Lord of the Clans (8 page)

Finally, the blows stopped. He heard the steps as Blackmoore left, and a single phrase: “Let the others have their turn.”

The door did not close. Thrall heard more footsteps. He could not raise his head again, though he tried. Several pairs of black military boots appeared in front
of him. Thrall now realized what Blackmoore had ordered. One boot drew back slightly, then swung forward, kicking Thrall in the face.

His world went white, then black; then he knew no more.

Thrall awoke to warmth and a cessation of the agony that had been his companion for what seemed like an eternity. Three healers were working on him, using their salve to heal his wounds. Breathing was much easier and he guessed his ribs had been healed. They were administering the sweet-smelling, gooey stuff to his shoulder now; clearly that was the most difficult wound.

Although their touches were gentle, and their salve brought healing, there was no real compassion in these men. They healed him because Blackmoore paid them to do so, not out of any real desire to ease suffering. Once, he had been more naive and had thanked them sincerely for their efforts. One of them looked up, startled at the words.

A sneer had curled his lip. “Don’t flatter yourself, monster. Once the coins stop flowing, so does the salve. Better not lose.”

He had winced from the unkind words then, but they did not bother him now. Thrall understood. He understood many things. It was as if his vision had been cloudy, and a thick fog had suddenly lifted. He lay quietly until they had finished; then they rose and left.

Thrall sat upright and was surprised to see Sergeant
standing there, his hairy arms folded across his broad chest. Thrall did not speak, wondering what new torment was coming.

“I pulled ’em off you,” said Sergeant quietly. “But not before they’d had their sport. Blackmoore had some . . . business . . . he needed to talk w’ me about. I’m sorry for that, lad. I’m right sorry. You amazed me in the ring today. Blackmoore ought to be prouder’n hell ’o you. Instead. . . .” His gruff voice trailed off. “Well, I wanted to make sure you knew that you didn’t deserve what he did. What they did. You did fine, lad. Just fine. Better get some sleep.”

He seemed about to say something more, then nodded and left. Thrall lay back down, absently noting that they had changed the straw. It was fresh and clean, no longer clotted with his blood.

He appreciated what Sergeant had done, and believed the man. But it was too little, too late.

He would not let himself be used like this any longer. Once, he would have cringed and vowed to be better, to do something to earn the love and respect he so desperately craved. Now, he knew he would never find it here, not as long as Blackmoore owned him.

He would not sleep. He would use this time to plan. He reached for the tablet and stylus he kept in the sack, and wrote a note to the only person he could trust: Tari.

On the next dark moons, I plan to escape.

T
he grate above his head allowed Thrall to observe the moonslight. He was careful to give no hint, not to the trainees who had beaten him, not to Sergeant, and certainly not to Blackmoore (who treated Thrall as if nothing had happened) about his profound revelation. He was as obsequious as ever, for the first time noticing how he hated himself for that behavior. He kept his eyes lowered, although he knew himself to be the equal of any human. He went docilely into the irons, though he could have torn any four guards to bloody bits before they could have restrained him without his cooperation. In no way did he change his behavior, not in the cell nor out of it, not in the ring nor on the training field.

For the first day or two, Thrall noticed Sergeant watching him sharply, as if expecting to see the
changes Thrall was determined not to show. But he did not speak to Thrall, and Thrall was careful not to arouse suspicion. Let them think they had broken him. His only regret was that he would not be present to see the look on Blackmoore’s face when he discovered his “pet orc” had flown.

For the first time in his life, Thrall had something to look forward to with anticipation. It roused a hunger in him he had never known before. He had always concentrated so intensely on avoiding beatings and earning praise that he had never permitted himself to really think long and hard about what it meant to be free. To walk in the sunlight without chains, to sleep under the stars. He had never been outside at night in his life. What would that be like?

His imagination, fueled by books and by letters from Tari, was finally allowed to fly. He lay awake in his straw bed wondering what it would be like to finally meet one of his people. He had read, of course, all the information the humans had on “the vile green monsters from the blackest demon pits.” And there was that disturbing incident when the orc had wrenched himself free to charge Thrall. If only he could have found out what the orc was saying! But his rudimentary orcish did not extend that far.

He would learn, one day, what that orc had said. He would find his people. Thrall might have been raised by humans, but little enough had been done to win his love and loyalty. He was grateful to Sergeant and Tari,
for they had taught him concepts of honor and kindness. But because of their teachings, Thrall better understood Blackmoore, and realized that the Lieutenant General had none of those qualities. And as long as Thrall was owned by him, the orc would never receive them in his own life.

The moons, one large and silver and one smaller and a shade of blue-green, were new tonight. Tari had responded to his declaration with an offer to assist him, as he had known in his heart she would. Between the two of them, they had been able to come up with a plan that had a strong likelihood of working. But he did not know when that plan would go into effect, and so he waited for the signal. And waited.

He had fallen into a fitful slumber when the clanging of a bell startled him awake. Instantly alert, he went to the farthest wall of his cell. Over the years, Thrall had painstakingly worked a single stone loose and had hollowed out the space behind it. It was here that he stored his most precious things: his letters from Tari. Now he moved the stone, found the letters, and wrapped them up in the only other thing that meant anything to him, his swaddling cloth with the white wolf against the blue field. For a brief moment, he held them to his chest. Then he turned, and awaited his chance.

The bell continued to ring, and now shouts and screams joined it. Thrall’s sensitive nose, much more keen than a human’s, could smell smoke. The smell grew stronger with each heartbeat, and now he could
see a faint orange and yellow lightening of the darkness of his cell.

“Fire!” came the cries. “Fire!”

Not knowing why, Thrall leaped for his makeshift bed. He closed his eyes and feigned sleep, forcing his rapid breathing to become deep and slow.

“He’s not going anywhere,” said one of the guards. Thrall knew he was being watched. He kept up the illusion of deep sleep. “Heh. Damned monster could sleep through anything. Come on, let’s give them a hand.”

“I don’t know. . . .” said the other one.

More cries of alarm, mixed now with the treble shrieks of children and the high voices of women.

“It’s spreading,” said the first one. “Come
on!
”

Thrall heard the sounds of boots striking hard stone. The sounds receded. He was alone.

He rose, and stood in front of the huge wooden door. Of course it was still locked, but there was no one to see what he was about to do.

Thrall took a deep breath, then with a rush of speed charged the door, striking it with his left shoulder. It gave, but not entirely. Again he struck, and again. Five times he had to slam his enormous body against it before the old timbers surrendered with a crash. The momentum carried him forward and he landed heavily on the floor, but the brief pain was as nothing compared to the surge of excitement he experienced.

He knew these hallways. He had no problem seeing in the dim light provided by the few torches positioned
in sconces that were fastened here and there to the stone walls. Down this one, up this stairwell, and then. . . .

As it had earlier in his cell, a deep instinct kicked in. He flattened himself against the wall, hiding his huge form in the shadows as best he could. From across the entryway, several more guards charged. They did not see him, and Thrall let his held breath out in a sigh of relief.

The guards left the door to the courtyard wide open. Cautiously Thrall approached, and peered out.

All was chaos. The barns were almost completely engulfed by flames, though the horses, goats, and donkeys ran panic-stricken in the courtyard. This was even better, for there was less chance of him being spotted in the milling madness. A bucket chain had been formed, and even as Thrall watched, several more men hastened up, spilling the precious water in their heedless rush.

Thrall looked to the right of the courtyard gate entrance. Lying in a crumpled pool of black was the object he was seeking: a huge black cloak. Even as large as it was, it could not possibly cover him, but it would serve. He covered his head and broad chest, crouched so that the short hem would fall lower on his legs, and scurried forward.

The trip across the courtyard to the main gates could not have lasted more than a few moments, but to Thrall it seemed an eternity. He tried to keep his head low, but he had to look up frequently in order to avoid being run down by a cart carrying barrels of rainwater,
or a maddened horse, or a screaming child. His heart pounding, he threaded his way amid the chaos. He could feel the heat, and the bright light of the fire lit up the entire scene almost as brightly as the sun did. Thrall concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, keeping as low as possible, and heading for the gates.

Finally, he made it. These, too, had been thrown open. More carts carrying rain barrels clattered through, the drivers having a hard time controlling their frightened mounts. No one noticed one lone figure slipping out into the darkness.

Once clear of the fortress, Thrall ran. He headed straight for the surrounding forested hills, leaving the road as soon as possible. His senses seemed sharper than they had ever been. Unfamiliar scents filled his flaring nostrils, and it felt as if he could sense every rock, every blade of grass beneath his running feet.

There was a rock formation that Taretha had told him about. She said it looked a bit like a dragon standing guard over the forest. It was very dark, but Thrall’s excellent night vision could make out a jut that, if one used one’s imagination, could indeed appear to be the long neck of a reptilian creature. There was a cave here, Taretha said. He would be safe.

For the briefest moment, he wondered if Taretha might not be setting a trap for him. At once he dismissed the idea, both angry and ashamed that it had even occurred to him. Taretha had been nothing but kind to him via her supportive letters. Why would she
betray him? And more to the point, why go to such great lengths when simply showing his letters to Blackmoore would accomplish the same thing?

There it was, a dark oval against the gray face of the stone. Thrall was not even breathing heavily as he altered his course and trotted for the refuge.

He could see her inside, leaning against the cave wall, waiting for him. For a moment he paused, knowing that his vision was superior to hers. Even though she was within and he without, she could not see him.

Thrall had only human values by which to measure beauty, and he could tell that, by those standards, Taretha Foxton was lovely. Long pale hair — it was too dark for him to see the exact color, but he had glimpsed her momentarily in the stands at the matches from time to time — fell in a long braid down her back. She was clad only in nightclothes, a cloak wrapped close about her slender frame, and beside her was a large sack.

He paused for a moment, and then strode boldly up to her. “Taretha,” he said, his voice deep and gruff.

She gasped and looked up at him. He thought her afraid, but then she laughed. “You startled me! I did not know you moved so quietly!” The laughter faded, settled into a smile. She strode forward and reached out both hands to him.

Slowly, Thrall folded them in his own. The small white hands disappeared in his green ones, nearly three times as large. Taretha barely reached his elbow, yet there was no fear on her face, only pleasure.

“I could kill you where you stand,” he said, wondering what perverse emotion was making him say those words. “No witnesses that way.”

Her smile only grew. “Of course you could,” she acknowledged, her voice warm and melodious. “But you won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I know
you
.” He opened his hands and released her. “Did you have any trouble?”

“None,” he said. “The plan worked well. There was so much chaos that I think an entire village of orcs could have escaped. I noticed that you released the animals before setting fire to the barn.”

She grinned again. Her nose turned up slightly, making her look younger than her — what, twenty? Twenty-five? — years.

“Of course. They’re just innocent creatures. I’d never want to see them harmed. Now, we had best hurry.” She looked down at Durnholde, at the smoke and flames still billowing up into the starry sky. “They seem to be getting control of it. You’ll be missed soon.” An emotion Thrall didn’t understand shadowed her face for a moment. “As will I.” She took the sack and brought it out into the open. “Sit, sit. I want to show you something.”

Obediently, he sat down. Tari rummaged through the sack and withdrew a scroll. Unrolling it, she held it down on one side and gestured that he do the same.

“It’s a map,” said Thrall.

“Yes, the most accurate one I could find. Here’s Durnholde,” said Taretha, pointing at a drawing of a small castlelike building. “We’re slightly to the southwest, right here. The internment camps are all within a twenty-mile radius of Durnholde, here, here, here, here, and here.” She pointed to drawings so small even Thrall couldn’t quite make them out in the poor light. “Your best chance for safety is to go here, into the wilderness area. I’ve heard that there are still some of your people hiding out there, but Blackmoore’s men are never able to find them, just traces.” She looked up at him. “You’ll somehow need to find them, Thrall. Get them to help you.”