Lord of the Clans (21 page)

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 hands 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. . . .”

The eyes closed, and Doomhammer fell forward onto Thrall. Thrall caught him, and held him close for a long moment. He felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Drek’Thar, who slipped a hand beneath Thrall’s arm and helped him rise.

“They are watching,” Drek’Thar said to Thrall, speaking very softly. “They must not lose heart. You must put on the armor at once, and show them that they have a new chieftain.”

“Sir,” said one of the orcs who had overheard Drek’Thar’s words, “the armor. . . .” He swallowed. “The plate that was pierced — it will need to be replaced.”

“No,” said Thrall. “It will not. Before the next battle you will hammer it back into shape, but I will keep the plate. In honor of Orgrim Doomhammer, who gave his life to free his people.”

He stood and let them place the armor on, grieving privately but publicly showing a brave face. The gathered crowd watched, hushed and reverent. Drek’Thar’s advice had been sound; this was the right thing to do. He bent, picked up the enormous hammer, and swung it over his head.

“Orgrim Doomhammer has named me Warchief,” he cried. “It is a title I would not have sought, but I have no choice. I have been named, and so I will
obey. Who will follow me to lead our people to freedom?”

A cry rose up, raw and filled with grief for the passing of their leader. Yet it was a sound of hope as well, and as Thrall stood, bearing aloft the famous weapon of Doomhammer, he knew in his heart that, despite the odds, victory would indeed be theirs.

I
t was raw with grief and fueled by anger that Thrall marched up to where Langston fought against the implacable tree roots in a desperate attempt to sit up.

He shrank back when Thrall arrived, wearing the legendary black plate mail and towering over him. His eyes were wide with fear.

“I should kill you,” said Thrall, darkly. The image of Doomhammer dying in front of his eyes was still fresh in his mind.

Langston licked his red, full lips. “Mercy, Lord Thrall,” he begged.

Thrall dropped to one knee and shoved his face within inches of Langston’s. “And when did you show me mercy?” he roared. Langston winced at the sound. “When did you intervene to say, ‘Blackmoore, perhaps you’ve beaten him enough,’ or ‘Blackmoore, he did the
best he could’? When did such words ever cross your lips?”

“I wanted to,” said Langston.

“Right now you believe those words,” said Thrall, rising again to his full height and staring down at his captive. “But I have no doubt that you never truly felt that way. Let us dispense with lies. Your life has value to me — for the moment. If you tell me what I want to know, I will release you and the other prisoners and let you return to your dog of a master.” Langston looked doubtful. “You have my word,” Thrall added.

“Of what worth is the word of an orc?” Langston said, rallying for a moment.

“Why, it’s worth your pathetic life, Langston. Though I’ll grant you, that is not worth much. Now, tell me. How did you know which camp we would be attacking? Is there a spy in our midst?”

Langston looked like a sullen child and refused to answer. Thrall formed a thought, and the tree roots tightened about Langston’s body. He gasped and stared up at Thrall in shock.

“Yes,” said Thrall, “the very trees obey my command. As do all the elements.” Langston didn’t need to know about the give-and-take relationship a shaman had with the spirits. Let him assume Thrall had complete control. “Answer my question.”

“No spy,” grunted Langston. He was having difficulty breathing due to the root across his chest. Thrall asked that it be loosened, and the tree complied.
“Blackmoore has put a group of knights at all the remaining camps.”

“So that no matter where we struck, we would encounter his men.” Langston nodded. “Hardly a good use of resources, but it appears to have worked this time. What else can you tell me? What is Blackmoore doing to ensure my recovery? How many troops does he have? Or will that root creep up to your throat?”

The root in question gently stroked Langston’s neck. Langston’s resistance shattered like a glass goblet dropped on a stone floor. Tears welled up in his eyes and he began to sob. Thrall was disgusted, but not enough that he didn’t pay close attention to Langston’s words. The knight blurted out numbers, dates, plans, even the fact that Blackmoore’s drinking was beginning to affect his judgment.

“He desperately wants you back, Thrall,” snuffled Langston, peering up at Thrall with red-rimmed eyes. “You were the key to everything.”

Instantly alert, Thrall demanded, “Explain.” As the confining roots fell away from his body, Langston appeared heartened, and even more eager to tell everything he knew.

“The key to everything,” he repeated. “When he found you, he knew that he could use you. First as a gladiator, but as so much more than that.” He wiped his wet face and tried to recover as much of his lost dignity as he could. “Didn’t you wonder why he taught
you how to read? Gave you maps, taught you Hawks and Hares and strategy?”