Lord Of The Clans

by Christie Golden

  A sword came out of nowhere to clang to a stop inches from his nose. Shrieking, Blackmoore scuttled back. He looked up to see Thrall standing in front of him, a sword in his own hand.

  Light preserve him, but Blackmoore had forgotten just how big Thrall was. Clad in black plate armor, wielding a massive sword, he seemed to tower over the prone figure of Blackmoore like a mountain towers over the landscape. Had he always had that set to his huge, deformed jaw, that . . . that presence?

  “Thrall,” Blackmoore stammered, “I can explain. . . .”

  “No,” said Thrall, with a calmness that frightened Blackmoore more than rage would have. “You can’t explain. There is no explanation. There is only a battle, long in the coming. A duel to the death. Take the sword.”

  Blackmoore drew his legs up beneath him. “I . . . I. . . .”

  “Take the sword,” repeated Thrall, his voice deep, “or I shall run you through where you sit like a frightened child.”

  Blackmoore reached out a trembling hand and closed it about the hilt of the sword.

  Good, thought Thrall. At least Blackmoore was going to give him the satisfaction of fighting.

  The first person he had gone for was Langston. It had been ease itself to intimidate the young lord into revealing the existence of the subterranean escape tunnel. Pain had sliced through Thrall afresh as he realized that this must have been the way Taretha had managed to sneak out to see him.

  He had called the earthquakes to seal the tunnel, so that Blackmoore would be forced to return by this same path. While he waited, he had moved the furniture angrily out of the way, to clear a small area for this final confrontation.

  He stared as Blackmoore stumbled to his feet. Was this really the same man he had adored and feared simultaneously as a youngster? It was hard to believe. This man was an emotional and physical wreck. The vague shadow of pity swept through Thrall again, but he would not permit it to blot out the atrocities that Blackmoore had committed.

  “Come for me,” Thrall snarled.

  Blackmoore lunged. He was quicker and more focused than Thrall had expected, given his condition, and Thrall actually had to react quickly to avoid being struck. He parried the blow, and waited for Blackmoore to strike again.

  The conflict seemed to revitalize the master of Durnholde. Something like anger and determination came into his face, and his moves were steadier. He feinted left, then battered hard on Thrall’s right. Even so, Thrall blocked effectively.

  Now he pressed his own attack, surprised and a bit pleased that Blackmoore was able to defend himself and only suffered a slight grazing of his unprotected left side. Blackmoore realized his weakness and looked about for anything that could serve as a shield.

  Grunting, Thrall tore the door off its hinges and tossed it to Blackmoore. “Hide behind the coward’s door,” he cried.

  The door, while it would have made a fine shield for an orc, was of course too large for Blackmoore. He shoved it aside angrily.

  “It’s still not too late, Thrall,” he said, shocking the orc. “You can join with me and we can work together. Of course I’ll free the other orcs, if you’ll promise that they’ll fight for me under my banner, just as you will!”

  Thrall was so furious he didn’t defend himself properly as Blackmoore unexpectedly lunged. He didn’t get his sword up in time, and Blackmoore’s blade clanged off the armor. It was a clean blow, and the armor was all that stood between Thrall and injury.

  “You are still drunk, Blackmoore, if you believe for an instant I can forget the sight of —”

  Again, Thrall saw red, the recollection of Taretha’s blue eyes staring at him almost more than he could bear. He had been holding back, trying to give Blackmoore at least a fighting chance, but now he threw that to the wind. With the impassive rage of a tidal wave crashing upon a seacoast city, Thrall bore down on Blackmoore. With each blow, each cry of rage, he relived his tormented youth at this man’s hands. As Blackmoore’s sword flew from his fingers, Thrall saw Taretha’s face, the friendly smile that enveloped human and orc alike, and saw no difference between them.

  And when he had beaten Blackmoore into a corner, and that wreck of a man had seized a dagger from his boot and shoved it up toward Thrall’s face, narrowly missing the eye, Thrall cried out for vengeance, and brought his sword slicing down.

  Blackmoore didn’t die at once. He lay, gasping, fingers impotently clutching his sides as blood pumped out in a staggering rush of red. He stared up at Thrall, his eyes glazed. Blood trickled from his mouth, and to Thrall’s astonishment, he smiled.

  “You are . . . what I made you . . . I am so proud . . .” he said, and then sagged against the wall.

  Thrall stepped out of the keep into the courtyard. Driving rain pelted him. At once, Hellscream splashed up to him. “Report,” demanded Thrall, even as his eyes swept the scene.

  “We have taken Durnholde, my Warchief,” said Hellscream. He was spattered with blood and looked ecstatic, his red eyes burning bright. “Reinforcements for the humans are still leagues distant. Most of those who have offered resistance are under our control. We have almost completed searching the keep and removing those who did not come to fight. The females and their young are unharmed, as you asked.”

  Thrall saw clusters of his warriors surrounding groups of human males. They were seated in the mud, glaring up at their captors. Now and then one would rally, but he was quickly put in his place. Thrall noticed that although the orcs seemed to want very badly to assault their prisoners, none did.

  “Find me Langston.” Hellscream hastened to do Thrall’s bidding, and Thrall went from cluster to cluster. The humans were either terrified or belligerent, but it was clear who had control of Durnholde now. He turned as Hellscream returned, driving Langston in front of him with well-timed prods from his sword.

  At once Langston dropped to his knees in front of Thrall. Vaguely disgusted, Thrall ordered him to rise. “You are in command now, I assume?”

  “Well, Sergeant . . . yes. Yes I am.”

  “I have a task for you, Langston.” Thrall bent down so that the two were face-to-face. “You and I know what sort of betrayal you and Blackmoore were plotting. You were going to turn traitor to your Alliance. I’m offering you a chance to redeem yourself, if you’ll take it.”

  Langston’s eyes searched his, and a bit of the fear left his face. He nodded. “What would you have me do?”

  “Take a message to your Alliance. Tell them what has happened this day. Tell them that if they choose the path of peace, they will find us ready to engage in trade and cooperation with them, provided they free the rest of my people and surrender land — good land — for our use. If they choose the path of war, they will find an enemy the likes of which they have never seen. You thought we were strong fifteen years past — that is as nothing to the foe they will face on the battlefield today. You have had the good fortune to survive two battles with my army. You will, I am sure, be able to properly convey the full depths of the threat we will pose to them.”

  Langston had gone pale beneath the mud and blood on his face. But he continued to meet Thrall’s eyes evenly.

  “Give him a horse, and provisions,” said Thrall, convinced his message had been understood. “Langston is to ride unhindered to his betters. I hope, for the sake of your people, that they listen to you. Now, go.”

  Hellscream grabbed Langston by the arm and led him to the stables. Thrall saw that, per his instructions, his people who were not occupied with guarding the humans were busily taking provisions from the keep. Horses, cattle, sheep, sacks of grain, bedding for bandages — all the things an army needed would soon be provided to the new Horde.

  There was one more man he needed to talk to, and after a moment, he found him. Sergeant’s small group of men had not surrendered their weapons, but neither were they actually using them. It was a standoff, with both orcs and humans armed, but neither particularly desirous of escalating the conflict.

  Sergeant’s eyes
narrowed warily when he saw Thrall approach. The circle of orcs parted to admit their Warchief. For a long moment, Sergeant and Thrall regarded one another. Then, faster than even Sergeant had credited him for, Thrall’s hand was on Sergeant’s earlobe, the golden hoop firmly between his thick green fingers. Then, just as swiftly, Thrall released him, leaving the earring where it was.

  “You taught me well, Sergeant,” Thrall rumbled.

  “You were a fine student, Thrall,” Sergeant replied cautiously.

  “Blackmoore is dead,” said Thrall. “Your people are being led from the fortress and its provisions taken even as we speak. Durnholde stands now only because I will it to stand.” To illustrate his point, he stamped, once, on the ground, and the earth shook violently.

  “You taught me the concept of mercy. At this moment, you should be very glad of that lesson. I intend to level Durnholde in a few moments. Your reinforcements will not arrive in time to be of any help to you. If your men will surrender, they and their families will be permitted to leave. We will see to it that you have food and water, even weapons. Those who do not surrender will die in the rubble. Without this fortress and its knights to protect the camps, we will find it easy to liberate the rest of our people. That was always my only goal.”

  “Was it?” Sergeant said. Thrall knew he was thinking of Blackmoore.

  “Justice was my goal,” said Thrall. “And that has, and will be, served.”

  “Do I have your word that no one will come to harm?”

  “You do,” said Thrall, lifting his head to look at his people. “If you offer us no resistance, you will be permitted to walk out freely.”

  For answer, Sergeant tossed his weapon to the muddy earth. There was a silence, and then the armed men did likewise. The battle was over.

  When everyone, human and orc, was safely away from the fortress, Thrall called upon the Spirit of Earth.

  This place serves nothing good. It housed prisoners who had done no wrong, elevated evil to great power. Let it fall. Let it fall.

  He spread out his arms and began to stamp rhythmically on the earth. Closing his eyes, Thrall remembered his tiny cell, Blackmoore’s torture, the hatred and contempt in the eyes of the men he had trained with. The memories were shockingly painful as he sifted through them, reliving them briefly before letting them go.

  Let it fall. Let it fall!

  The earth rumbled, for the final time in this battle. The sound was ear-splitting as the mighty stone buildings were pulverized. Earth churned upward, almost as if it was eating the fortress. Down it came, the symbol to Thrall of everything he had fought against. When the earth was at last still, all that was left of the mighty Durnholde was a pile of rocks and jagged pieces of wood. A huge cheer went up from the orcs. The humans, haggard and haunted, simply stared.

  In that pile, somewhere, was Aedelas Blackmoore’s body.

  “Until you bury him in your heart, you won’t be able to bury him deep enough,” came a voice by his side. Thrall turned to look at Drek’Thar.

  “You are wise, Drek’Thar,” said Thrall. “Perhaps too wise.”

  “Was it good to kill him?”

  Thrall thought before answering. “It needed to be done,” he said. “Blackmoore was poison, not just to me, but to so many others.” He hesitated. “Before I killed him, he . . . he said that he was proud of me. That I was what he had made me. Drek’Thar, the thought appalls me.”

  “Of course you are what Blackmoore made you,” Drek’Thar replied, surprising and sickening Thrall with the answer. Gently, Drek’Thar touched Thrall’s armor-clad arm.

  “And you are what Taretha made you. And Sergeant, and Hellscream, and Doomhammer, and I, and even Snowsong. You are what each battle made you, and you are what you have made of yourself . . . the lord of the clans.” He bowed, then turned and left, guided by his attendant Palkar. Thrall watched them go. He hoped that one day, he would be as wise as Drek’Thar.

  Hellscream approached. “The humans have been given food and water, my Warchief. Our outriders report that the human reinforcements will shortly be closing in. We should leave.”

  “In a moment. I have a duty for you to perform.” He extended a closed fist to Hellscream, then opened it. A silver necklace with a crescent moon dropped into Hellscream’s outstretched hand. “Find the humans called Foxton. It is likely that they have only now learned about their daughter’s murder. Give this to them and tell them . . . tell them that I grieve with them.”

  Hellscream bowed, then left to do Thrall’s bidding. Thrall took a deep breath. Behind him was his past, the ruin that had once been Durnholde. Before him was his future, a sea of green — his people, waiting, expectant.

  “Today,” he cried, raising his voice so that all could hear, “today, our people have won a great victory. We have leveled the mighty fortress Durnholde, and broken its grasp on the encampments. But we cannot yet rest, nor claim that we have won this war. There are many of our brothers and sisters who yet languish in prisons, but we know that they will soon be free. They, like you, will taste what it is to be an orc, to know the passion and power of our proud race.

  “We are undefeatable. We will triumph, because our cause is just. Let us go, and find the camps, and smash their walls, and free our people!”

  A huge cheer rose up, and Thrall looked around at the thousands of proud, beautiful orcish faces. Their mouths were open and their fists were waving, and every line of their large bodies spoke of joy and excitement. He recalled the sluggish creatures in the encampment, and felt a stab of almost painful pleasure as he allowed himself to realize that he had been the one to inspire them to these heights. The thought was humbling.

  A profound peace swept over him as he watched his people cry his name. After so many years of searching, he finally knew where his true destiny lay; knew deep in his bones who he was:

  Thrall, son of Durotan . . . Warchief of the Horde.

  He had come home.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Award-winning author Christie Golden has written eighteen novels and sixteen short stories in the fields of science fiction, fantasy, and horror. She launched the TSR Ravenloft line in 1991 with her first novel, the highly successful Vampire of the Mists, which introduced elven vampire Jander Sunstar. Golden followed up Vampire with Dance of the Dead and The Enemy Within.

  Golden has written six Star Trek: Voyager novels, including the popular Dark Matters trilogy, and has been involved in three other Star Trek projects. Her latest “trek” was a special addendum to the novelization of the Voyager finale Endgame, in which she takes the characters in new directions. Golden will continue writing Voyager novels even though the show is off the air, and she is eager to explore the creative freedom that gives her.

  Though best known for tie-in work, Golden is also the author of two original fantasy novels from Ace Books, King’s Man & Thief and Instrument of Fate, which made the 1996 Nebula Preliminary Ballot. Under the pen name Jadrien Bell she wrote a historical fantasy thriller entitled A.D. 999, which won the Colorado Author’s League Top Hand Award for Best Genre Novel of 1999.

  Golden lives in Denver, Colorado, with her portrait-artist husband, two cats, and a white German shepherd. Readers are encouraged to visit her at her Web site, www.christiegolden.com.