"Tha's nice, Thrall," Blackmoore was saying. As Thrall watched, disgusted, the former war hero swayed and caught himself on the wall. "What did you have in mind?"

Once again, pity warred with hatred in his heart. "We have no desire to fight humans anymore, unless you force us to defend ourselves. But you hold many hundreds of orcs prisoners, Blackmoore, in your vile encampments. They will be freed, one way or another. We can do it without more unnecessary bloodshed. Willingly release all the orcs held prisoner in the encampments, and we will return to the wilds and leave humans alone."

Blackmoore threw back his head and laughed. "Oh," he gasped, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, "oh, you are better than the king's jester, Thrall.Slave. I swear, it is more entertaining to watch you now than it was when you fought in the gladiator ring. Listen to you! Using complete sentences, by the Light!

Think you understand mercy, do you?"

Langston felt a tug on his sleeve. He jumped, and turned to behold Sergeant. "I've no great love for you, Langston," the man growled, his eyes fierce, "but at least you're sober. You've got to shut Blackmoore up! Get him down from there! You've seen what the orcs can do."

"We can't possibly surrender!" gasped Langston, though in his heart he wanted to.

"Nay," said Sergeant, "but we should at least send out men to talk to them, buy some time for our allies to get here. Hedid send for reinforcements, didn't he?"

"Of course he did," Langston hissed. Their conversation had been overheard and Blackmoore turned bloodshot eyes in their direction. There was a small sack at his feet and he nearly stumbled over it.

"Ah, Sergeant!" he boomed, lurching over toward him. "Thrall! Here's an old friend!"

Thrall sighed. Langston thought he looked the most composed of all of them. "I am sorry that you are still here, Sergeant."

"As am I," Langston heard the Sergeant mutter. Louder, Sergeant said, "You've been too long away, Thrall."

"Convince Blackmoore to release the orcs, and I swear on the honor that you taught me and I possess, none within these walls shall come to harm."

"My lord," said Langston nervously, "You recall what powers I saw displayed in the last conflict. Thrall had me, and he let me go. He kept his word. I know he's only an orc, but -"

"Y'hear that, Thrall?" bellowed Blackmoore. "You're only an orc! Even that idiot Langston says so!

What kin' of human surrenders to an orc?" He rushed forward and leaned over the wall.

"Why'd you do it, Thrall?" he cried brokenly. "I gave you everything! You and me, we'd have led those greenskins of yours against th' Alliance and had all the food and wine and gold we could want!"

Langston stared, horrified. Blackmoore was now screaming his treachery to all within earshot. At least he hadn't implicated Langston . . . yet. Langston wished he had the guts to just shove Blackmoore over the wall and surrender the fortress to Thrall right now.

Thrall didn't waste the opportunity. "Do you hear that, men of Durnholde!" he bellowed. "Your lord and master would betray all of you! Rise up against him, take him away, yield to us, and at the end of the day you will still have your lives and your fortress!"

But there was no sudden stirring of rebellion, and Thrall supposed he couldn't blame them. "I ask you once more, Blackmoore. Negotiate, or die."

Blackmoore stood up to his full height. Thrall now saw that he held something in his right hand. It was a sack.

"Here's my answer, Thrall!"

He reached into the sack and pulled something out. Thrall couldn't see what it was, but he saw Sergeant and Langston recoil. Then the object came hurtling toward him and struck the ground, rolling to a stop at Thrall's feet.

Taretha's blue eyes stared sightlessly up at him from her severed head.

"That's what I do with traitors!" screamed Blackmoore, dancing madly on the walkway. "That's what we do with people we love who betray us . . . who take everything and give nothing . . . who sympathize with double-d.a.m.nedorcs! "

Thrall didn't hear him. Thunder was rolling in his ears. His knees went weak and he fell to the earth.

Gorge rose in his throat and his vision swam.

It couldn't be. Not Tari. Surely not even Blackmoore could do such an abominable thing to an innocent.

But blessed unconsciousness would not come. He remained stubbornly awake, staring at long blond hair, blue eyes, and a b.l.o.o.d.y severed neck. Then the horrible image blurred. Wetness poured down his face. His chest heaving with agony, Thrall recalled Tari's words to him, so long ago:These are called tears. They come when we are so sad, so soul sick, it's as if our hearts are so full of pain there's no place else for it to go.

But there was a place for the pain to go. Into action, into revenge. Red flooded Thrall's vision now, and he threw back his head and screamed with rage such as he had never before experienced. The cry burned his throat with its raw fury.

The sky boiled. Dozens of lightning strikes split the clouds, dazzling the eye for a moment. The furious peals of crashing thunder that followed nearly deafened the men at the fortress. Many of them dropped their weapons and fell to their knees, gibbering terror at the celestial display of fury that so clearly echoed the wrenching pain of the orc leader.

Blackmoore laughed, obviously mistaking Thrall's rage for helpless grief. When the last peals of thunder died down, he yelled, "They said you couldn't be broken! Well, I broke you, Thrall.I broke you! "

Thrall's cry died away, and he stared at Blackmoore. Even across this distance, he could see the blood drain from Blackmoore's face as his enemy now, finally, began to understand what he had roused with his brutal murder.

Thrall had come hoping to end this peacefully. Blackmoore's actions had destroyed that chance utterly.

Blackmoore would not live to see another sunrise, and his keep would shatter like fragile gla.s.s before the orcish attack.

"Thrall. . . ." It was h.e.l.lscream, uncertain as to Thrall's state of mind. Thrall, his chest still raw with grief and tears still streaming down his broad green face, impaled him with his glance. Mingled sympathy and approval showed in h.e.l.lscream's expression.

Slowly, harnessing his powerful self-control, Thrall raised the great warhammer. He began to stamp his feet, one right after the other, in a powerful, steady rhythm. The others joined him at once, and very faintly, the earth trembled.

Langston stared, sickened and appalled, at the girl's head on the ground thirty feet below. He had known Blackmoore had a streak of cruelty, but he had never imagined. . . .

"What have you done!" The words exploded from Sergeant, who grabbed Blackmoore and spun him around to face him.

Blackmoore began laughing hysterically.

Sergeant went cold inside as he heard the screams, and then felt the slight tremble in the stone. "My lord, he makes the earth shake . . . we must fire!"

"Two thousand orcs all stomping their feet, 'course the earth's going to shake!" snarled Blackmoore. He veered back toward the wall, apparently intent upon verbally tormenting the orc still further.

They were lost, Langston thought. It was too late to surrender now. Thrall was going to use his demonic magic, and destroy the fortress and everyone in it as retaliation for the girl. His mouth worked, but nothing came out. He felt Sergeant staring at him.

"d.a.m.n the lot of you n.o.ble-born, heartless b.a.s.t.a.r.ds," 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.

TWENTY The 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 b.l.o.o.d.y, noisy h.e.l.l.

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 howbig Thrall was. Clad in black plate armor, wielding a ma.s.sive sword, he seemed to tower over the p.r.o.ne 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 impa.s.sive 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.