Warcraft - Lord Of The Clans Part 11

Ask, came the reply.

Thrall began to stamp his feet. He felt power rising inside him, as he always did, but for the first time it was not accompanied by bloodl.u.s.t. It was warm and strong and he felt as solid as the bones of the earth themselves. He was barely aware of the very earth trembling beneath him, and it was only when an unbearably sweet scent filled his nostrils that he opened his eyes.

The earth had erupted into enormous fissures, and on every inch of what was rock, flowers bloomed.

Thrall gaped.

I have agreed to lend you my a.s.sistance, for the good of the Clan and those you would aid. Honor me, and that gift shall always be yours.

Thrall felt the power recede, leaving him trembling with shock at what he had summoned and controlled.

But he had only a moment to marvel at it, for another voice was in his head now.

I am the Spirit of Air, Thrall, son of Durotan. I am the winds that warm and cool the earth, that which fills your lungs and keeps you alive. I carry the birds and insects and dragons, and all things that dare soar to my challenging heights. Ask me.

Thrall knew what to do this time, and asked the same question. The sensation of power that filled him was different this time: lighter, freer. Even though he had been forbidden to speak, he could not help the laughter that bubbled forth from his soul. He felt warm winds caress him, bringing all manner of delicious scents to his nostrils, and when he opened his eyes, he was floating high above the ground. Drek'Thar was so far below him he seemed as a child's toy. But Thrall was not afraid. The Spirit of Air would support him; he had asked, and it had answered.

Gently, he floated down, until he felt the solid stone beneath his feet. Air caressed him with a gentle touch, then dissipated.

Power again filled Thrall, and this time it was almost painful. Heat churned in his belly, and sweat popped out on his green skin. He felt an almost overpowering desire to leap into the nearby s...o...b..nks.

The Spirit of Fire was here, and he asked for its aid. It responded.

There was a loud crackling overhead, and Thrall, startled by the sound, looked up. Lightning danced its dangerous dance across the night sky. Thrall knew that it was his to command. The flowers that had strewn the broken earth exploded into flames, crisping and burning to ashes in the s.p.a.ce of a few heartbeats. This was a dangerous element, and Thrall thought of the pleasant fires that had kept his clan alive. At once, the fires went out, to re-form in a small, contained, cozy area.

Thrall thanked the Spirit of Fire, and felt its presence depart. He was feeling drained by all this strange energy alternately coursing through him and then departing, and was grateful that there was only one more element to acknowledge.

The Spirit of Water flowed into him, calming and cooling the burn the Spirit of Fire had left behind.

Thrall had a vision of the ocean, though he had never seen one before, and extended his mind to probe its darkling depths. Something cold touched his skin. He opened his eyes to see that it was snowing thick and fast. With a thought, he turned it to rain, and then halted it altogether. The comfort of the Spirit of Water within him soothed and strengthened, and he let it go with deep, heartfelt thanks.

He looked over at Drek'Thar, but the shaman shook his head. "Your test is not yet completed," he said.

And then suddenly Thrall was shaken from head to toe with such a rush of power that he gasped aloud.

Of course. The fifth element.

The Spirit of the Wilds.

We are the Spirit of the Wilds, the essence and souls of all things living. We are the most powerful of all, surpa.s.sing the quakes of Earth, the winds of Air, the flames of Fire, and the floods of Water. Speak, Thrall, and tell us why you think you are worthy of our aid.

Thrall couldn't breathe. He was overwhelmed by the power churning within and without him. Forcing his eyes to open, he saw pale white shapes swirling about him. One was a wolf, the other a goat, another an orc, and a human, and a deer. He realized that every living thing had spirits, and felt despair rise up in him at the thought of having to sense and control all of them.

But faster than he could have dreamed, the spirits filled and then vacated him. Thrall felt pummeled by the onslaught, but forced himself to try to focus, to address each one with respect. It became impossible and he sank to his knees.

A soft sound filled the air, and Thrall struggled to lift a head that felt as heavy as stone.

They floated calmly around him now, and he knew that he had been judged and found worthy. A ghostly stag pranced about him, and he knew that he would never simply be able to bite into a haunch of venison without feeling its Spirit, and thanking it for the nourishment it provided. He felt a kins.h.i.+p with every orc that had ever been born, and even the human Spirit felt more like Taretha's sweet presence than Blackmoore's dark cruelty. Everything was bright, even if sometimes it embraced the dark; all life was connected, and any shaman who tampered with the chain without the utmost care and respect for that Spirit was doomed to fail.

Then they were gone. Thrall fell forward, utterly drained. He felt Drek'Thar's hand on his shoulder, shaking him. The old shaman a.s.sisted Thrall in sitting up. Thrall had never felt so limp and weak in his life.

"Well done, my child," said Drek'Thar, his voice trembling with emotion. "I had hoped they would accept . . . Thrall, you must know. It has been years, nay, decades, since the spirits have accepted a shaman. They were angry with us for our warlocks' dark bargain, their corruption of magic. There are only a few shamans left now, and all are as old as I. The spirits have waited for someone worthy upon whom to bestow their gifts; you are the first in a long, long time to be so honored. I had feared that the spirits would forever refuse to work with us again, but . . . Thrall, I have never seen a stronger shaman in my life, and you are only beginning."

"I . . . I thought it would feel so powerful," stammered Thrall, his voice faint. "But instead . . . I am so humbled. . . ."

"And it is that which makes you worthy." He reached and stroked Thrall's cheek. "Durotan and Draka would be so proud of you."

FOURTEEN.

With the Spirits of Earth, Air, Fire, Water and the Wilds as his willing companions, Thrall felt stronger and more confident than ever in his life. He worked together with Drek'Thar to learn the specific "calls,"

as the elder called them. "Warlocks would term them spells," he told Thrall, "but we - shamans - term them simply 'calls.' We ask, the powers we work with answer. Or not, as they will."

"Have they ever not answered?" asked Thrall.

Drek'Thar was silent. "Yes," he answered slowly. They were sitting together in Drek'Thar's cave, talking late at night. These conversations were precious to Thrall, and always enlightening.

"When? Why?" Thrall wanted to know, then immediately added, "Unless you do not wish to speak of it."

"You are a shaman now, although a fledgling one," said Drek'Thar. "It is right that you understand our limitations. I am ashamed to admit that I asked for improper things more than once. The first time, I asked for a flood to destroy an encampment of humans. I was angry and bitter, for they had destroyed many of our clan. But there were many wounded and even women and children at this place, and Water would not do it."

"But floods happen all the time," said Thrall. "Many innocents die, and it serves no purpose."

"It serves the Spirit of Water's purpose, and the Wilds'," replied Drek'Thar. "I do not know their needs and plans. They certainly do not tell me of them. This time, it did not serve Water's needs, and it would not flood and drown hundreds of humans it saw as innocent. Later, once the rage had faded, I understood that the Spirit of Water was right."

"When else?"

Drek'Thar hesitated. "You probably a.s.sume I have always been old, guiding the clan spiritually."

Thrall chuckled. "No one is born old, Wise One."

"Sometimes I wish I had been. But I was once young, as you are, and the blood flowed hot in my veins.

I had a mate and child. They died."

"In battle against the humans?"

"Nothing so n.o.ble. They simply fell ill, and all my pleas to the elements were to no avail. I raged in my grief." Even now, his voice was laden with sorrow. "I demanded that the spirits return the lives they had s.n.a.t.c.hed. They grew angry with me, and for many years, refused my call. Because of my arrogant demand that my loved ones come back to life, many others of our clan suffered from my inability to summon the spirits. When I saw the foolishness of my request, I begged the spirits to forgive me. They did."

"But . . . it is only natural to want your loved ones to stay alive," said Thrall. "Surely the spirits must understand that."

"Oh, they understood. My first request was humble, and the element listened with compa.s.sion before it refused. My next request was a furious demand, and the Spirit of the Wilds was offended that I so abused the relations.h.i.+p between shaman and element."

Drek'Thar extended a hand and placed it on Thrall's shoulder. "It is more than likely you will endure the pain of losing loved ones, Thrall. You must know that the Spirit of the Wilds has reasons for doing what it does, and you must respect those reasons."

Thrall nodded, but privately he completely sympathized with Drek'Thar's desires, and did not blame the old orc one bit for raging at the spirits in his torment.

"Where is Wise-ear?" he asked, to change the subject.

"I don't know." Drek'Thar seemed singularly unconcerned. "He is a companion, not a slave. He leaves when he wishes, returns when it is his will."

As if to rea.s.sure him that she was not about to go anywhere, Snowsong placed her head on Thrall's knee. He patted her head, bade his teacher good night, and went to his own cave to sleep.

The days pa.s.sed in a routine fas.h.i.+on. Thrall now spent most of his time studying with Drek'Thar, though on occasion he went hunting with a small group. He utilized his newfound relations.h.i.+p with the elements to aid his clan: asking the Spirit of Earth for advice on where the herds were, asking the Spirit of Air to change the course of the wind so that their scent would not betray them to the watchful creatures. Only once did he ask the Spirit of the Wilds for aid, when supplies were running dangerously low and their luck in hunting had taken a turn for the worse.

They knew deer were in the area. They had found gnawed tree bark and fresh droppings. But the canny creatures continued to elude them for several days. Their bellies were empty, and there was simply no more food left. The children were beginning to grow dangerously thin.

Thrall closed his eyes and extended his mind.Spirit of the Wilds, who breathes life into all, I ask for your favor. We will take no more than we need to feed the hungry of our clan. I ask you, Spirit of the deer, to sacrifice yourself for us. We will not waste any of your gifts, and we will honor you.

Many lives depend upon the surrendering of one.

He hoped the words were right. They had been couched with a respectful heart, but Thrall had never attempted this before. But when he opened his eyes, he saw a white stag standing not two arms' length in front of him. His companions seemed to see nothing. The stag's eyes met Thrall's, and the creature inclined its head. It bounded away, and Thrall saw that it left no trace in the snow.

"Follow me," he said. His fellow Frostwolves did so at once, and they went some distance before they saw a large, healthy stag lying in the snow. One of its legs jutted out at an unnatural angle, and its soft brown eyes were rolling in terror. The snow all around it was churned up, and it was obvious that it was unable to rise.

Thrall approached it, instinctively sending out a message of calm.Do not fear , he told it.Your pain will soon be ended, and your life continue to have meaning. I thank you, Brother, for your sacrifice.

The deer relaxed, and lowered its head. Thrall touched its neck gently. Quickly, to cause it no pain, he snapped the long neck. He looked up to see the others staring at him in awe. But he knew it was not by his will, but the deer's, that his people would eat tonight.

"We will take this animal and consume its flesh. We will make tools from the bones and clothing from its hide. And in so doing, we will remember that it honored us with this gift."

Thrall worked side by side with Drek'Thar to send energy to the seeds beneath the soil, that they would grow strong and flower in the spring that was so near, and to nurture the unborn beasts, be they deer or goat or wolf, growing in their mothers' wombs. They worked together to ask Water to spare the village from the spring snowmelts and the avalanches that were a constant danger. Thrall grew steadily in strength and in skill, and was so engrossed in this new, vibrant path he was walking that when he saw the first yellow and purple spring flowers poking their heads up through the melting snows, he was taken by surprise.

When he returned from his walk to gather the sacred herbs that aided the shaman's contact with the elements, he was surprised to find that the Frostwolves had another guest.

This orc was large, though from weight or muscle, Thrall could not say as the stranger's cloak was wrapped tightly around him. He huddled close to the fire and seemed not to feel the spring warmth.

Snowsong rushed forward to sniff noses and tails with Wise-ear, who had at long last returned. Thrall turned to Drek'Thar.

"Who is the stranger?" he asked softly.

"A wandering hermit," Drek'Thar replied. "We do not know him. He says that Wise-ear found him lost in the mountains, and led him here to safety."

Thrall looked at the bowl of stew the stranger clutched in one big hand, at the polite concern shown to him by the rest of the clan. "You receive him with more kindness than you received me," he said, not a little annoyed.

Drek'Thar laughed. "He comes asking only for refuge for a few days before pressing on. He didn't come with a torn Frostwolf swaddling cloth asking to be adopted by the clan. And he comes at springtime, when there is bounty to be had and shared, and not at the onset of winter."

Thrall had to acknowledge the shaman's points. Anxious to behave properly, he sat down by the stranger. "Greetings, stranger. How long have you been traveling?"

The orc looked at him from under a shadowing hood. His gray eyes were sharp, though his answer was polite, even deferential.

"Longer than I care to recall, young one. I am in your debt. I had thought the Frostwolves only a legend, told by Gul'dan's cronies to intimidate all other orcs."

Clan loyalty stirred inside Thrall. "We were banished wrongly, and have proved our worth by being able to make a life for ourselves in this harsh place," he replied.

"But it is my understanding that not so long ago, you were as much a stranger to this clan as I," the stranger said. "They have spoken of you, young Thrall."

"I hope they have spoken well," Thrall answered, unsure as to how to respond.

"Well enough," the stranger replied, enigmatically. He returned to eating his stew. Thrall saw that his hands were well muscled.

"What is your own clan, friend?"

The hand froze with the spoon halfway to the mouth. "I have no clan, now. I wander alone."

"Were they all killed?"

"Killed, or taken, or dead where it counts . . . in the soul," the orc answered, pain in his voice. "Let us speak no more of this."

Thrall inclined his head. He was uncomfortable around the stranger, and suspicious as well. Something was not quite right about him. He rose, nodded his head, and went to Drek'Thar.

"We should watch him," he said to his teacher. "There is something about this wandering hermit that I mislike."

Drek'Thar threw back his head and laughed. "We were wrong to suspect you when you came, yet you are the only one who mistrusts this hungry stranger. Oh, Thrall, you have yet so much to learn."

Over dinner that night, Thrall continued to watch the stranger without appearing too obvious. He had a large sack, which he would let no one touch, and never removed the bulky cape. He answered questions politely, but briefly, and revealed very little about himself. All Thrall knew was that he had been a hermit for twenty years, keeping to himself and nursing dreams of the old days without appearing to do very much to actually help bring them back.

At one point, Uthul asked, "Have you ever seen the internment camps? Thrall says the orcs imprisoned there have lost their will."

"Yes, and it is no surprise that this is so," said the stranger. "There is little to fight for anymore."

"There is much to fight for," said Thrall, his anger flaring quickly. "Freedom. A place of our own. The remembrance of our origins."

"And yet you Frostwolves hide up here in the mountains," the stranger replied.

"As you hide in the southlands!" Thrall retorted.

"I do not purport to rouse the orcs to cast off their slaves and revolt against their masters," the stranger replied, his voice calm, not rising to the bait.

"I will not be here long," said Thrall. "Come spring, I will rejoin the undefeated orc chieftain Grom h.e.l.lscream, and help his n.o.ble Warsong clan storm the camps. We will inspire our brethren to rise up against the humans, who are not their masters, but merely bullies who keep them against their will!" Thrall was on his feet now, the anger hot inside him at the insult this stranger dared to utter. He kept expecting Drek'Thar to chide him, but the old orc said nothing. He merely stroked his wolf companion and listened.

The other Frostwolves seemed fascinated by the interchange between these two and did not interrupt.

"Grom h.e.l.lscream," sneered the stranger, waving his hand dismissively. "A demon-ridden dreamer. No, you Frostwolves have the right of it, as do I. I have seen what the humans can do, and it is best to avoid them, and seek the hidden places where they do not come."

"I was raised by humans, and believe me, they are not infallible!" cried Thrall. "Nor are you, I would think, you coward!"

"Thrall -" began Drek'Thar, speaking up at last.

"No, Master Drek'Thar, I will not be silent. This . . . this . . . he comes seeking our aid, eats at our fire, and dares to insult the courage of our clan and his own race. I will not stand for it. I am not the chieftain, nor do I claim that right, though I was born to it. But I will claim my individual right to fight this stranger, and make him eat his words sliced upon my sword!"

He expected the cowardly hermit to cringe and ask his pardon. Instead, the stranger laughed heartily and rose. He was almost as big as Thrall, and now, finally, Thrall could glimpse beneath the cloak. To his astonishment, he saw that this arrogant stranger was completely clad in black plate armor, trimmed with bra.s.s. Once, the armor must have been stunning, but though it was still impressive, the plates had seen better days and the bra.s.s trim was sorely in need of polis.h.i.+ng.