Lord of the Clans (26 page)

“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.

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.