Warcraft - Lord Of The Clans Part 3

"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 s.h.i.+ning. "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 t.i.tle, 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 thoughtwell 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.

FOUR.

Thrall 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 st.u.r.dy, 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 a.s.sure 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 a.s.sault 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 ma.s.sive 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.

Thrall whirled, antic.i.p.ating the approach of two others. They came at him with spears. With the sword, he knocked one of them out of the way as easily as if the human had been an annoying insect. With his free hand, for he had no s.h.i.+eld, he seized the other man's spear, yanked it from his grip, and flipped it around so that the sharp blade was facing the man who had, just seconds ago, been wielding the weapon.

Had this been a real battle, Thrall knew he would have sunk the spear into the man's body. But this was just practice, and Thrall was in control. He lifted the spear and was about to toss it away when a terrible sound made everyone freeze in his tracks.

Thrall turned to see a small wagon approaching the fortress on the small, winding road. This happened many times each day, and the pa.s.sengers were always the same: farmers, merchants, new recruits, visiting dignitaries of some sort.

Not this time.

This time, the screaming horses pulled a wagon full of monstrous green creatures. They were in a metal cage, and seemed stooped over. Thrall saw that they were chained to the bottom of the wagon. He was filled with horror at their grotesqueness. They were huge, deformed, sported mammoth tusks instead of teeth, had tiny, fierce eyes. . . .

And then the truth hit him. These were orcs. His so-called people. This was what he looked like to the humans. The practice sword fell from suddenly nerveless fingers.I'm hideous. I'm frightening. I'm a monster. No wonder they hate me so.

One of the beasts turned and stared Thrall right in the eye. He wanted to look away, but couldn't. He stared back, hardly breathing. Even as he watched, the orc somehow managed to wrench himself free.

With a scream that shattered Thrall's ears, the creature hurled himself at the cage bars. He reached with hands b.l.o.o.d.y from the chafing of shackles, gripped the bars, and before Thrall's shocked eyes bent them wide enough to push his huge bulk through. The wagon was still moving as the frightened horses ran at top speed. The orc hit the ground hard and rolled a few times, but a heartbeat later was up and running toward Thrall and the fighters with a speed that belied his size.

He opened his terrible mouth and screamed out something that sounded like words: "Kagh! Bin mog g'thazag cha!"

"Attack, you fools!" cried Sergeant. Unarmored as he was, he seized a sword and began running to meet the orc. The men began to move and rushed to their Sergeant's aid.

The orc didn't even bother to look Sergeant in the face. He swung out with his manacled left hand, caught Sergeant square in the chest, and sent him flying. He came on, implacable. His eyes were fastened on Thrall, and again he shouted the words, "Kagh! Bin mog g'thazag cha!"

Thrall stirred, finally roused from his fear, but he didn't know what to do. He raised his practice sword and stood in a defensive posture, but did not advance. This fearfully ugly thing was charging toward him.

It was most definitely the enemy. And yet, it was one of his own people, his flesh and blood. An orc, just as Thrall was an orc, and Thrall could not bring himself to attack.

Even as Thrall stared, the men fell upon the orc and the big green body went down beneath the flash of swords and axes and black armor. Blood seeped out beneath the pile of men, and when at last it was over, they stood back and regarded a pile of green and red flesh where a living creature had once been.

Sergeant propped himself up on one elbow. "Thrall!" he cried. "Get him back to the cellnow! "

"What in the name of all that's holy have youdone ?" cried Blackmoore, staring aghast at the sergeant who had come to him so highly recommended, who was now the person Blackmoore had come to hate more than any other. "He was never supposed to see another orc, not until . . . now he knows, d.a.m.n it.

What were you thinking?"

Sergeant bristled under the verbal attack. "I wasthinking , sir, that if you didn't want Thrall to see any other orcs, you might have told me that. I wasthinking , sir, that if you didn't want Thrall to see other orcs you might have arranged for the wagons carrying them to approach when Thrall was in his cell. I wasthinking, sir , that - "

"Enough!" bellowed Blackmoore. He took a deep breath and collected himself. "The damage is done.

We must think how to repair it."

His calmer tone seemed to ease Sergeant as well. In a less belligerent tone, the trainer asked, "Thrall has never known what he looked like, then?"

"Never. No mirrors. No still basins of water. He's been taught that orcs are sc.u.m, which is of course true, and that he is permitted to live only because he earns me money."

Silence fell as the two men searched their thoughts. Sergeant scratched his red beard pensively, then said, "So he knows. So what? Just because he was born an orc doesn't mean he can't be more than that. He doesn't have to be a brainless brute. He isn't, in fact. If you encouraged him to think of himself as more human -"

Sergeant's suggestion infuriated Blackmoore. "He's not!" he burst out. "Heis a brute. I don't want him getting ideas that he's nothing less than a big green-skinned human!"

"Then, pray, sir," said Sergeant, grinding out the words between clenched teeth, "whatdo you want him to think of himself as?"

Blackmoore had no response. He didn't know. He hadn't thought about it that way. It had seemed so simple when he had stumbled onto the infant orc. Raise him as a slave, train him to fight, give him the human edge, then put him in charge of an army of beaten orcs and attack the Alliance. With Thrall at the head of a revitalized orcish army, leading the charges, Blackmoore would have power beyond his most exaggerated fantasies.

But it wasn't working out that way. Deep inside, he knew that in some ways Sergeant was right. Thrall did need to understand how humans thought and reasoned if he was to take that knowledge to lord over the b.e.s.t.i.a.l orcs. And yet, if he learned, mightn't he revolt? Thrall had to be kept in his place, reminded of his low birth.Had to. By the Light, what was the right thing to do? How best to treat this creature in order to produce the perfect war leader, without letting anyone else know he was more than a gladiator champion?

He took a deep breath. He mustn't lose face in front of this servant. "Thrall needs direction, and we must give it to him," he said with remarkable calmness. "He's learned enough training with the recruits. I think it's time we relegated him exclusively to combat."

"Sir, he's very helpful in training," began Sergeant.

"We have all but vanquished the orcs," said Blackmoore, thinking of the thousands of orcs being shoved into the camps. "Their leader Doomhammer has fled, and they are a scattered race. Peace is descending upon us. We do not need to train the recruits to battle orcs any longer. Any battles in which they will partic.i.p.ate will be against other men, not monsters."

d.a.m.n. He had almost said too much. Sergeant looked as if he had caught the slip, too, but did not react.

"Men at peace need an outlet for their bloodl.u.s.t," he said. "Let us confine Thrall to the gladiator battles.

He will fill our pockets and bring us honor." He smirked. "I've yet to see the single man who could stand up to an orc."

Thrall's ascendance in the ranks of the gladiators had been nothing short of phenomenal. He had reached his full height when very young; as the years pa.s.sed, he began to add bulk to his tall frame. Now he was the biggest orc many had ever seen, even heard tell of. He was the master of the ring, and everyone knew it.

When he was not fighting he was shut alone in his cell, which seemed to him to grow smaller with each pa.s.sing day despite the fact that Blackmoore had ordered him a new one. Thrall now had a small, covered sleeping area and a much larger area in which to practice. Covered by a grate, this sunken ring had mock weapons of every sort and Thrall's old friend, the battered training troll, upon which he could practice. Some nights, when he could not sleep, Thrall rose and took out his tension on the dummy.

It was the books that Taretha sent him, with their precious messages and now a tablet and stylus, that truly brightened those long, solitary hours. They had been conversing in secret at least once a week, and Thrall imagined a world as Tari painted it: A world of art, and beauty, and companions.h.i.+p. A world of food beyond rotting meat and slop. A world in which he had a place.

Every now and then, his eye would fall upon the increasingly fraying square of cloth that bore the symbol of a white wolf head on a blue field. He would look quickly away, not wanting to let his mind travel down that path. What good would it do? He had read enough books (some of which Blackmoore had no idea that Tari had pa.s.sed along to Thrall) to understand that the orc people lived in small groups, each with its own distinctive symbol. What could he do, simply tell Blackmoore that he was tired of being a slave, thank you, and would he please let Thrall out so he could find his family?

And yet the thought teased him. His own people. Tari had her own people, her family of Tammis and Clannia Foxton. She was valued and loved. He was grateful that she had such loving support, because it was out of that secure place that she had felt large in heart enough to reach out to him.

Sometimes, he wondered what the rest of the Foxtons thought of him. Tari never mentioned them much anymore. She had told him that her mother Clannia had nursed him at her own breast, to save his life. At first, Thrall had been touched by that, but as he grew older and learned more, he understood that Clannia had not been moved to suckle him out of love, but out of a desire to increase her standing with Blackmoore.

Blackmoore. All roads of thought ended there. He could forget he was a piece of property when he was writing to Tari and reading her letters, or searching for her golden hair in the stands at the gladiator matches. He could also lose himself in the exciting thing Sergeant called "bloodl.u.s.t." But these moments were all too brief. Even when Blackmoore himself came to visit Thrall, to discuss some military strategy Thrall had studied, or to play a game of Hawks and Hares with him, there was no link, no sense of family with this man. When Blackmoore was jovial, it was with the att.i.tude of a man toward a child. And when he was irritable and darkly furious, which was more often than not, Thrall felt as helpless as a child.

Blackmoore could order him beaten, or starved, or burned, or shackled, or - the worst punishment of all, and one that had, thankfully, not yet occurred to Blackmoore - deny him access to his books.

He knew that Tari did not have a privileged life, not the way Blackmoore did. She was a servant, in her own way, as much in thrall as the orc who bore the name. But she had friends, and she was not spat upon, and shebelonged .

Slowly, his hand moved, of its own accord, to reach for the blue swaddling cloth. At that moment, he heard the door unlock and open behind him. He dropped the cloth as if it were something unclean.

"Come on," said one of the dour-faced guards. He extended the manacles. "Time to go fight. I hear they've got quite the opponents for you today." He grinned mirthlessly, showing brown teeth. "And Master Blackmoore's ready to have your hide if you don't win."

FIVE.

More than a decade had pa.s.sed since one Lieutenant Blackmoore had simultaneously found an orphaned orc and the possible answer to his dreams.

They had been fruitful and happy years for Thrall's master, and for humanity in general. Aedelas Blackmoore, once Lieutenant, now LieutenantGeneral , had been mocked about his "pet orc" when he had first brought it to Durnholde, especially when it seemed as though the wretched little thing wouldn't even survive. Thank goodness for Mistress Foxton and her swollen teats. Blackmoore couldn't conceive of any human female being willing to suckle an orc, but although the offer had increased his contempt for his servant and his family, it had also saved Blackmoore's behind. Which was why he hadn't begrudged them baubles, food, and education for their child, even if she was a girl.

It was a bright day, warm but not too hot. Perfect fighting weather. The awning, bright with his colors of red and gold, provided pleasant shade. Banners of all colors danced in the gentle breeze, and music and laughter floated to his ears. The smell of ripe fruits, fresh bread, and roasted venison teased his nostrils.

Everyone here was in a good mood. After the battles, some wouldn't be in such good moods, but right now, all were happy and filled with antic.i.p.ation.

Lying on a chaise beside him was his young protege, Lord Karramyn Langston. Langston had rich brown hair that matched his dark eyes, a strong, fit body, and a lazy smile. He was also completely devoted to Blackmoore, and was the one human being Blackmoore had told of his ultimate plans.

Though many years his junior, Langston shared many of Blackmoore's ideals and lack of scruples. They were a good pair. Langston had fallen asleep in the warm suns.h.i.+ne, and snored softly.

Blackmoore reached over and snagged another bite of roasted fowl and a goblet of red wine, red as the blood that would soon be spilled in the arena, to wash it down with. Life was good, and with every challenge Thrall met and pa.s.sed, life got even better. After each match, Blackmoore left with a heavy purse. His "pet orc," once the joke of the fortress, was now his pride.

Of course, most of the others that Thrall went up against were nothing more than humans. Some of the meanest, strongest, most cunning humans to be sure, but human nonetheless. The other gladiators were all brutal, hardened convicts hoping to earn their way out of prison by winning money and fame for their patrons. Some did, and earned their freedom. Most found themselves in just another jail, one with tapestries on the wall and women in their beds, but it was a prison nonetheless. Few patrons wanted to see their money-winners walk as free men.

But some of Thrall's adversaries weren't human, and that was when things got exciting.

It didn't hurt Blackmoore's ambitions at all that the orcs were now a defeated, downtrodden rabble rather than the awesome and fear-inspiring fighting force they had once been. The war was long over, and humans had won the decisive victory. Now the enemy was led into special internment camps almost as easily as cattle into stalls at the end of a day spent grazing. Camps, Blackmoore mused pleasantly, that he was completely in charge of.

At first, his plan was to raise the orc to be a well-educated, loyal slave and a peerless warrior. He would send Thrall to defeat his own people, if "people" was even the proper term for such mindless green thugs, and once they had been defeated, use the broken clans to his, Blackmoore's, own purpose.

But the Horde had been defeated by the Alliance without Thrall having even tasted battle. At first, Blackmoore had been sour about this. But then another thought came to him on how he could use his pet orc. It required patience, something Blackmoore had only in short supply, but the rewards would be far greater than he could have imagined. Infighting was already rampant among the Alliance. Elf sneered at human, human mocked dwarf, and dwarf mistrusted elf. A nice little triangle of bigotry and suspicion.

He raised himself from his chair long enough to observe Thrall defeat one of the biggest, nastiest-looking men Blackmoore had ever seen. But the human warrior was no match for the unstoppable green beast.

The cheers went up, and Blackmoore smiled. He waved Tammis Foxton over, and the servant hastened to obey.

"My lord?"

"How many is that today?" Blackmoore knew his voice was slurred but he didn't care. Tammis had seen him drunker than this. Tammis had put him tobed drunker than this.

Tammis's prim, anxious face looked even more concerned than usual. "How many what, my lord?" His gaze flickered to the bottle, then back to Blackmoore.

Sudden rage welled up in Blackmoore. He grabbed Tammis by the s.h.i.+rtfront and yanked him down to within an inch of his face.

"Counting the bottles, you pathetic excuse for a man?" he hissed, keeping his voice low. One of the many threats he held over Tammis was public disgrace; even drunk as Blackmoore was, he didn't want to play that particular card quite yet. But he threatened it often, as now. Before his slightly swimmy vision he saw Tammis pale. "You farm out your own wife to suckle monsters, and you dare imply that I have weaknesses?"

Sickened by the man's pasty face, he shoved him away. "I wanned to know how many rounds Thrall has won."

"Oh, yes, sir, of course. Half dozen, all in a row." Tammis paused, looking utterly miserable. "With all due respect, sir, this last one taxed him. Are you sure you want to put him through three more matches?"

Idiots. Blackmoore was surrounded by idiots. When Sergeant had read the order of battles this morning, he, too, had confronted Blackmoore, saying the orc needed at least a few moments of rest, and couldn't they switch the combatant list so that the poor coddled creature could relax.

"Oh, no. The odds against Thrall go higher with ever' battle. He's never lost, not once. Of course I want to stop and give all those nice people their money back." Disgusted, he waved Tammis away. Thrall was incapable of being defeated. Why not make hay while the sun shone?