Lord of the Clans (5 page)

Appalled at the image that swam before his eyes, Thrall froze, his fingers inches away from Sergeant’s throat. It was protected with a gorget, of course, but Thrall’s fingers were powerful. If he had managed to clamp down —

And then several men were on him all at once, shouting at him and hauling him off the prone figure of the fighting instructor. Now it was Thrall who was on his back, his mighty arms lifted to ward off the blows of several swords. He heard a strange sound, a
clang
, and then saw something metallic catch the bright sunlight.

“Hold!” screamed Sergeant, his voice as loud and commanding as if he had not just been inches away from death. “Damn you, hold or I’ll cut your bloody arm off! Sheathe your sword this minute, Maridan!”

Thrall heard a
snick
. Then two strong arms seized his and he was hauled to his feet. He stared at Sergeant.

To his utter surprise, Sergeant laughed out loud and clapped a hand on the orc’s shoulder. “Good job, lad. That’s the closest I’ve ever come to having me earring snatched — and in the first match at that. You’re a born warrior, but you forgot the goal, didn’t you?” He pointed to the gold hoop. “This was the goal, not squeezing the life out of me.”

Thrall struggled to speak. “I am sorry, Sergeant. I don’t know what happened. You attacked, and then. . . .” He was not about to tell of the brief image
of Blackmoore he had had. It was bad enough that he had lost his head.

“Some foes, you’re going to want to do what you just did,” said Sergeant, surprising him. “Good tactics there. But some opponents, like all the humans you’ll face, you’re going to want to get ’em down and then end it. Stop there. The bloodlust might save your hide in a real battle, but for gladiator fighting, you’ll need to be more here —” he tapped the side of his head “— than here,” and he patted his gut. “I want you to read some books on strategy. You read, don’t you?”

“A little,” Thrall managed.

“You need to learn the history of battle campaigns. These pups all know it,” and he waved at the other young soldiers. “For a time, that will be their advantage.” He turned to glare at them. “But only for a time, lads. This one’s got courage and strength, and he’s but a babe yet.”

The men shot Thrall hostile glances. Thrall felt a sudden warmth, a happiness he had never known. He had nearly killed this man, but had not been reprimanded. Instead, he had been told he needed to learn, to improve, to know when to go for the kill and when to show . . . what? What did one call it when one spared an opponent?

“Sergeant,” he asked, wondering if he would be punished for even voicing the question, “sometimes . . . you said sometimes you don’t kill. Why not?”

Sergeant regarded him evenly. “It’s called mercy, Thrall,” he said quietly. “And you’ll learn about that, too.”

Mercy.
Under his breath, Thrall turned the word over on his tongue. It was a sweet word.

“You let him do that to you?” Though Tammis was not supposed to be privy to this particular conversation between his master and the man he had hired to train Thrall, Blackmoore’s shrill voice carried. Pausing in his duty of cleaning the mud off of Blackmoore’s boots, Tammis strained to listen. He did not think of this as eavesdropping. He thought of this as a vital way to protect his family’s welfare.

“It was a good martial move.” Sergeant Something-or-other replied, sounding not at all defensive. “I treated it the way I would had it been any other man.”

“But Thrall isn’t a man, he’s an orc! Or hadn’t you noticed?”

“Aye, I had,” said Sergeant. Tammis maneuvered himself so that he could peer through the half-closed door. Sergeant looked out of place in Blackmoore’s richly decorated receiving room. “And it’s not my place to ask why you want ’im trained so thorough.”

“You’re right about that.”

“But you
do
want ’im trained thorough,” said Sergeant. “And that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“By letting him nearly kill you?”

“By praising a good move, and teaching ’im when it’s good to use the bloodlust and when it’s good to keep a cool head!” growled Sergeant. Tammis smothered a smile. Evidently, it was becoming difficult for
Sergeant to keep his. “But that’s not the reason I’ve come. I understand you taught ’im to read. I want ’im to have a look at some books.”

Tammis gaped.

“What?” cried Blackmoore.

Tammis had utterly forgotten the chore he was ostensibly performing. He stared through the crack in the door, a brush in one hand and a muddy boot in the other, listening intently. When there was a light tap at his shoulder, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

Heart thudding, he whirled to behold Taretha. She grinned impishly at him, her blue eyes flicking from those of her father to the door. Clearly, she knew exactly what he was doing.

Tammis was embarrassed. But that emotion was overridden by a passionate desire to know what was about to happen. He raised a finger to his lips and Taretha nodded wisely.

“Now, why did you go and teach an orc to read if you didn’t want him doing so?”

Blackmoore spluttered something incoherent.

“’E’s got a brain, whatever else you may think of him, and if you wants ’im trained the way you told me, you’ve got to get him understanding battle tactics, maps, strategies, siege techniques — ”

Sergeant was calmly ticking things off on his fingers. “All right!” Blackmoore exploded. “Though I imagine I’ll live to regret this. . . .” He strode toward the wall of books and quickly selected a few. “Taretha!” he bellowed.

Both older and younger Foxton servants jumped. Quickly Taretha smoothed her hair, put on a pleasant expression, and entered the room.

She dropped a curtsy. “Yes, sir?”

“Here.” Blackmoore thrust the books at her. They were large and cumbersome and filled her arms. She peered at him over the edge of the top book, only her eyes visible. “I want you to give these to Thrall’s guard to give him.”

“Yes, sir,” Taretha replied, as if this were something she was asked to do every day and not one of the most shocking things Tammis had heard his master order. “They’re a bit heavy, sir . . . may I go to my quarters for a sack? It will make the carrying easier.”

She looked every inch the obedient little servant girl. Only Tammis and Clannia knew how sharp a brain — and tongue — were hidden behind that deceptively sweet visage. Blackmoore softened slightly and patted her fair head.

“Of course, child. But take them straight over, understood?”

“Indeed, sir. Thank you, sir.” She seemed to try to curtsy, thought better of it, and left.

Tammis closed the door behind her. Taretha turned to him, her large eyes shining. “Oh, Da!” she breathed, her voice soft so it would not carry. “I’m going to get to see him!”

Tammis’s heart sank. He had hoped she was over this disturbing interest in the orc’s welfare. “No,
Taretha. You’re just to hand the books to the guards, is all.”

Her face fell, and she turned away sadly. “It’s just . . . since Faralyn died . . . he’s the only little brother I have.”

“He’s not your brother, he’s an orc. An animal, fit only for camps or gladiator battles. Remember that.” Tammis hated disappointing his daughter in anything, but it was for the child’s own good. She mustn’t be noticed having an interest in Thrall. Only ill would come from that if Blackmoore ever found out.

Thrall was sound asleep, worn out from the excitement of the day’s practice, when the door to his cell slammed open. He blinked sleepily, then got to his feet as one of the guards entered carrying a large sack.

“Lieutenant says these are for you. He wants you to finish them all and be able to talk with him about them,” said the guard. There was a hint of contempt in his voice, but Thrall thought nothing of it. The guards always spoke to him with contempt.

The door was pulled closed and locked. Thrall looked at the sack. With a delicacy that belied his huge frame, he untied the knot and reached inside. His fingers closed on something rectangular and firm, but that gave slightly.

It couldn’t be. He remembered the feel. . . .

Hardly daring to hope, he pulled it forth into the dim light of his cell and stared at it. It was, indeed, a
book. He read the title, sounding it aloud:
“The History of the Alliance of Lor-lordaeron.”
Eagerly he grabbed a second book, and a third. They were all military history books. As he flipped one open, something fluttered to the straw-covered floor of his cell. It was a small, tightly folded piece of parchment.

Curious, he unfolded it, taking his time with his large fingers. It was a note. His lips worked, but he did not speak aloud:

Dear Thrall
,

Master B. has ordered that you have these books I am so excited for you. I did not know he had let you learn how to read. He let me learn how to read too and I love reading. I miss you and hope you are well. It looks like what they are making you do in the courtyard hurts I hope you are all right. I would like to keep talking with you do you want to? If yes, write me a note on the back of this paper and fold it back up in the book I put it in. I will try to come and see you if not keep looking for me Im the little girl who waved at you that one time. I hope you write back!!!!!

Love Taretha

P.S. Dont tell anyone about the note we will get in BIG TROUBLE!!!

Thrall sat down heavily. He could not believe what he had just read. He remembered the small female
child, and had wondered why she had waved at him. Clearly, she knew him and . . . and thought
well
of him. How could this be? Who was she?

He extended a forefinger and gazed at the blunted, clipped nail. It would have to do. On his left arm, a scratch was healing. Thrall jabbed as deeply as he could and after several tries managed to tear the small wound open again. A sluggish trickle of crimson rewarded his efforts. Using his nail as a stylus, he carefully wrote on the back of the note a single word:

YES.

T
hrall was twelve years old when he saw his first orc.

He was training outside the fortress grounds. Once he had won his first battle at the tender age of eight, Blackmoore had agreed with Sergeant’s plan to give the orc more freedom — at least in training. He still had a manacle fastened to one of his feet, which was in turn carefully attached to a huge boulder. Not even an orc of Thrall’s strength would be able to flee with that attached to his leg. The chains were thick and sturdy, unlikely to break. After the first time or two, Thrall paid it no heed. The chain was long and gave him plenty of room to maneuver. The thought of escaping had never occurred to him. He was Thrall, the slave. Blackmoore was his master, Sergeant his trainer, Taretha his secret friend. All was as it should be.

Thrall regretted that he had never made friends with any of the men with whom he practiced. Each year there was a new group, and they were all cut of the same cloth: young, eager, contemptuous, and slightly frightened of the mammoth green being with whom they were expected to train. Only Sergeant ever gave him a compliment; only Sergeant interfered when one or more would gang up on Thrall. At times Thrall wished he could fight back, but he remembered the concept of honorable fighting. Although these men thought of him as the enemy, he knew they weren’t, and killing or grievously wounding them was the wrong thing to do.

Thrall had sharp ears and always paid attention to the idle gossip of the men. Because they thought him a mindless brute, they were not too careful of their tongues in his presence. Who minds their words when the only witness is an animal? It was in this way that Thrall learned that the orcs, once a fearful enemy, were weakening. More and more of them were being caught and rounded up into something called “internment camps.” Durnholde was the base, and all those in charge of these camps lodged here now, while underlings conducted the day-to-day running of the camps. Blackmoore was the head of all of them. There were a few skirmishes still, but less and less frequently. Some of the men present at the training had never seen an orc fighting before they encountered Thrall.

Over the years, Sergeant had taught Thrall the finer
points of hand-to-hand combat. Thrall was versed in every weapon used in the fights: sword, broadsword, spear, morningstar, dagger, scourge, net, ax, club, and halberd. He had been granted the barest of armor; it was deemed more exciting for the watching crowds if the combatants had little protection.

Now he stood at the center of a group of trainees. This was familiar territory to him, and was more for the benefit of the young men than for him. Sergeant called this scenario “ringing.” The trainees were (of course) humans who had supposedly come upon one of the few remaining renegade orcs, who was determined not to go down without a fight. Thrall was (of course) the defiant orc. The idea was for them to devise at least three different ways of capturing or killing the “rogue orc.”

Thrall was not particularly fond of this scenario. He much preferred one-on-one fighting to being the target of sometimes as many as twelve men. The light in the men’s eyes at the thought of fighting him, and the smiles on their lips, always dismayed Thrall. The first time Sergeant had enacted the scenario, Thrall had had difficulty in summoning up the necessary resistance required in order to make this an effective teaching tool. Sergeant had to take him aside and assure him it was all right to pretend. The men had armor and real weapons; he had only a wooden practice sword. It was unlikely Thrall would cause any lasting harm.

So now, after having performed this routine several times over the last few years, Thrall immediately became
a snarling, ravening beast. The first few times, it had been difficult to separate fantasy from reality, but it became easier with practice. He would never lose control in this scenario, and if things did turn bad, he trusted Sergeant with his life.

Now they advanced on him. Predictably, they chose simple assault as their first of three tactics. Two had swords, four had spears, and the rest had axes. One of them lunged.

Thrall swiftly parried, his wooden sword flying up with startling speed. He lifted a massive leg and kicked out, striking the attacker full in the chest. The young man went hurtling backward, astonishment plain on his face. He lay on the ground, gasping for air.