of a creature that was hugely tall and enormously strong. For a fleeting second, Langston’s eyes met those of his attacker and his mouth dropped open in shock.
“Thrall!” he cried.
The orc’s eyes widened in recognition, then narrowed in fury. Langston saw a mammoth green fist rise up, and then he knew no more.
Thrall did not care about the lives of Langston’s men. They stood between him and the liberation of the imprisoned orcs. They had come openly into honest combat and if they died, then that was their destiny. But Langston, he wanted kept alive.
He remembered Blackmoore’s little shadow. Langston never said much, just looked upon Blackmoore with a fawning expression and upon Thrall with loathing and contempt. But Thrall knew that no one was closer to his enemy than this pathetic, weak-willed man, and though he did not deserve it, Thrall was going to see to it that Langston survived this battle.
He flung the unconscious captain over his shoulder and fought his way back against the pressing tide of continued battle. Hurrying back up to the shelter of the forest, he tossed Langston down at the foot of an ancient oak as if he were no more than a sack of potatoes. He tied the man’s hands with his own baldric. Guard him well until I return, he told the old oak. In answer, the mammoth roots lifted and folded themselves none too gently about Langston’s prone form.
Thrall turned and raced back down toward the battle. Usually the liberations were accomplished with astonishing speed, but not this time. The fighting was still continuing when Thrall rejoined his comrades, and it seemed to last forever. But the imprisoned orcs were doing everything they could to scramble toward freedom. At one point, Thrall fought his way past the humans and began searching the encampment. He found several still cowering in corners. They shrank from him at first, and with his blood so hot from battle it was difficult for Thrall to speak gently to them. Nonetheless, he managed to coax each group into coming with him, into making the desperate dash for freedom past groups of clustered, fighting warriors.
Finally, when he was certain that all the inhabitants had fled, he returned to the thick of the fray himself. He looked around. There was Hellscream, fighting with all the power and passion of a demon himself. But where was Doomhammer? Usually the charismatic Warchief had called for retreat by this time, so the orcs could regroup, tend to their wounded, and plan for the next assault.
It was a bloody battle, and too many of his brothers and sisters in arms already lay dead or dying. Thrall, as second in command, took it upon himself to cry, “Retreat! Retreat!”
Lost in the bloodlust, many did not hear him. Thrall raced from warrior to warrior, fending off attacks, screaming the word the orcs never liked to hear but was necessary, even vital, to their continued existence. “Retreat! Retreat!”
His screams penetrated the haze of battlelust at last, and with a few final blows, the orcs turned and moved purposefully out of the confines of the encampment. Many of the human knights, for knights it was clear they were, gave chase. Thrall waited outside, crying, “Go, go!” The orcs were larger, stronger, and faster than the humans, and when the last one was sprinting up the hill toward freedom, Thrall whirled, planted his feet in the foul-smelling mud that was hard earth and blood commingled, and called on the Spirit of Earth at last.
The earth responded. The ground beneath the encampment began to tremble, and small shocks rippled out from the center. Before Thrall’s eyes, earth broke and heaved, the mighty stone wall encircling the camp shattering and falling into small pieces. Screams assaulted Thrall’s ears, not battle cries or epithets, but cries of genuine terror. He steeled himself against a quick rush of pity. These knights came at the order of Blackmoore. More than likely they had been instructed to slay as many orcs as possible, imprison all they did not slay, and capture Thrall in order to return him to a life of slavery. They had chosen to follow those orders, and for that, they would pay with their lives.
The earth buckled. The screaming was drowned out by the terrible roar of collapsing buildings and shattering stone. And then, almost as quickly as it had come, the noises ceased.
Thrall stood and regarded the rubble that had once been an internment camp for his people. A few soft moans came from under the debris, but Thrall hardened his heart. His own people were wounded, were moaning. He would tend to them.
He took a moment to close his eyes and offer his gratitude to Earth, then turned and hastened to where his people were gathering.
This moment was always chaotic, but it seemed to Thrall to be even less organized than usual. Even as he ran up the hilly ground, Hellscream was hurrying to meet him.
“It’s Doomhammer,” Hellscream rasped. “You had better hurry.”
Thrall’s heart leaped. Not Doomhammer. Surely he could not be in danger. . . . He followed where Hellscream led, shoving his way through a thick cluster of jabbering orcs to where Orgrim Doomhammer lay propped up sideways against the base of a tree.
Thrall gasped, horrified. At least two feet of a broken lance extended from Doomhammer’s broad back. As Thrall stared, frozen for a moment by the sight, Doomhammer’s two personal attendants struggled to remove the circular breastplate. Now Thrall could see, poking through the black gambeson that cushioned the heavy armor, the reddened, glistening tip of the lance. It had impaled Doomhammer with such force that it had gone clear through his body, completely piercing the back plate and denting the breastplate from the inside.
Drek’Thar was kneeling next to Doomhammer, and he turned his blind eyes up to Thrall’s. He shook his head slightly, then rose and stepped back.
Blood seemed to roar in Thrall’s ears, and it was only dimly that he heard the mighty warrior calling his name. Stumbling in shock, Thrall approached and knelt beside Doomhammer.
“The blow was a coward’s blow,” Doomhammer rasped. Blood trickled from his mouth. “I was struck from behind.”
“My lord,” said Thrall, miserably. Doomhammer waved him to silence.
“I need your help, Thrall. In two things. You must carry on what we have begun. I led the Horde once. It is not my destiny to do so again.” He grimaced, shuddered, and continued. “Yours is the title of Warchief, Thrall, son of D-Durotan. You will wear my armor, and carry my hammer.”
Doomhammer reached out to Thrall, and Thrall grasped the bloody, armored hand with his own. “You know what to do. They are in your care now. I could not . . . have hoped for a better heir. Your father would be so proud . . . help me. . . .”
With h
ands that trembled, Thrall turned to assist the two younger orcs in removing, piece by piece, the armor that had always been associated with Orgrim Doomhammer. But the lance that still protruded from Orgrim’s back would not permit the removal of the rest of the armor.
“That is the second thing,” growled Doomhammer. There was a small crowd clustered around the fallen hero, and more were coming up every moment. “It is shame enough that I die from a coward’s strike,” he said. “I will not leave my life with this piece of human treachery still in my body.” One hand went to the point of the lance. The fingers fluttered weakly, and the hand fell. “I have tried to pull it out myself, but I lack the strength. . . . Hurry, Thrall. Do this for me.”
Thrall felt as though his chest were being crushed by an unseen hand. He nodded. Steeling himself against the pain that he knew he would need to cause his friend and mentor, he closed his armored fingers about the tip, pressing into Doomhammer’s flesh.
Doomhammer cried out, in anger as much as in pain. “Pull!” he cried.
Closing his eyes, Thrall pulled. The blood-soaked shaft came forward a few inches. The sound that Doomhammer made almost broke Thrall’s heart.
“Again!” the mighty warrior cried. Thrall took a deep breath and pulled, willing himself to remove the entire shaft this time. It came free with such suddenness that he stumbled backward.
Black-red blood now gushed freely from the fatal hole in Doomhammer’s belly. Standing beside Thrall, Hellscream whispered, “I saw it happen. It was before you caused the horses to desert their masters. He was single-handedly battling eight of them, all on horseback. It was the bravest thing I have ever seen.”
Thrall nodded dumbly, then knelt beside Doomhammer’s side. “Great leader,” whispered Thrall, so that only Doomhammer could hear, “I am afraid. I am not worthy to wear your armor and wield your weapon.”
“No one breathes who is worthier,” said Doomhammer in a soft, wet voice. “You will lead them . . . to victory . . . and you will lead them . . . to peace. . . .”
Lord Of The Clans Page 16
