Authors: Christie Golden
“Damn the lot of you noble-born, heartless bastards,” Sergeant hissed, then bellowed,
“Fire!”
Thrall did not even twitch when the cannons went off. Behind him he heard screams of torment, but he was untouched. He called on the Spirit of Earth, pouring out his pain, and Earth responded. In a clean, precise, direct line, the earth heaved and buckled. It went straight from Thrall’s feet to the mammoth door like the burrowing of some giant underground creature. The door shuddered. The surrounding stone trembled and a few small stones fell, but it was more soundly built than the slapped-together walls of the encampments, and held.
Blackmoore shrieked. His world took on a very sharp focus, and for the first time since he had gotten himself drunk enough to order Taretha Foxton’s execution he was thinking clearly.
Langston hadn’t exaggerated. Thrall’s powers were immense and his tactic to break the orc had failed. In fact, it had roused him to an even greater fury, and as Blackmoore watched, panicked and sick, hundreds . . . no, thousands . . . of huge, green forms flowed down the road in a river of death.
He had to get out. Thrall was going to kill him. He just knew it. Somehow, Thrall was going to find him and kill him, for what he’d done to Taretha. . . .
Tari, Tari, I loved you, why did you do this to me?
Someone was shouting. Langston was yapping in one ear, his pretty face purple and eyes bulging with fear, and Sergeant’s voice was in the other, screaming nonsensical noises. He stared at them helplessly.
Sergeant spat some more words, then turned to the men. They continued to load and fire the cannons, and below Blackmoore the mounted knights charged the ranks of orcs. He heard battle cries and the clash of steel. The black armor of his men milled with the ugly green skin of the orcs, and here and there was a flash of white fur as . . . by the Light, had Thrall really managed to call white wolves to his army?
“Too many,” he whispered. “There are too many. So many of them. . . .”
Again, the very walls of the fortress shook. Fear such as Blackmoore had never known shuddered through him, and he fell to his knees. It was in this position, crawling like a dog, that he made his way down the steps and into the courtyard.
The knights were all outside fighting, and, Blackmoore presumed, dying. Inside, the men who were left were shrieking and gathering what they could to defend themselves — scythes, pitchforks, even the wooden training weapons with which a much younger Thrall had honed his fighting skills. A peculiar, yet familiar smell filled Blackmoore’s nostrils. Fear, that was it. He’d reeked of the stench in battles past, had smelled it on dead men’s corpses. He’d forgotten how it had churned his stomach.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way. The orcs on the other side of the now-shuddering gates were supposed to be his army. Their leader, out there screaming Blackmoore’s name over and over again, was supposed to be his docile, obedient slave. Tari was supposed to be
here . . . where was she, anyway . . . and then he remembered, he remembered, his own lips forming around the order that had taken her life, and he was sick, right in front of his men, sick in body, sick in soul.
“He’s lost control!” bellowed Langston inches from Sergeant’s ear, shouting to be heard over the sounds of cannon, sword impacting shield, and cries of pain. Yet again, the walls shuddered.
“He lost control long ago!” Sergeant shouted back. “You’re in command, Lord Langston! What would you have us do?”
“Surrender!” Langston shrieked, without hesitation. Sergeant, his eyes on the battle thirty feet below, shook his head.
“Too late for that! Blackmoore’s done us all in. We’ve got to fight for it now until Thrall decides he wants to talk peace again . . . if he ever does. What would you have us do?” Sergeant demanded again.
“I . . . I . . .” Anything resembling logical thought had fled from Langston’s brain. This thing called battle, he was not made for it — twice now he had crumbled in the face of it. He knew himself for a coward, and despised himself for it, but the fact remained.
“Would you like me to take command of the defense of Durnholde, sir?” asked Sergeant.
Langston turned wet, grateful eyes to the older man and nodded.
“Right, then,” said Sergeant, who turned to face the men in the courtyard and began screaming orders.
At that moment, the door shattered, and a wave of orcs crashed into the courtyard of one of the most powerfully constructed fortresses in the land.
T
he skies seemed to open and a sheet of rain poured down, plastering Blackmoore’s dark hair to his skull and making him slip in the suddenly slick mud of the courtyard. He fell hard, and the wind was knocked out him. He forced himself to scramble to his feet and continue. There was only one way out of this bloody, noisy hell.
He reached his quarters and dove for his desk. With trembling fingers, he searched for the key. He dropped it twice before he was able to stumble to the tapestry beside his bed, tear the weaving down, and insert the key into the lock.
Blackmoore plunged forward, forgetting about the steps, and hurtled down them. He was so inebriated that his body was limp as a rag doll’s, however, and suffered only a few bruises. The light shining in the door
from his quarters reached only a few yards, and up ahead yawned utter darkness. He should have brought a lamp, but it was too late now. Too late for so many things.
He began to run as fast as his legs would carry him. The door on the other side would still be unbolted. He could escape, could flee into the forest, and return later, when the killing was over, and feign . . . he didn’t know. Something.
The earth trembled again, and Blackmoore was knocked off his feet. He felt small bits of stone and earth dust him, and when the quake ceased, he eased himself up and moved forward, arms extended. Dust flew thickly, and he coughed violently.
A few feet ahead, his fingers encountered a huge pile of stone. The tunnel had collapsed in front of him. For a few wild moments, Blackmoore tried to claw his way out. Then, sobbing, he fell to the ground. What now? What was to become of Aedelas Blackmoore now?
Again the earth shook, and Blackmoore sprang to his feet and began to race back the way he had come. Guilt and fear were strong, but the instinct to survive was stronger. A terrible noise rent the air, and Blackmoore realized with a jolt of horror that the tunnel was again collapsing right behind him. Terror lent him speed and he sprinted back toward his quarters, the roof of the tunnel missing him by a foot or two, as if it was following his path a mere step behind.
He stumbled up the stairs and hurled himself forward, just as the rest of the tunnel came down with a mighty crash. Blackmoore clutched the rushes on the floor as if they could offer some solidity in this suddenly mad world. The terrible shaking of the earth seemed to go on and on.
Finally, it ended. He didn’t move, just lay with his face to the stone floor, gasping.
A sword came out of nowhere to clang to a stop inches from his nose. Shrieking, Blackmoore scuttled back. He looked up to see Thrall standing in front of him, a sword in his own hand.
Light preserve him, but Blackmoore had forgotten just how
big
Thrall was. Clad in black plate armor, wielding a massive sword, he seemed to tower over the prone figure of Blackmoore like a mountain towers over the landscape. Had he always had that set to his huge, deformed jaw, that . . . that presence?
“Thrall,” Blackmoore stammered, “I can explain. . . .”
“No,” said Thrall, with a calmness that frightened Blackmoore more than rage would have. “You can’t explain. There is no explanation. There is only a battle, long in the coming. A duel to the death. Take the sword.”
Blackmoore drew his legs up beneath him. “I . . . I. . . .”
“Take the sword,” repeated Thrall, his voice deep, “or I shall run you through where you sit like a frightened child.”
Blackmoore reached out a trembling hand and closed it about the hilt of the sword.
Good
, thought Thrall. At least Blackmoore was going to give him the satisfaction of fighting.
The first person he had gone for was Langston. It had been ease itself to intimidate the young lord into revealing the existence of the subterranean escape tunnel. Pain had sliced through Thrall afresh as he realized that this must have been the way Taretha had managed to sneak out to see him.
He had called the earthquakes to seal the tunnel, so that Blackmoore would be forced to return by this same path. While he waited, he had moved the furniture angrily out of the way, to clear a small area for this final confrontation.
He stared as Blackmoore stumbled to his feet. Was this really the same man he had adored and feared simultaneously as a youngster? It was hard to believe. This man was an emotional and physical wreck. The vague shadow of pity swept through Thrall again, but he would not permit it to blot out the atrocities that Blackmoore had committed.
“Come for me,” Thrall snarled.
Blackmoore lunged. He was quicker and more focused than Thrall had expected, given his condition, and Thrall actually had to react quickly to avoid being struck. He parried the blow, and waited for Blackmoore to strike again.
The conflict seemed to revitalize the master of Durnholde. Something like anger and determination came into his face, and his moves were steadier. He feinted left, then battered hard on Thrall’s right. Even so, Thrall blocked effectively.
Now he pressed his own attack, surprised and a bit pleased that Blackmoore was able to defend himself and only suffered a slight grazing of his unprotected left side. Blackmoore realized his weakness and looked about for anything that could serve as a shield.
Grunting, Thrall tore the door off its hinges and tossed it to Blackmoore. “Hide behind the coward’s door,” he cried.
The door, while it would have made a fine shield for an orc, was of course too large for Blackmoore. He shoved it aside angrily.
“It’s still not too late, Thrall,” he said, shocking the orc. “You can join with me and we can work together. Of course I’ll free the other orcs, if you’ll promise that they’ll fight for me under my banner, just as you will!”
Thrall was so furious he didn’t defend himself properly as Blackmoore unexpectedly lunged. He didn’t get his sword up in time, and Blackmoore’s blade clanged off the armor. It was a clean blow, and the armor was all that stood between Thrall and injury.
“You are still drunk, Blackmoore, if you believe for an instant I can forget the sight of —”
Again, Thrall saw red, the recollection of Taretha’s blue eyes staring at him almost more than he could
bear. He had been holding back, trying to give Blackmoore at least a fighting chance, but now he threw that to the wind. With the impassive rage of a tidal wave crashing upon a seacoast city, Thrall bore down on Blackmoore. With each blow, each cry of rage, he relived his tormented youth at this man’s hands. As Blackmoore’s sword flew from his fingers, Thrall saw Taretha’s face, the friendly smile that enveloped human and orc alike, and saw no difference between them.
And when he had beaten Blackmoore into a corner, and that wreck of a man had seized a dagger from his boot and shoved it up toward Thrall’s face, narrowly missing the eye, Thrall cried out for vengeance, and brought his sword slicing down.
Blackmoore didn’t die at once. He lay, gasping, fingers impotently clutching his sides as blood pumped out in a staggering rush of red. He stared up at Thrall, his eyes glazed. Blood trickled from his mouth, and to Thrall’s astonishment, he smiled.
“You are . . . what I made you . . . I am so proud . . .” he said, and then sagged against the wall.
Thrall stepped out of the keep into the courtyard. Driving rain pelted him. At once, Hellscream splashed up to him. “Report,” demanded Thrall, even as his eyes swept the scene.
“We have taken Durnholde, my Warchief,” said Hellscream. He was spattered with blood and looked ecstatic,
his red eyes burning bright. “Reinforcements for the humans are still leagues distant. Most of those who have offered resistance are under our control. We have almost completed searching the keep and removing those who did not come to fight. The females and their young are unharmed, as you asked.”
Thrall saw clusters of his warriors surrounding groups of human males. They were seated in the mud, glaring up at their captors. Now and then one would rally, but he was quickly put in his place. Thrall noticed that although the orcs seemed to want very badly to assault their prisoners, none did.
“Find me Langston.” Hellscream hastened to do Thrall’s bidding, and Thrall went from cluster to cluster. The humans were either terrified or belligerent, but it was clear who had control of Durnholde now. He turned as Hellscream returned, driving Langston in front of him with well-timed prods from his sword.
At once Langston dropped to his knees in front of Thrall. Vaguely disgusted, Thrall ordered him to rise. “You are in command now, I assume?”
“Well, Sergeant . . . yes. Yes I am.”
“I have a task for you, Langston.” Thrall bent down so that the two were face-to-face. “You and I know what sort of betrayal you and Blackmoore were plotting. You were going to turn traitor to your Alliance. I’m offering you a chance to redeem yourself, if you’ll take it.”
Langston’s eyes searched his, and a bit of the fear left his face. He nodded. “What would you have me do?”
“Take a message to your Alliance. Tell them what has happened this day. Tell them that if they choose the path of peace, they will find us ready to engage in trade and cooperation with them, provided they free the rest of my people and surrender land — good land — for our use. If they choose the path of war, they will find an enemy the likes of which they have never seen. You thought we were strong fifteen years past — that is as nothing to the foe they will face on the battlefield today. You have had the good fortune to survive two battles with my army. You will, I am sure, be able to properly convey the full depths of the threat we will pose to them.”
Langston had gone pale beneath the mud and blood on his face. But he continued to meet Thrall’s eyes evenly.