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.The orcs gaped at the sight. Can you feel it stirring? Thrall yelled. Can you feel your spirits longing to fight, to kill, to be free?Come, my brothers and sisters! Without looking to see if they followed, Thrall charged toward theopening.He heard their tentative voices behind him, growing in volume with each step they took towardliberation.Suddenly Thrall grunted in pain as something impaled his arm.A black-fletched arrow hadsunk almost the entire way through it.He ignored the pain; time enough to tend to it when all were free.There was fighting all around him, the sounds of steel striking sword and ax biting flesh.Some of theguards, the more intelligent ones, had realized what was happening and were rushing to block the exitwith their own bodies.Thrall spared a moment of pity for the futility of their deaths, then charged.He snatched up a weapon from a fallen comrade and beat back the inexperienced guard easily. Go,go! he cried, waving with his left hand.The imprisoned orcs first froze in a tight group, then one of themyelled and charged forward.The rest followed.Thrall lifted his weapon, brought it down, and the guardfell writhing into the bloody mud.Gasping from exertion, Thrall looked around.All he could see now were the Warsong and Frostwolfclans engaged in combat.There were no more prisoners. Retreat! he cried, and made for the pile of still-hot rocks that had once been imprisoning walls and thesweet darkness of the night.His clansmen followed.There were one or two guards who gave chase, butthe orcs were faster and soon outdistanced them.The agreed-upon meeting place was an ancient pile of standing stones.The night was dark, but orcisheyes did not need the moons illumination to see.By the time Thrall reached the site, dozens of orcs werehuddled by the eight towering stones. Success! cried a voice at Thrall s right.He turned to see Doomhammer, his black plate armor shinywith what could only be spilled human blood. Success! You are free, my brethren.You are free!And the cry that swelled up into the moonless night filled Thrall s heart with joy. If you bear the news I think you do, then I am inclined to separate your pretty head from yourshoulders, Blackmoore growled at the hapless messenger who wore a baldric that marked him as arider from one of the internment camps.The messenger looked slightly ill. Perhaps, then, I ought not speak, he replied.There was a bottle to Blackmoore s right that seemed to keep calling to him.He ignored its song, thoughhis palms were sweaty. Let me guess.There has been another uprising at one of the encampments.All of the orcs haveescaped.No one knows where they are. Lord Blackmoore, stammered the young messenger,  will you still cut my head off if I confirm yourwords?Anger exploded through Blackmoore so sharply it was almost a physical pain.Hard on that passionateemotion was a profound sense of black despair.What was going on? How could those cattle, thosesheep in orc guise, rally themselves sufficiently to overthrow their captors? Who were these orcs whohad come out of nowhere, armed to the teeth and as full of hatred and fury as they had been twodecades past? There were rumors that Doomhammer, curse his rotten soul, had come out of hiding andwas leading these incursions.One guard had sworn that he had seen the black plate that bastard wasfamous for wearing. You may keep your head, said Blackmoore, acutely aware of the bottle that was within arm s reach. But only that you may carry a message back to your superiors. Sir, said the messenger miserably,  there s more.Blackmoore peered up at him with bloodshot eyes. How much more can there possibly be? This time, the instigator was positively identified.It was   Doomhammer, yes, I ve heard the rumors. No, my lord. The messenger swallowed.Blackmoore could actually see sweat popping out on theyouth s brow. The leader of these rebellions is.is Thrall, my lord. Blackmoore felt the blood drain from his face. You re a damned liar, my man, he said, softly. Or atleast you d better tell me you are. Nay, my lord, though I would it were not so.My master said he fought him in hand-to-hand combat,and remembered Thrall from the gladiator battles. I ll have your master s tongue for telling such untruths! bellowed Blackmoore. Alas, sir, you ll have to dig six feet to get his tongue, said the messenger. He died only an hour afterthe battle.Overcome with this new information, Blackmoore sank back in his chair and tried to compose histhoughts.A quick drink would help, but he knew that he was drinking too much in front of people.Hewas starting to hear the whispers:drunken fool.who s in command here now.No.He licked his lips.I m Aedelas Blackmoore, Lord of Durnholde, master of the encampments.I trained that green-skinned, black-blooded freak, I ought to be able to out-think him.by theLight, just one drink to steady these hands.A strange feeling of pride stole through him.He d been right about Thrall s potential all along.He knewhe d been something special, something more than just an ordinary orc.If only Thrall hadn t spurned thechances Blackmoore had given him! They could be leading the charge against the Alliance even now,with Blackmoore riding at the head of a loyal gathering of orcs, obedient to his every command.Foolish,foolish Thrall.For the briefest of moments, Blackmoore s thoughts drifted back toward that final beatinghe had given Thrall.Perhaps that had been a bit much.But he would not let himself feel guilt, not over his treatment of a disobedient slave.Thrall had thrown itall away to ally with these grunting, stinking, worthless thugs.Let him rot where he would fall.His attention returned to the trembling messenger, and Blackmoore forced a smile.The man relaxed,smiling tentatively back.With an unsteady hand, Blackmoore reached for a quill, dipped it in ink, andbegan to write a message.He powdered it to absorb the excess ink and gave it a few moments to dry.Then he carefully folded the missive into thirds, dripped hot wax on it, and set his seal.Handing it to the messenger, he said,  Take this to your master.And have a care for that neck of yours,young sir.Apparently having difficulty believing his good fortune, the messenger bowed deeply and hurried out,probably before Blackmoore could change his mind.Alone, Blackmoore lunged for the bottle, uncorkedit, and took several long, deep pulls.As he lowered the bottle from his lips, it spilled on his black doublet.He wiped at the stains, disinterested.That s what he had servants for. Tammis! he yelled.At once the door opened and the servant stuck his head in. Yes, sir? Go find Langston. He smiled. I ve got a task for him to complete. SIXTEENThrall had successfully managed to infiltrate and liberate three encampments.After the first, of course,security had been stepped up at the encampments.It was still pathetically lax, and the men who captured Thrall never seemed to expect him to stir up trouble [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]