Lord of the Clans (9 page)

Your people
, Taretha had said. Not
the orcs
, or
those things
, or
those monsters.
Gratitude suddenly welled up inside him so powerfully that for a moment he couldn’t speak. Finally, he managed, “Why are you doing this? Why do you want to help me?”

She looked at him steadily, not flinching from what she saw. “Because I remember you when you were a baby. You were like a little brother to me. When . . . when Faralyn died soon afterward, you were the only little brother I had anymore. I saw what they did to you, and I hated it. I wanted to help you, be your friend.” Now she looked away. “And I have no more fondness for our master than you do.”

“Has he hurt you?” The outrage that Thrall felt surprised him.

“No. Not really.” One hand went to the other wrist, massaged it gently. Beneath the sleeve Thrall could see the fading shadow of a bruise. “Not physically. It’s more complicated than that.”

“Tell me.”

“Thrall, time is —”

“Tell me!” he boomed. “You have been my friend, Taretha. For over ten years you have written me, made me smile. I knew someone knew who I really was, not just some . . . some monster in the gladiator ring. You were a light in the darkness.” With all the gentleness he could muster, he reached out and placed his hand oh so lightly on her shoulder. “Tell me,” he urged again, his voice soft.

Her eyes grew shiny. As he watched, liquid spilled from them and poured down her cheeks. “I’m so ashamed,” she whispered.

“What is happening to your eyes?” asked Thrall. “What is ‘ashamed’?”

“Oh, Thrall,” she said, her voice thick. She wiped at her eyes. “These are called tears. They come when we are so sad, so soul sick, it’s as if our hearts are so full of pain there’s no place else for it to go.” Taretha took a shuddering breath. “And shame . . . it’s when you’ve done something that’s so contrary to who you believe yourself to be you wish that no one ever knew about it. But everyone knows, so you might as well, too. I am Blackmoore’s mistress.”

“What does that mean?”

She regarded him sadly. “You are so innocent, Thrall. So pure. But someday you will understand.”

Suddenly Thrall recalled snippets of bragging conversations he had overheard on the training field, and understood what Taretha meant. But he did not feel shame for her, only outrage that Blackmoore had stooped even lower than Thrall had guessed he could. He understood what it was to be helpless before Blackmoore, and Taretha was so small and fragile she couldn’t even fight.

“Come with me,” he urged.

“I cannot. What he would do to my family if I fled . . . no.” She reached out impulsively and gripped his hands. “But you can. Please, go now. I will rest the easier knowing that you, at least, have escaped him. Be free, for the both of us.”

He nodded, unable to speak. He had known he would miss her, but now, having actually conversed with Tari, the pain of their parting cut even more deeply.

She wiped her face again and spoke in a steadier voice. “I’ve packed this full of food and put in several full water skins as well. I was able to steal a knife for you. I didn’t dare take anything else that might be missed. Finally, I want you to have this.” She bowed her head and removed a silver chain from her long neck. Dangling from the delicate chain was a crescent moon. “Not far from here, there is an old tree that was split by lightning. Blackmoore gives me leave to wander here when I wish. For that, at least, I’m grateful. If you are ever here and in need, place this necklace in the trunk
of the old tree, and I will again meet you in this cave and do what I can to help you.”

“Tari. . . .” Thrall looked at her miserably.

“Hurry.” She cast an anxious glance back at Durnholde. “I have made up a story to excuse my absence, but it will go easier for me the sooner I return.” They rose, and looked at one another awkwardly. Before Thrall realized what had happened, Tari had stepped forward and stretched her arms about his massive torso as far as they would reach. Her face pressed against his stomach. Thrall tensed; all such contact hitherto had been as an attack. But although he had never been touched in this way before, he knew it was a sign of affection. Following his instincts, he tentatively patted her head and stroked her hair.

“They call you a monster,” she said, her voice thick again as she stepped away from him. “But they’re the monsters, not you. Farewell, Thrall.”

Taretha turned away, lifted her skirts, and began to run back toward Durnholde. Thrall stood and watched her until she had disappeared from view. Then, with the utmost care, he placed the precious silver necklace in his bundle, then stashed it in the sack.

He lifted the heavy sack — it must have been very difficult for Taretha to carry it so far — and slung it over his back. Then, Thrall, the former slave, began to stride to his destiny.

T
hrall knew that Taretha had pointed out where the internment camps were located specifically so that he could avoid them. She wanted him to try to find free orcs. But he was uncertain as to whether these “free orcs” were even still alive or merely figments of some wistful warrior’s imagination. He had studied maps while under Jaramin’s tutelage, so he knew how to read the one Tari had given him.

And he set a course straight for one of the camps.

He did not choose the one nearest Durnholde; there was a good chance that, once he was missed, Blackmoore would have issued an alert. There was one that, according to the map, was located several leagues away from the fortress where Thrall had reached maturity. This was the one he would visit.

He knew only a little about the camps, and that little
was filtered through the minds of men who hated his people. As he jogged easily and tirelessly toward his destination, his mind raced. What would it be like, to see so many orcs all in one place? Would they be able to understand his speech? Or would it be so tainted with a human accent he would be unable to converse at even the most basic level? Would they challenge him? He did not wish to fight them, but everything he knew told him that orcs were fierce, proud, unstoppable warriors. He was a trained fighter, but would that be enough against one of these legendary beings? Would he be able to hold his own long enough to persuade them that he was not their enemy?

Miles fell beneath his feet. From time to time he looked at the stars to judge his position. He had never been taught how to navigate, but one of the secret books Tari had sent him had dealt with the stars and their positions. Thrall had studied it eagerly, absorbing every scrap of information that had come his way.

Maybe he would meet the clan who bore the emblem of the white wolf head against the blue background. Maybe he would find his family. Blackmoore had told him he had been found not terribly far from Durnholde, so Thrall thought it quite possible that he would encounter members of his clan.

Excitement flooded him. It was good.

He traveled all that night and halted to rest once the sun began to rise. If he knew Blackmoore, and he did, the Lieutenant General would have men out looking
for him. Perhaps they would even press into use one of their famed flying machines. Thrall had never seen one, and had privately doubted their existence. But if they did indeed exist, then Blackmoore would commandeer the use of one to find his wandering champion.

He thought of Tari, and desperately hoped that her part in his escape had not been discovered.

Blackmoore did not think he had ever been angrier in his entire life, and that was saying a great deal.

He had been roused from his slumber — alone tonight, Taretha had pleaded illness — by the clamor of the bells and stared in horror out his window at the billowing orange flames across the courtyard. Throwing on clothing, he had raced to join the rest of Durnholde’s populace as they frantically tried to contain the blaze. It had taken several hours, but by the time dawn’s pink hue had begun to taint the night sky the inferno had been tamed to a pile of sullen embers.

“It’s a miracle no one was hurt,” said Langston, wiping his forehead. His pale face was tinted black by the soot. Blackmoore fancied he looked no better. Everyone present was soiled and sweaty. The servants would have quite a bit of washing to do tomorrow.

“Not even the animals,” said Tammis, coming up to them. “There was no way the animals could have escaped on their own. We can’t be certain, my lord, but
it’s beginning to look as though this fire was deliberately set.”

“By the Light!” gasped Langston. “Do you really think so? Who would want to do such a thing?”

“I’d count all my enemies on my hands, except I’d run out of fingers,” growled Blackmoore. “And toes. Plenty of bastards out there jealous of my rank and my . . . Lothar’s ghost.” He suddenly felt cold and imagined that his face was white beneath the soot. Langston and Tammis both stared at him.

He couldn’t spare the time to voice his concern. He leaped up from the stone steps upon which he’d been sitting and sped back toward the fortress. Both friend and servant followed him, crying out, “Blackmoore, wait!” and “My lord, what is it?”

Blackmoore ignored them. He hastened down the corridors, up the stairs, and skidded to a halt in front of the broken wooden shards that had once been the door to Thrall’s cell. His worst fear had been proven right.

“Damn them all to hell!” he cried. “Someone stole my orc! Tammis! I want men, I want horses, I want flying machines — I want Thrall back immediately!”

Thrall was surprised at how deeply he slept, and how lively his dreams were. He woke as night was falling, and for a moment simply lay where he was. He felt the soft grass beneath his body, enjoyed the breeze that caressed his face. This was freedom, and it was
sweet indeed. Precious. He now understood why some would rather die than live imprisoned.

A spear prodded his neck, and the faces of six human males peered down on him.

“You,” one of them said, “Get up.”

Thrall cursed himself as he was dragged behind a horse, with two men walking guard on either side. How could he have been so foolish! He had wanted to see the encampments, yes, but from the safety of hiding. He wanted to be an observer, not a participant in this system about which he had heard nothing good.

He’d tried to run, but four of them had horses and had run him down almost immediately. They had nets, spears, and swords, and Thrall was ashamed at how quickly and efficiently they managed to render him harmless. He thought about struggling, but decided not to. He was under no illusions that these men would pay for a healing if he were injured, and he wanted to keep his strength up. Also, would there be a better way to meet orcs than to be at the camp with them? Certainly, given their fierce warriors’ nature, they would be eager to escape. He had knowledge that could help them.

So he pretended to be overcome, although he could have taken on all of them at once. He regretted his decision almost immediately when the men began to rummage through his sack.

“Plenty of food here,” said one. “Good stuff, too. We’ll eat well tonight, lads!”

“It’s Major Remka who’ll be eating well,” said another.

“Not if she don’t know about it, and we aren’t going to tell her,” said a third. As Thrall watched, the one who had spoken first bit eagerly into one of the small meat pies Taretha had packed.

“Well, look here,” said the second one. “A knife.” He rose and went to Thrall, who was helplessly bound in a trap-net. “Stole all this, didn’t you?” He thrust the knife at Thrall’s face. Thrall didn’t even blink.

“Come off it, Hult,” said the second man, who was the smallest and most anxious of the six. The others had tied their horses to nearby branches and were busily divvying up the spoils, putting them in their saddlebags and not choosing to report it to the mysterious Major Remka, whoever he was.

“I’m keeping this one,” said Hult.

“You can have the food, but you know that everything else we find we really have to report,” said the second man, looking nervous about standing up to Hult but doggedly determined to follow orders.

“And what if I don’t?” said Hult. Thrall did not like him; he looked mean and angry, like Blackmoore. “What are you going to do about it?”

“It’s what I’m going to do about it that ought to concern you, Hult,” said a new voice. This man was tall and slender. He did not look physically imposing, but Thrall had fought enough fine warriors to know that often technique was as good as, and sometimes better than, size.
Judging by Hult’s reactions, this man was respected. “The rules exist so that we can keep an eye on the orcs. This is the first one we’ve seen in years that’s carried a human weapon. It’s worth reporting. As for these. . . .”

Thrall watched in horror as the man began to leaf through Taretha’s letters. Blue eyes narrowing, the tall man turned to look at Thrall. “Don’t suppose you can read, can you?”

The other men erupted with laughter, crumbs spraying from their mouths, but the man asking the question appeared to be serious. Thrall started to answer, then thought better of it. Better to pretend not to even know the human language, he thought.

The tall man strode up to him. Thrall tensed, anticipating a blow, but instead the man squatted down beside him and stared directly into Thrall’s eyes. Thrall looked away.

“You. Read?” The man pointed with a gloved finger to the letters. Thrall stared at them, and, figuring even an orc who didn’t speak the human tongue would have made the connection, shook his head violently. The man gazed at him a moment more, then rose. Thrall wasn’t sure he’d convinced him.

“He looks familiar, somehow,” said the man. Thrall went cold inside.

“They all look the same to me,” said Hult. “Big, green, and ugly.”

“Too bad none of us can read,” said the man. “I bet these papers would tell us a lot.”

“You’re always dreaming above your station, Waryk,” said Hult, a hint of contempt in his voice.

Waryk shoved the letters back into the sack, plucked the knife from Hult’s grasp over the man’s halfhearted protest, and slung the now mostly-empty sack over his horse’s withers. “Put the food away, before I change my mind. Let’s take him to the camp.”