Lord of the Clans (10 page)

Thrall had assumed they would put him on a cart, or perhaps in one of the wagons he remembered from so long ago. He was not granted even that basest of courtesies. They simply attached a rope to the trap-net that bound his limbs so tightly and dragged him behind one of their horses. Thrall, however, had an extremely high pain threshold after so many years in the gladiator ring. What hurt him more deeply was the loss of Taretha’s letters. It was fortunate that none of these men could read. He was grateful they had not found the necklace. He had been holding the necklace she’d given him last night and had managed to slip it inside his black trousers before it was noticed. That part of her, at least, he could still hold on to.

The journey seemed to take forever, but the sun crawled across the sky only slowly. Finally, they reached a large stone wall. Waryk called for admittance, and Thrall heard what sounded like heavy gates opening. He was being dragged on his back, so he had an excellent view of the thickness of the wall as they entered. Disinterested guards threw the newcomer a brief glance, then went about their business.

The first thing that struck Thrall was the stench. It reminded him of the stables at Durnholde, but was much stronger. He wrinkled his nose. Hult was watching it and he laughed.

“Been away from your own kind too long, eh, greenie?” he sneered. “Forgotten how bad you smell?” He pinched his nose shut and rolled his eyes.

“Hult,” said Waryk, a warning in his voice. He grasped the net’s webbing and spoke a word of command. At once Thrall felt his bonds loosen and he got to his feet.

He stared about in horror. Huddled everywhere were dozens — perhaps hundreds — of orcs. Some sat in puddles of their own filth, their eyes unfocused, their sharp-tusked jaws slack. Others paced back and forth, muttering incoherently. Some slept tightly curled up on the earth, seeming not to care even if they were stepped on. There was an occasional squabble, but even that apparently sapped too much energy, for it died down almost as quickly as it had begun.

What was going on here? Were these men drugging Thrall’s people? That had to be the answer. He knew what orcs were, how fierce, how savage. He had expected . . . well, he had not known what to expect, but certainly not this peculiar, unnatural lethargy.

“Go on,” said Waryk, shoving Thrall gently toward the nearest cluster of orcs. “Food’s put out once a day. There’s water in the troughs.”

Thrall stood up straight and tried to put a bold face on it as he strode to a group of five orcs, sitting beside the aforementioned water troughs. He could feel Waryk’s eyes boring into his scraped and bruised back and heard the man say, “I could swear I’ve seen him somewhere before.” Then he heard the men walking away.

Only one of the orcs looked up as Thrall approached. His heart was racing. He had never been this close to one of his people before, and now, here were five of them.

“I greet you,” he said in orcish.

They stared at him. One of them looked down and resumed clawing at a small rock embedded in the dirt.

Thrall tried again. “I greet you,” he said, spreading his arms in the gesture that the books told him indicated one warrior saluting another.

“Where’d they catch you?” one of them finally asked, speaking the human language. At Thrall’s startled look, she said, “You weren’t raised to speak orcish. I can tell.”

“You’re right. I was raised by humans. They taught me only a little orcish. I was hoping you could help me learn more.”

The orcs looked at one another, then broke into laughter. “Raised by humans, eh? Hey, Krakis — come over here! We got ourselves a good storyteller! All right, Shaman, tell us another one.”

Thrall felt his chance to connect with these people
slipping through his fingers. “Please, I mean no insult. I’m a prisoner like you are now. I’ve never met any orcs, I just want. . . .”

Now the one who had looked away turned around, and Thrall fell silent. This orc’s eyes were bright red and seemed to glow, as if lit from within. “So you want to meet your people? Well, you’ve met us. Now leave us be.” He turned back to picking at the stone.

“Your eyes . . .” Thrall murmured, too stunned by the strange red glow to recognize the insult.

The orc cringed, lifted a hand to shield his face from Thrall’s gaze, and hunched away even farther.

Thrall turned to ask a question and found himself standing alone. The other orcs had all shuffled away, casting furtive glances back at him.

The sky had been clouding over all day, and it had steadily been growing colder. Now, as Thrall stood alone in the center of a courtyard surrounded by what remained of his people, the gray skies opened and icy rain mixed with snow began to fall.

Thrall barely noticed the wretched weather, so deep was his personal misery. Was this why he had severed every tie he had ever known? To live out his life as a captive in a group of spiritless, sluggish creatures whom he once dreamed of leading against the tyranny of the humans? Which was worse, he mused, fighting in the ring for the glory of Blackmoore, sleeping safe and dry, reading letters from Tari, or standing here
alone, shunned even by those of his own blood, his feet sinking into freezing mud?

The answer came swiftly: Both were intolerable. Without appearing too obvious, Thrall began to look about with an eye toward escape. It should be simple enough. Only a few guards here and there, and at night, they would have more difficulty seeing than Thrall would. They looked bored and disinterested, and judging by the lack of spirit, even energy or interest, displayed by this pathetic collection of orcs, Thrall did not think even one of them would have the courage to try to climb the rather low walls.

He felt the rain now, as it soaked the trousers he wore. A gray, gloomy day, for a gray, gloomy lesson. The orcs were no noble, fierce warriors. He could not imagine how these creatures ever gave the humans the slightest bit of resistance.

“We were not always as you see us here,” came a soft, deep voice at his elbow. Surprised, Thrall turned around to see the red-eyed orc staring up at him with those unsettling orbs. “Soulless, afraid, ashamed. This is what
they
did to us,” he continued, pointing to his eyes. “And if we could be rid of it, our hearts and spirits might return.”

Thrall sank down in the mud beside him. “Go on,” he urged. “I’m listening.”

I
t had been almost two days since the fire and Thrall’s escape, and Blackmoore had spent the better part of that time angry and brooding. It was at Tammis’s urging that he had finally gone out hawking, and he had to admit, his servant had had a good idea.

The day was gloomy, but he and Taretha were well dressed and the vigorous riding kept their blood warm. He had wanted to go hunting, but his softhearted mistress had persuaded him that simply riding would be enough to pleasantly pass the time. He watched her canter past on the pretty dapple gray he had given her two years ago and wished the weather were warmer. He could think of other ways to pleasantly pass the time with Taretha.

What an unexpectedly ripe fruit Foxton’s daughter had been. She had been a lovely, obedient child, and
had matured into a lovely, obedient woman. Who would have thought those bright blue eyes would snare him so, that he would so love to bury his face in the flowing gold of her long tresses? Not he, not Blackmoore. But since he had taken her for his own several years ago, she had managed to constantly entertain him, a rare feat.

Langston had once inquired when Blackmoore was going to put aside Taretha in favor of a wife. Blackmoore had replied that there would be no putting aside Taretha even when he
did
take a wife, and there was plenty of time for such things when his plan had finally come to fruition. He would be in a much better position to command a politically favorable marriage once he had brought the Alliance to its collective knees.

And truly, there was no rush. There was plenty of time now to enjoy Taretha whenever and wherever he wished. And the more of that time he spent with the girl, the less it was about satisfying his urges and the more it was about simply enjoying her presence. More than once, as he lay awake and watched her sleep, silvered in moonlight streaming through the windows, he wondered if he was falling in love with her.

He had pulled up Nightsong, who was growing older but who still enjoyed a good canter now and then, and was watching her playfully guide Gray Lady in circles around him. At his order, she had not covered nor braided her hair, and it fell loose around her shoulders
like a fall of purest gold. Taretha was laughing, and for a moment their eyes met.

To hell with the weather. They would make do.

He was about to order her off her steed and into a nearby copse of trees — their capes would keep them sufficiently warm — when he heard the sound of hoof-beats approaching. He scowled as Langston emerged, panting. His horse was lathered and steaming in the chill afternoon.

“My lord,” he gasped, “I believe we have news of Thrall!”

Major Lorin Remka was not a person to be trifled with. Although she stood only a little bit over five feet tall, she was stocky and strong, and could handle herself more than adequately in any fight. She had enlisted disguised as a man many years ago out of a passionate desire to destroy the greenskin beings that had attacked her village. When the subterfuge had been discovered, her commanding officer had put her right back in the front lines. Later, she had learned that the officer had hoped she’d be killed, thus sparing him the embarrassment of reporting her. But Lorin Remka had stubbornly survived, and had acquitted herself as well as, and in some cases better than, any man in her unit.

She had taken a savage pleasure in slaughtering the enemy. In more than one case, after a kill she’d rubbed the reddish-black blood all over her face to mark her victory. The men had always given her a wide berth.

In this time of peace, Major Remka took almost as much pleasure in ordering about the slugs that had once been her direst enemies, although that pleasure had diminished once the bastards ceased to fight back. Why they had become so much more like cattle and less like monsters had often been a subject of discussion between Remka and her men late in the evenings, over a game of cards and an ale or four.

Most satisfying of all had been being able to take these once-terrifying killers and turn them into bowing and scraping servants. She found the ones most malleable who had the odd red eyes. They seemed eager for direction and praise, even from her. Now one of them was drawing a bath for her in her quarters.

“Make sure it’s hot, Greekik,” she called. “And don’t forget the herbs this time!”

“Yes, my lady,” called the female orc in a humble voice. Almost immediately, Remka could smell the cleansing scent of the dried herbs and flowers. Ever since she’d been working here, it seemed to her as if she stank all the time. She couldn’t get it out of her clothes, but at least she could soak her body in the hot, scented water and wash it from her skin and long black hair.

Remka had adopted the male style of clothing, much more practical than all that feminine frippery. After years spent on the field of battle, she was more than used to dressing herself and actually preferred it. Now she removed her boots with a sigh. Just as she set
them aside for Greekik to clean there came an urgent knock on the door.

“This had better be good,” she muttered, opening the door. “What is it, Waryk?”

“We captured an orc yesterday,” he began.

“Yes, yes, I read your report. My bath is cooling even as we speak and —”

“I thought the orc looked familiar,” Waryk pressed.

“By the Light, Waryk, they all look the same!”

“No. This one looked different. And I know why now.” He stepped aside, and a tall, imposing figure filled the doorway. Immediately Major Remka snapped to attention, wishing desperately she still had her boots on.

“Lieutenant General Blackmoore,” she said. “How may we be of service?”

“Major Remka,” said Aedelas Blackmoore, white teeth gleaming through a neatly trimmed black goatee, “I believe you’ve found my lost pet orc.”

Thrall listened, captivated, as the red-eyed orc spoke in a soft voice of tales of valor and strength. He told of charges made against impossible odds, of heroic deeds, and of humans falling beneath a relentless green tide of orcs united in purpose. He spoke wistfully of a spiritual people as well, something Thrall had never heard of.

“Oh, yes,” Kelgar said sadly. “Once, before we were the proud, battle-hungry Horde, we were individual clans. And in those clans were those who knew the magic of wind and water, of sky and land, of all the
spirits of the wild, and they worked in harmony with those powers. We called them ‘shamans,’ and until the emergence of the warlocks, their skills were all we knew of power.”

The word seemed to make Kelgar angry. He spat and with the first rousing of any kind of passion, snarled, “Power! Does it feed our people, raise our young? Our leaders held it all themselves, and only the barest trickle dripped down to the rest of us. They did . . . something, Thrall. I do not know what. But once we were defeated, all desire to fight bled out of us as if from an open wound.” He lowered his head, placing it on arms folded across his knees, and closed his red eyes.

“Did all of you lose the desire to fight?” asked Thrall.

“All of us here. Those who fought weren’t captured, or if they were, they were killed as they resisted.” Kelgar kept his eyes closed.

Thrall respected the other orc’s need for silence. Disappointment filled him. Kelgar’s tale had the ring of truth about it, and for verification, all Thrall needed to do was look around him. What was this strange thing that had happened? How could an entire race of people have their natures so distorted as to end up here, defeated before they were even caught and thrown into this wretched hellhole?

“But the desire to fight is still strong in you, Thrall, though your name suggests otherwise.” His eyes were open again, and they seemed to burn into Thrall. “Perhaps your being raised by humans spared you this.
There are others like you, still out there. The walls are not so high that you cannot climb them, if that is your wish.”