Warcraft - Lord Of The Clans Part 6

"You're right. I was raised by humans. They taught me only a little orcish. I was hoping you could help me learn more."

The orcs looked at one another, then broke into laughter. "Raised by humans, eh? Hey, Krakis - come over here! We got ourselves a good storyteller! All right, Shaman, tell us another one."

Thrall felt his chance to connect with these people slipping through his fingers. "Please, I mean no insult.

I'm a prisoner like you are now. I've never met any orcs, I just want. . . ."

Now the one who had looked away turned around, and Thrall fell silent. This orc's eyes were bright red and seemed to glow, as if lit from within. "So you want to meet your people? Well, you've met us. Now leave us be." He turned back to picking at the stone.

"Your eyes . . ." Thrall murmured, too stunned by the strange red glow to recognize the insult.

The orc cringed, lifted a hand to s.h.i.+eld his face from Thrall's gaze, and hunched away even farther.

Thrall turned to ask a question and found himself standing alone. The other orcs had all shuffled away, casting furtive glances back at him.

The sky had been clouding over all day, and it had steadily been growing colder. Now, as Thrall stood alone in the center of a courtyard surrounded by what remained of his people, the gray skies opened and icy rain mixed with snow began to fall.

Thrall barely noticed the wretched weather, so deep was his personal misery. Was this why he had severed every tie he had ever known? To live out his life as a captive in a group of spiritless, sluggish creatures whom he once dreamed of leading against the tyranny of the humans? Which was worse, he mused, fighting in the ring for the glory of Blackmoore, sleeping safe and dry, reading letters from Tari, or standing here alone, shunned even by those of his own blood, his feet sinking into freezing mud?

The answer came swiftly: Both were intolerable. Without appearing too obvious, Thrall began to look about with an eye toward escape. It should be simple enough. Only a few guards here and there, and at night, they would have more difficulty seeing than Thrall would. They looked bored and disinterested, and judging by the lack of spirit, even energy or interest, displayed by this pathetic collection of orcs, Thrall did not think even one of them would have the courage to try to climb the rather low walls.

He felt the rain now, as it soaked the trousers he wore. A gray, gloomy day, for a gray, gloomy lesson.

The orcs were no n.o.ble, fierce warriors. He could not imagine how these creatures ever gave the humans the slightest bit of resistance.

"We were not always as you see us here," came a soft, deep voice at his elbow. Surprised, Thrall turned around to see the red-eyed orc staring up at him with those unsettling orbs. "Soulless, afraid, ashamed.

This is whatthey did to us," he continued, pointing to his eyes. "And if we could be rid of it, our hearts and spirits might return."

Thrall sank down in the mud beside him. "Go on," he urged. "I'm listening."

EIGHT.

It had been almost two days since the fire and Thrall's escape, and Blackmoore had spent the better part of that time angry and brooding. It was at Tammis's urging that he had finally gone out hawking, and he had to admit, his servant had had a good idea.

The day was gloomy, but he and Taretha were well dressed and the vigorous riding kept their blood warm. He had wanted to go hunting, but his softhearted mistress had persuaded him that simply riding would be enough to pleasantly pa.s.s the time. He watched her canter past on the pretty dapple gray he had given her two years ago and wished the weather were warmer. He could think of other ways to pleasantly pa.s.s the time with Taretha.

What an unexpectedly ripe fruit Foxton's daughter had been. She had been a lovely, obedient child, and had matured into a lovely, obedient woman. Who would have thought those bright blue eyes would snare him so, that he would so love to bury his face in the flowing gold of her long tresses? Not he, not Blackmoore. But since he had taken her for his own several years ago, she had managed to constantly entertain him, a rare feat.

Langston had once inquired when Blackmoore was going to put aside Taretha in favor of a wife.

Blackmoore had replied that there would be no putting aside Taretha even when hedid take a wife, and there was plenty of time for such things when his plan had finally come to fruition. He would be in a much better position to command a politically favorable marriage once he had brought the Alliance to its collective knees.

And truly, there was no rush. There was plenty of time now to enjoy Taretha whenever and wherever he wished. And the more of that time he spent with the girl, the less it was about satisfying his urges and the more it was about simply enjoying her presence. More than once, as he lay awake and watched her sleep, silvered in moonlight streaming through the windows, he wondered if he was falling in love with her.

He had pulled up Nightsong, who was growing older but who still enjoyed a good canter now and then, and was watching her playfully guide Gray Lady in circles around him. At his order, she had not covered nor braided her hair, and it fell loose around her shoulders like a fall of purest gold. Taretha was laughing, and for a moment their eyes met.

To h.e.l.l with the weather. They would make do.

He was about to order her off her steed and into a nearby copse of trees - their capes would keep them sufficiently warm - when he heard the sound of hoof-beats approaching. He scowled as Langston emerged, panting. His horse was lathered and steaming in the chill afternoon.

"My lord," he gasped, "I believe we have news of Thrall!"

Major Lorin Remka was not a person to be trifled with. Although she stood only a little bit over five feet tall, she was stocky and strong, and could handle herself more than adequately in any fight. She had enlisted disguised as a man many years ago out of a pa.s.sionate desire to destroy the greenskin beings that had attacked her village. When the subterfuge had been discovered, her commanding officer had put her right back in the front lines. Later, she had learned that the officer had hoped she'd be killed, thus sparing him the embarra.s.sment of reporting her. But Lorin Remka had stubbornly survived, and had acquitted herself as well as, and in some cases better than, any man in her unit.

She had taken a savage pleasure in slaughtering the enemy. In more than one case, after a kill she'd rubbed the reddish-black blood all over her face to mark her victory. The men had always given her a wide berth.

In this time of peace, Major Remka took almost as much pleasure in ordering about the slugs that had once been her direst enemies, although that pleasure had diminished once the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds ceased to fight back. Why they had become so much more like cattle and less like monsters had often been a subject of discussion between Remka and her men late in the evenings, over a game of cards and an ale or four.

Most satisfying of all had been being able to take these once-terrifying killers and turn them into bowing and sc.r.a.ping servants. She found the ones most malleable who had the odd red eyes. They seemed eager for direction and praise, even from her. Now one of them was drawing a bath for her in her quarters.

"Make sure it's hot, Greekik," she called. "And don't forget the herbs this time!"

"Yes, my lady," called the female orc in a humble voice. Almost immediately, Remka could smell the cleansing scent of the dried herbs and flowers. Ever since she'd been working here, it seemed to her as if she stank all the time. She couldn't get it out of her clothes, but at least she could soak her body in the hot, scented water and wash it from her skin and long black hair.

Remka had adopted the male style of clothing, much more practical than all that feminine frippery. After years spent on the field of battle, she was more than used to dressing herself and actually preferred it.

Now she removed her boots with a sigh. Just as she set them aside for Greekik to clean there came an urgent knock on the door.

"This had better be good," she muttered, opening the door. "What is it, Waryk?"

"We captured an orc yesterday," he began.

"Yes, yes, I read your report. My bath is cooling even as we speak and -"

"I thought the orc looked familiar," Waryk pressed.

"By the Light, Waryk, they all look the same!"

"No. This one looked different. And I know why now." He stepped aside, and a tall, imposing figure filled the doorway. Immediately Major Remka snapped to attention, wis.h.i.+ng desperately she still had her boots on.

"Lieutenant General Blackmoore," she said. "How may we be of service?"

"Major Remka," said Aedelas Blackmoore, white teeth gleaming through a neatly trimmed black goatee, "I believe you've found my lost pet orc."

Thrall listened, captivated, as the red-eyed orc spoke in a soft voice of tales of valor and strength. He told of charges made against impossible odds, of heroic deeds, and of humans falling beneath a relentless green tide of orcs united in purpose. He spoke wistfully of a spiritual people as well, something Thrall had never heard of.

"Oh, yes," Kelgar said sadly. "Once, before we were the proud, battle-hungry Horde, we were individual clans. And in those clans were those who knew the magic of wind and water, of sky and land, of all the spirits of the wild, and they worked in harmony with those powers. We called them 'shamans,'

and until the emergence of the warlocks, their skills were all we knew of power."

The word seemed to make Kelgar angry. He spat and with the first rousing of any kind of pa.s.sion, snarled, "Power! Does it feed our people, raise our young? Our leaders held it all themselves, and only the barest trickle dripped down to the rest of us. They did . . . something, Thrall. I do not know what.

But once we were defeated, all desire to fight bled out of us as if from an open wound." He lowered his head, placing it on arms folded across his knees, and closed his red eyes.

"Did all of you lose the desire to fight?" asked Thrall.

"All of us here. Those who fought weren't captured, or if they were, they were killed as they resisted."

Kelgar kept his eyes closed.

Thrall respected the other orc's need for silence. Disappointment filled him. Kelgar's tale had the ring of truth about it, and for verification, all Thrall needed to do was look around him. What was this strange thing that had happened? How could an entire race of people have their natures so distorted as to end up here, defeated before they were even caught and thrown into this wretched h.e.l.lhole?

"But the desire to fight is still strong in you, Thrall, though your name suggests otherwise." His eyes were open again, and they seemed to burn into Thrall. "Perhaps your being raised by humans spared you this.

There are others like you, still out there. The walls are not so high that you cannot climb them, if that is your wish."

"It is," said Thrall eagerly. "Tell me where I can find others like me."

"The only one I have heard tell of is Grom h.e.l.lscream," Kelgar said. "He remains undefeated. His people, the Warsong clan, came from the west of this land. That is all I can tell you. Grom has eyes like me, but his spirit still resisted." Kelgar lowered his head. "If only I had been as strong."

"You can be," said Thrall. "Come with me, Kelgar. I am strong, I can easily pull you up over the walls if -".

Kelgar shook his head. "It is not the strength that is gone, Thrall. I could kill the guards in a heartbeat.

Anyone here could. It's the desire. I do not wish to try to climb the walls. I want to stay here. I can't explain it, and I am ashamed, but that is the truth. You will have to have the pa.s.sion, the fire, for all of us here."

Thrall nodded his acceptance, though he could not understand. Who wouldn't want to be free? Who wouldn't want to fight, to gain back all that had been taken, to make the unjust humans pay for what they had done to his people? But it was clear: Of all of the orcs present, he was the only one who would dare lift a defiant fist in challenge.

He would wait until nightfall. Kelgar said there was only a skeleton roster of guardsmen, and they often drank themselves into a stupor. If Thrall simply continued to pretend he was like all the other orcs, he felt certain his opportunity would come.

At that moment, a female orc approached. She moved with a sense of purpose rarely seen here, and Thrall stood as it became clear that she was heading for him.

"You are the newly captured orc?" she asked, in human speech.

Thrall nodded. "My name is Thrall."

"Then, Thrall, you had best know that the commander of the encampments is coming for you."

"What is his name?" Thrall went cold inside as he feared the worst.

"I do not know, but he wears the colors red and gold, with a black falcon on -"

"Blackmoore," hissed Thrall. "I should have known he would be able to find me."

There was a loud clanging and all the orcs turned toward the large tower. "We are to line up," said the female. "Although it is not the usual time for counting."

"They want you, Thrall," said Kelgar. "But they won't find you. You will have to go now. The guards will be distracted at the thought of the commander coming. I will create a diversion. The least guarded area is at the end of the camp. We all are coming to the sound of the bell like the cattle we are," he said, self-loathing plain in his voice and mien. "Go. Now."

Thrall needed no further urging. He turned on his heel and began to move swiftly, threading his way between the sudden press of orcs moving in the opposite direction. As he shoved, struggling, he heard a cry of pain. It was the female orc. He didn't dare stop to look back, but when he heard Kelgar shouting harsh-sounding words in orcish, he understood. Kelgar had somehow managed to reach deep inside and find a shadow of his old fighting spirit. He had begun to fight with the female orc. By the sounds of the guards, this was highly unusual. They descended to break the quarreling orcs apart, and even as Thrall watched, the few guards who had been walking the wall scurried down and raced toward the shouting.

They would probably beat both Kelgar and the innocent female, Thrall thought. He regretted this deeply.

But, he told himself, because of their actions, I am free to do everything I possibly can to ensure that no human ever,ever beats an orc again.

After having reached adulthood in a tightly guarded cell, with men watching his every move, he could not believe how easy it was to climb the walls and slip down to freedom. Ahead was a dense, forested area.

He ran faster than he had ever run, knowing that every minute he was in the open he was vulnerable. And yet, no one cried the alarm, no one gave chase.

He ran for several hours, losing himself in the forest, zigging and zagging and doing everything possible to make it difficult for the search parties that would no doubt follow. Finally, he slowed, panting and gasping for air. He climbed a stout tree, and when he poked his head through its thick canopy of leaves, he could see nothing but a sea of green.

Blinking, he located the sun. It was starting its late afternoon journey toward the horizon. The west; Kelgar had said that Grom h.e.l.lscream's clan had come from the west.

He would find this h.e.l.lscream, and together, they would liberate their imprisoned brothers and sisters.

Black-gloved hands clasped behind him, the Commander of the Camps, one Aedelas Blackmoore, walked slowly down the line of orcs. All of them s.h.i.+ed away from him, staring at their mud-encrusted feet. Blackmoore had to admit they had been more entertaining, if more deadly, when they had had some spirit to them.

Wincing at the stench, Blackmoore lifted a scented kerchief to his nose. Following him closely, like a dog awaiting its master's whim, was Major Remka. He'd heard good things about her; she was apparently more efficient than the majority of the men.

But if she had had his Thrall, and let him slip through her fingers, he would not be merciful.

"Where is the one you said you thought was Thrall?" he demanded of Remka's guardsman Waryk. The young man held his composure better than his commanding officer did, but even he was starting to show hints of panic about the eyes.

"I had seen him at the gladiator battles, and the blue eyes are so rare. . . ." said Waryk, starting to stammer a little.

"Do you see him here?"

"N-no, Lieutenant General. I don't."

"Then perhaps it was not Thrall."

"We did find some things he had stolen," said Waryk, brightening. He snapped his fingers and one of his men raced off, returning in a few moments with a large sack. "Do you recognize this?" He extended a plain dagger to Blackmoore, hilt first as etiquette demanded.

Blackmoore's breath caught in his throat. He had wondered where that had gone to. It wasn't a very expensive one, but he had missed it. . . . He ran his gloved thumb over the symbol of his crest, the black falcon. "This is mine. Anything else?"

"Some papers . . . Major Remka has not had time to look at them yet. . . ." Waryk's voice trailed off, but Blackmoore understood. The idiot couldn't read. What kind of papers could Thrall possibly have had? Leaves torn fromhis books, no doubt. Blackmoore s.n.a.t.c.hed the sack and rummaged through the papers at the bottom. He drew one out into the light.

. . . wish I could talk to you instead of just sending you these letters. I see you in the ring and my heart breaks for you. . . .

Letters! Who could possibly . . . he seized another one.

. . . harder and harder to find time to write. Our Master demands so much of both of us. I heard that he beat you, I am so sorry my dear friend. You don't deserve . . .

Taretha.

A greater pain than any he had ever known clutched at Blackmoore's chest. He pulled out more letters .

. . by the Light, there had to be dozens here . . . maybe hundreds. How long had the two been conspiring? For some reason his eyes stung and breathing became difficult.Tari . . . Tari, how could you, you never lacked for anything. . . .

"My lord?" Remka's concerned voice brought Blackmoore out of his painful shock. He took a deep breath and blinked the telltale tears back. "Is all well?"

"No, Major Remka." His voice was as cool and composed as ever, for which he was grateful. "All is not well. You had my orc Thrall, one of the finest gladiators ever to have graced the ring. He's made me a great deal of money over the years and was supposed to make me a great deal more. Beyond a doubt, it was he your man captured. And it is he whom I do not see in this line at all."