Authors: Christie Golden
“It is,” said Thrall eagerly. “Tell me where I can find others like me.”
“The only one I have heard tell of is Grom Hellscream,” 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 passion, 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 Hellscream’s clan had come from the west.
He would find this Hellscream, 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 shied 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 from
his
books, no doubt. Blackmoore snatched 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.”
He took keen pleasure in watching the color drain from Remka’s face. “He could be hiding inside the camp,” she offered.
“He could be,” said Blackmoore, drawing back his lips from white teeth in a rictus of a smile. “Let us hope
so, for your continued good fortune, Major Remka. Search the encampment.
Now.
”
She scurried away to do his bidding, shouting orders. Thrall certainly wouldn’t have been stupid enough to come to a lineup, like a dog responding to a whistle. It was possible he was still here. But somehow, Blackmoore sensed that Thrall was gone. He was elsewhere, doing . . . ? What? What kind of scheme had he and that bitch Taretha cooked up?
Blackmoore was right. An extensive search turned up nothing. None of the orcs, curse them, would even admit to seeing Thrall. Blackmoore demoted Remka, put Waryk in her place, and rode slowly home. Langston met him halfway, and commiserated with him, but even Langston’s cheerful, brainless chatter could not stir Blackmoore from his gloom. In one fiery night, he had lost the two things most important to him: Thrall and Taretha.
He climbed the steps to his quarters, went to his bedchamber, and eased open the door. The light fell across Taretha’s sleeping face. Gently, so as not to wake her, Blackmoore sat down on the bed. He removed his gloves and reached to touch the soft, creamy curve of her cheek. She was so beautiful. Her touch had thrilled him, her laughter moved him. But no more.
“Sleep well, pretty traitor,” he whispered. He bent and kissed her, the pain in his heart still present but ruthlessly suppressed. “Sleep well, until I have need of you.”
T
hrall had never been so exhausted or hungry in his life. But freedom tasted sweeter than the meat he had been fed, and felt more restful than the straw upon which he had slept as Blackmoore’s prisoner at Durnholde. He was unable to catch the coneys and squirrels that flitted through the forest, and wished that somehow survival skills had been taught to him along with battle histories and the nature of art. Because it was autumn, there were ripe fruits on the trees, and he quickly became adept at finding grubs and insects. These did little to appease the mammoth hunger that gnawed at his insides, but at least he had ready access to water in the form of the myriad small streams and brooks that wound through the forest.
After several days, the wind shifted while Thrall
steadily pushed through the undergrowth and brought the sweet scent of roasting meat to his nostrils. He inhaled deeply, as if he could obtain sustenance by the smell alone. Ravenous, he turned to follow the smell.
Even though his body was crying out for food, Thrall did not let his hunger overcome his caution. That was well, for as he moved to the edge of the forested area, he saw dozens of humans.
The day was bright and warm, one of the last few such days of the fall, and the humans were joyfully preparing a feast that made Thrall’s mouth water. There were baked breads, barrels of fresh fruits and vegetables, crocks of jams and butters and spreads, wheels of cheeses, bottles of what he assumed were wine and mead, and in the center, two pigs turned slowly on spits.
Thrall’s knees gave way and he sank slowly to the forest floor, staring enraptured at the foodstuffs spread before him as if to taunt him. Over in the cleared field, children played with hoops and banners and other toys Thrall could not attach names to. Mothers suckled their babes, and maidens danced shyly with young men. It was a scene of happiness and contentment, and more than the food, Thrall wanted to belong here.
But he did not. He was an orc, a monster, a green-skin, a black-blood, and any of a hundred other epithets. So he sat and watched while the villagers
celebrated, feasted, and danced until the night encroached upon them.
The moons rose, one bright and white, one cool and blue-green, as the last of the furniture, plates, and food items were gathered up. Thrall watched the villagers wander down the winding path through the field, and saw small candles appear in tiny windows. Still he waited, and watched the moons move slowly across the sky. Many hours after the last candle was extinguished in the windows, Thrall rose, and moved with skillful silence toward the village.
His sense of smell had always been acute, and it was sharpened now that he was giving it leave to enjoy the smells of food. He followed the scents, reaching into windows and snatching whole loaves of bread which he gobbled down at once, uncovering a basket of apples set out by the door and crunching the small, sweet fruits greedily.
Juice ran down his bare chest, sweet and sticky. He absently wiped at it with one large green hand. Slowly, the hunger was beginning to be sated. At each house, Thrall took something, but never too much from any one home.
At one window, Thrall peered in to see figures sleeping by the dying hearth fire. He quickly withdrew, waited a moment, and then slowly looked in again. These were children, sleeping on straw mattresses. There was three of them, plus one in a cradle. Two were boys; the third was a little girl with
yellow hair. As Thrall watched, she rolled over in her sleep.
A sharp pang stabbed Thrall. As if no time at all had passed, he was transported in his mind back to that day when he had first seen Taretha, when she had smiled broadly and waved at him. This girl looked so much like her, with her round cheeks, her golden hair —
A harsh noise startled him and Thrall whirled just in time to see something four-legged and dark charge at him. Teeth snapped near his ear. Reacting instinctively, Thrall clutched the animal and closed his hands around the beast’s throat. Was this a wolf, one of the creatures his people sometimes befriended?
It had erect, pointed ears, a long muzzle, and sharp white teeth. It resembled the woodcuts of wolves he had seen in the books, but was very different in coloring and head shape.
Now the house was awake, and he heard human voices crying in alarm. He squeezed, and the creature went limp. Dropping the body, Thrall looked inside to see the little girl staring at him with eyes wide in horror. As he watched, she screamed and pointed. “Monster, Da, monster!”
The hateful words coming from her innocent lips wounded Thrall to the quick. He turned to flee only to see that a ring of frightened villagers surrounded him. Some of them carried pitchforks and scythes, the only weapons this farming community possessed.