Warcraft - Lord Of The Clans Part 9

Blackmoore sniffed. "Sightings" of Thrall had become quite commonplace, considering there was a substantial reward offered. But Langston wouldn't come rus.h.i.+ng to Blackmoore with unverified rumors.

"Who saw him? Where?"

"Several leagues from the internment camp, headed due west," said Langston. "Several villagers were awakened when an orc tried to break into their homes. Seems it was hungry. When they surrounded it, it spoke fair to them, and when they pressed their attack, it fought back and overcame them."

"Anyone killed?" Blackmoore hoped not. He would have to pay the village if his pet had killed someone.

"No. In fact, they said the orc deliberately refrained from killing. A few days later, one of the farmer's sons was kidnapped by a group of orcs. He was taken to a subterranean cavern and they ordered a large orc to kill him. The orc refused, and the orc chieftain agreed with the decision. The boy was released and immediately told his story. And my lord - the confrontation took place with the orcs speaking in the human tongue, because the large orc could not understand the language of his fellows."

Blackmoore nodded. It all rang true with what he knew Thrall to be, versus what the populace a.s.sumed Thrall would be. Plus, a young boy wouldn't likely be clever enough to realize that Thrall didn't know much orcish.

By the Light . . . maybe they would find him.

There had been another rumor as to Thrall's whereabouts, and once again, Blackmoore had left Durnholde to follow up on it. Taretha had two pa.s.sionate, conflicting thoughts. One was that she desperately hoped that the rumors were false, that Thrall was miles away from wherever it was he had been reportedly seen. The other was the overwhelming sense of relief she experienced whenever Blackmoore was not present.

She took her daily stroll around the grounds outside the fortress. It was safe these days, save for the occasional highwayman, and they skulked by the main roads. She would come to no harm in the forests that she had grown to know so intimately.

She undid her hair and let it cascade about her shoulders, enjoying the freedom of it. It was not seemly for a woman to have unbound hair. Gleefully, Taretha combed her fingers through the thick golden ma.s.s and shook her head in defiance.

Her gaze fell to the welts on her wrists. Instinctively, one hand reached to cover the other.

No. She would not hide what was not her own shame. Taretha forced herself to uncover the bruises.

For the sake of her family, she had to submit to him. But she would not aid in hiding the wrongs he had done.

Taretha took a deep breath. Even here, it would seem, Blackmoore's shadow followed. Deliberately, she banished it, and turned her face up toward the sun.

She wandered up to the cave where she had said her farewells to Thrall and sat there for a while, hugging her long legs to her chest. There was no sign that anyone save the creatures of the woods had been here in a long time. She then rose and strolled to the tree where she had told Thrall to hide the necklace she'd given him. Peering down into its blackened depths, she saw no glint of silver. She was relieved and saddened at the same time. Taretha desperately missed writing to Thrall and hearing his kind, wise replies.

If only the rest of her people felt that way. Couldn't they see that the orcs were not a threat anymore?

Couldn't they understand that with education and a little bit of respect, they could be valuable allies and not enemies? She thought of all the money and time being poured into the internment camps, of how foolish and small-minded it seemed.

Too bad she couldn't have run away with Thrall. As Taretha walked slowly back to the fortress, she heard a horn blow. The master of Durnholde had returned. All the sense of lightness and freedom she had experienced bled out of her, as if from an open wound.

Whatever betide, Thrall at least is free, she thought.My days as a slave loom numberless ahead of me.

Thrall fought, and ate food prepared in the traditional way, and learned. Soon he was speaking fluent, if heavily accented, orcish. He could go with the hunting parties and be more of a help than a hindrance in bringing down a stag. Fingers that, despite their thickness, had learned to master a stylus had no difficulty helping build snares for rabbits and other smaller animals. Bit by bit, the Warsong clan was accepting him. For the first time in his life, Thrall felt as though he belonged.

But then came the news from the scouting parties. Rekshak returned one evening, looking even more angry and sour than usual. "A word, my lord," he said to h.e.l.lscream.

"You may speak in front of us all," said h.e.l.lscream. They were above ground tonight, enjoying a crisp late autumn evening and feasting upon the kill that Thrall himself had brought back to the clan.

Rekshak cast an uneasy glance in Thrall's direction, then grunted. "As you wish. Humans are beginning to scour the forests. They wear red and gold livery, with a black falcon on their standard."

"Blackmoore," said Thrall, sickened. Would the man never let him be? Was he going to be hunted to the ends of the earth, dragged back in chains to perform again for Blackmoore's twisted amus.e.m.e.nt?

No. He would take his own life before he would consent again to a life of slavery. He burned to speak, but courtesy demanded that h.e.l.lscream answer his own man.

"As I suspected," said h.e.l.lscream, more calmly than Thrall would have thought.

Clearly Rekshak was also taken by surprise. "My lord," he said, "the stranger Thrall has put us all in danger. If they find our caves, then they have us at their mercy. We will either be killed or rounded up like sheep into their camps!"

"Neither shall happen," said h.e.l.lscream. "And Thrall has not put us in danger. It was by my decision that he stayed. Do you question that?"

Rekshak lowered his head. "No, my chieftain."

"Thrall shall stay," h.e.l.lscream declared.

"With thanks, great chieftain," said Thrall, "Rekshak is right. I must leave. I cannot put the Warsong clan in further danger. I will go and make sure that they have a spurious trail to follow, one that will lead them away from you and yet not lead them to me."

h.e.l.lscream leaned closer to Thrall, who was sitting on his right. "But we need you, Thrall," he said. His eyes glowed in the darkness."I need you. We will move quickly, then, to liberate our brothers in the camps."

But Thrall continued to shake his head. "The winter comes. It will be hard to feed an army. And . . .

there is something I must do before I am ready to stand at your side to free our brethren. You told me that you knew my clan, the Frostwolves. I must find them and learn more about who I am, where I came from, before I can be ready to stand by your side. I had hoped to travel to them in the spring, but it seems that Blackmoore has forced my hand."

For a long time, h.e.l.lscream gazed at Thrall. The bigger orc did not look away from those terrible red eyes. Finally, sadly, h.e.l.lscream nodded.

"Though I burn with desire for revenge, I find that yours is the wiser head. Our brothers suffer in confinement, but their lethargy may ease their pain. Time enough when the sun shows its head more brightly to liberate them. I do not know for certain where the Frostwolves dwell, but somehow, I know in my heart that you will find them if you are meant to do so."

"I will depart in the morning," said Thrall, his heart heavy in his chest. Across the flickering fire, he saw Rekshak, who had never liked him, nod in approval.

That next morning Thrall bade a reluctant farewell to the Warsong clan and Grom h.e.l.lscream.

"I wish you to have this," said h.e.l.lscream, as he lifted a bone necklace from around his too-thin throat.

"These are the remains of my first kill. I have carved my symbols in them; any orc chieftain will know them."

Thrall started to object, but h.e.l.lscream curled his lips back from his sharp yellow teeth and snarled.

Having no desire to displease the chieftain who had been so kind to him, or to hear that ear-splitting scream a second time, Thrall lowered his head so that Grom could place the necklace about his thick neck.

"I will lead the humans away from you," Thrall reiterated.

"If you do not, it is no matter," said h.e.l.lscream. "We will tear them limb from limb." He laughed fiercely, and Thrall joined in. Still laughing, he set off in the direction of the cold northlands, the place from which he came.

He made a detour after a few hours, to veer back in the direction of the small village where he had stolen food and frightened the inhabitants. He did not go too near, for his keen ears had already picked up the sound of soldiers' voices. But he did leave a token for Blackmoore's men to find.

Though it nearly killed him to do it, he took the swaddling cloth that bore the mark of the Frostwolves and tore a large strip from it. He placed it carefully to the south of the village on a jagged stump. He wanted it to be easily found, but not too obvious. He also made sure that he left several large, easily traceable footprints in the soft, muddy soil.

With any luck, Blackmoore's men would find the tattered piece of instantly recognizable cloth, see the footprints and a.s.sume that Thrall was headed due south. He walked backward carefully in his footprints - a tactic he had learned from his reading - and sought out stone and hard earth for the next several paces.

He looked toward the Alterac Mountains. Grom had told him that even at the height of summer, their peaks were white against the blue sky. Thrall was about to head into their heart, not knowing for certain where he was going, just as the weather was beginning to turn. It had snowed once or twice, lightly, already. Soon the snows would come thick and heavy, heaviest of all in the mountains.

The Warsong clan had sent him off well supplied. They had given him several strips of dried meat, a waterskin in which he could collect and melt snow, a thick cape to help ward off the worst of the winter's bite, and a few rabbit snares so he could supplement the dried meat.

Fate and luck, and the kindness of strangers and a human girl, had brought him this far. Grom had indicated that Thrall had a role to play yet. He had to trust that, if this was indeed the truth, he would be guided to his destiny as he had been guided thus far.

Hoisting the sack over his back, without a single glance behind him, Thrall began to stride toward the beckoning mountains, whose jagged peaks and hidden valleys were home somewhere to the Frostwolf clan.

TWELVE.

The days turned into weeks, and Thrall began to judge how much time had pa.s.sed not by how many sunrises he saw, but by how many snowfalls. It did not take long for him to exhaust the dried meat the Warsong clan had given him, although he rationed it carefully. The traps proved only intermittently successful, and the farther up in the mountains he went, the fewer animals he caught.

At least water was not a problem. Everywhere around him were icy streams, and then thick, white drifts.

More than once he was caught off guard by a sudden storm, and made a burrow in the snow until it pa.s.sed. Each time, he could only hope that he could dig his way out to safety.

The harsh environment began to take its grim toll. His movements were slower and slower, and more than once he would stop to rest and almost not rise again. The food ran out, and no rabbits or marmots were foolish enough to get caught in his traps. The only way he knew there was any animal life at all was by the occasional print of hoof or paw in the snow, and the eerie howling of distant wolves at night. He began eating leaves and tree bark just to quiet his furious stomach, sometimes with less than digestible results.

Snows came and went, blue skies appeared, dimmed to black, and then clouded over with more snows.

He began to despair. He did not even know if he was headed in the right direction to encounter the Frostwolves. He put one foot in front of the other steadily, stubbornly, determined to find his people or die here in these inhospitable mountains.

His mind began to play tricks on him. From time to time, Aedelas Blackmoore would rear out of a snow-drift, screaming harsh words and swinging a broadsword. Thrall could even smell the telltale scent of wine on his breath. They would fight, and Thrall would fall, exhausted, unable to fend off Blackmoore's final blow. It was only then that the shade would disappear, transforming itself from a loathed image into the harmless outline of a rock outcropping or a twisted, weatherworn tree.

Other images were more pleasant. Sometimes h.e.l.lscream would come rescue him, offering a warm fire that vanished when Thrall stretched out his hands to it. Other times his rescuer was Sergeant, grumbling about having to track down lost fighters and offering a thick, warm cloak. His sweetest and yet most bitter hallucinations were those when Tari would appear, sympathy in her wide blue eyes and comforting words on her lips. Sometimes she would almost touch him before disappearing before his eyes.

On and on he pressed, until one day, he simply could go no farther. He took one step, and fully intended to take the next, and the one after that, when his body toppled forward of its own accord. His mind tried to command his exhausted, nearly frozen body to rise, but it disobeyed. The snow didn't even feel cold to him anymore. It was . . . warm, and soft. Sighing, Thrall closed his eyes.

A sound made him open them again, but he only stared disinterestedly at this fresh mind-trick. This time it was a large pack of white wolves, almost as white as the snow that surrounded him. They had formed a ring about him, and stood silently, waiting. He stared back, mildly interested in how this scenario would play out. Would they charge, only to vanish? Or would they just wait until unconsciousness claimed him?

Three dark figures loomed up behind the nonexistent wolves. They weren't anyone who had come to visit him before. They were wrapped from head to toe in thick furs. They looked warm, but not as warm as Thrall felt. Their faces were in shadow from fur-trimmed hoods, but he saw large jaws. That and their size marked them as orcs.

He was angry at his mind this time. He had gotten used to the other hallucinations that had visited him.

Now he feared he was going to die before finding out what these imaginary people had in store for him.

He closed his eyes, and knew no more.

"I think he's awake." The voice was soft and high-pitched. Thrall stirred and opened heavy-lidded eyes.

Staring right at him with a curious expression on its face was an orc child. Thrall's eyes opened wider to regard the small male. There had been no children among the Warsong clan. They had been cobbled together after dreadful battles, their numbers decimated, and Grom had told him that the children had been the first to succ.u.mb.

"h.e.l.lo," said Thrall in orcish, the word coming out in a harsh rasp. The boy jumped, then laughed.

"He'sdefinitely awake," the child said, then scurried away. Another orc loomed into Thrall's field of vision. For the second time in as many minutes, Thrall saw a new type of orc; first the very young one, and now, one who had obviously known many, many winters.

All the features of the orcs were exaggerated in this aged visage. The jowls sagged, the teeth were even yellower than Thrall's, and many were missing or broken. The eyes were a strange milky color, and Thrall could see no pupils in them. This orc's body was twisted and stooped, almost as small as the child's, but Thrall instinctively shrank back from the sheer presence of the elder.

"Hmph," said the old orc. "Thought you were going to die, young one."

Thrall felt a twinge of irritation. "Sorry to disappoint you," he said.

"Our honor code obliges us to help those in need," continued the orc, "but it's always easier if our help proves ineffective. One less mouth to feed."

Thrall was taken aback by the rudeness, but chose to say nothing.

"My name is Drek'Thar. I am the shaman of the Frostwolves, and their protector. Who are you?"

Amus.e.m.e.nt rippled through Thrall at the idea of this wizened old orc being the protector of all the Frostwolves. He tried to sit up, and was startled to find himself slammed down on the furs as if from an unseen hand. He looked over at Drek'Thar and saw that the old man had subtly changed the position of his fingers.

"I didn't give you leave to rise," said Drek'Thar. "Answer my question, stranger, or I may reconsider our offer of hospitality."

Gazing at the elder with new respect, Thrall said, "My name is Thrall."

Drek'Thar spat. "Thrall! A human word, and a word of subjugation at that."

"Yes," said Thrall, "a word that means slave in their tongue. But I am a thrall no longer, though I keep the name to p.r.i.c.k myself to my duties. I have escaped my chains and desire to find out my true history."

Without thinking, Thrall tried to sit up again, and was again slammed down. This time, he saw the gnarled old hands twitch slightly. This was a powerful shaman indeed.

"Why did our wolf friends find you wandering in a blizzard?" Drek'Thar demanded. He stared away from Thrall, and Thrall realized that the old orc was blind.

"It is a long story."

"I've got time."

Thrall had to laugh. He found himself liking this cranky old shaman. Surrendering to the implacable force that kept him flat on his back, he told his story. Of how Blackmoore had found him as an infant, had raised him and taught him how to fight and to read. He told the shaman of Tari's kindness, of the listless orcs he had found in the camps, of finally making contact with h.e.l.lscream, who had taught him the warrior's code and the language of his people.

"h.e.l.lscream was the one who told me that the Frostwolves were my clan," he finished. "He knew by the small piece of cloth in which I was wrapped as a baby. I can show you -" He fell silent, mortified. Of course Drek'Thar could not be "shown" anything.

He expected the shaman to erupt in offense, but instead Drek'Thar extended his hand. "Give it to me."

Now the pressure on his chest eased, and Thrall was able to sit up. He reached in his pack for the tattered remains of the Frostwolf blanket, and wordlessly handed it to the shaman.

Drek'Thar took it in both hands, and brought it to his chest. He murmured softly words Thrall could not catch, and then nodded.

"It is as I suspected," he said, and sighed heavily. He handed the cloth back to Thrall. "The cloth is indeed the pattern of the Frostwolves, and it was woven by the hand of your mother. We had thought you dead."

"How could you tell that -" And then Thrall fully understood what Drek'Thar had said. Hope seized him. "You know my mother? My father? Who am I?"

Drek'Thar lifted his head and stared at Thrall with his blind eyes. "You are the only child of Durotan, our former chieftain, and his courageous mate Draka."

Over a hearty stew of meat, broth, and roots, Drek'Thar told Thrall the rest of his history, at least as much as he knew. He had taken the young orc into his cave, and with the fire burning brightly and thick fur cloaks about their bodies, both old shaman and young warrior were warm and comfortable. Palkar, his attendant, who had been so diligent about alerting him when Thrall had awakened, ladled up the stew and gently pressed the warm wooden bowl into Drek'thar's hands.

The orc ate his stew, delaying speaking. Palkar sat quietly. The only sound was the crackle of the fire and the slow, deep breathing of Wise-ear, Drek'thar's wolf companion. It was a difficult story for Drek'Thar, one he had never imagined he would need to speak of ever again.

"Your parents were the most honored of all the Frostwolves. They left us on a dire errand many winters past, never to return. We did not know what had happened to them . . . until now." He gestured in the direction of the cloth. "The fibers in the cloth have told me. They were slain, and you survived, to be raised by humans."

The cloth was not living, but it had been made of the fur of the white goats that braved the mountains.