knew it.
When he was not fighting he was shut alone in his cell, which seemed to him to grow smaller with each passing day despite the fact that Blackmoore had orderedhim a new one. Thrall now had a small, covered sleeping area and a much larger area in which to practice. Covered by a grate, this sunken ring had mock weapons of every sort and Thrall’s old friend, the battered training troll, upon which he could practice. Some nights, when he could not sleep, Thrall rose and took out his tension on the dummy.
It was the books that Taretha sent him, with their precious messages and now a tablet and stylus, that truly brightened those long, solitary hours. They had been conversing in secret at least once a week, and Thrall imagined a world as Tari painted it: A world of art, and beauty, and companionship. A world of food beyond rotting meat and slop. A world in which he had a place.
Every now and then, his eye would fall upon the increasingly fraying square of cloth that bore the symbol of a white wolf head on a blue field. He would look quickly away, not wanting to let his mind travel down that path. What good would it do? He had read enough books (some of which Blackmoore had no idea that Tari had passed along to Thrall) to understand that the orc people lived in small groups, each with its own distinctive symbol. What could he do, simply tell Blackmoore that he was tired of being a slave, thank you, and would he please let Thrall out so he could find his family?
And yet the thought teased him. His own people. Tari had her own people, her family of Tammis and Clannia Foxton. She was valued and loved. He wasgrateful that she had such loving support, because it was out of that secure place that she had felt large in heart enough to reach out to him.
Sometimes, he wondered what the rest of the Foxtons thought of him. Tari never mentioned them much anymore. She had told him that her mother Clannia had nursed him at her own breast, to save his life. At first, Thrall had been touched by that, but as he grew older and learned more, he understood that Clannia had not been moved to suckle him out of love, but out of a desire to increase her standing with Blackmoore.
Blackmoore. All roads of thought ended there. He could forget he was a piece of property when he was writing to Tari and reading her letters, or searching for her golden hair in the stands at the gladiator matches. He could also lose himself in the exciting thing Sergeant called “bloodlust.” But these moments were all too brief. Even when Blackmoore himself came to visit Thrall, to discuss some military strategy Thrall had studied, or to play a game of Hawks and Hares with him, there was no link, no sense of family with this man. When Blackmoore was jovial, it was with the attitude of a man toward a child. And when he was irritable and darkly furious, which was more often than not, Thrall felt as helpless as a child. Blackmoore could order him beaten, or starved, or burned, or shackled, or — the worst punishment of all, and one that had, thankfully, not yet occurred to Blackmoore — deny him access to his books.
He knew that Tari did not have a privileged life, not the way Blackmoore did. She was a servant, in her own way, as much in thrall as the orc who bore the name. But she had friends, and she was not spat upon, and she belonged .
Slowly, his hand moved, of its own accord, to reach for the blue swaddling cloth. At that moment, he heard the door unlock and open behind him. He dropped the cloth as if it were something unclean.
“Come on,” said one of the dour-faced guards. He extended the manacles. “Time to go fight. I hear they’ve got quite the opponents for you today.” He grinned mirthlessly, showing brown teeth. “And Master Blackmoore’s ready to have your hide if you don’t win.”
FIVE
M ore than a decade had passed since one Lieutenant Blackmoore had simultaneously found an orphaned orc and the possible answer to his dreams.
They
When he was not fighting he was shut alone in his cell, which seemed to him to grow smaller with each passing day despite the fact that Blackmoore had orderedhim a new one. Thrall now had a small, covered sleeping area and a much larger area in which to practice. Covered by a grate, this sunken ring had mock weapons of every sort and Thrall’s old friend, the battered training troll, upon which he could practice. Some nights, when he could not sleep, Thrall rose and took out his tension on the dummy.
It was the books that Taretha sent him, with their precious messages and now a tablet and stylus, that truly brightened those long, solitary hours. They had been conversing in secret at least once a week, and Thrall imagined a world as Tari painted it: A world of art, and beauty, and companionship. A world of food beyond rotting meat and slop. A world in which he had a place.
Every now and then, his eye would fall upon the increasingly fraying square of cloth that bore the symbol of a white wolf head on a blue field. He would look quickly away, not wanting to let his mind travel down that path. What good would it do? He had read enough books (some of which Blackmoore had no idea that Tari had passed along to Thrall) to understand that the orc people lived in small groups, each with its own distinctive symbol. What could he do, simply tell Blackmoore that he was tired of being a slave, thank you, and would he please let Thrall out so he could find his family?
And yet the thought teased him. His own people. Tari had her own people, her family of Tammis and Clannia Foxton. She was valued and loved. He wasgrateful that she had such loving support, because it was out of that secure place that she had felt large in heart enough to reach out to him.
Sometimes, he wondered what the rest of the Foxtons thought of him. Tari never mentioned them much anymore. She had told him that her mother Clannia had nursed him at her own breast, to save his life. At first, Thrall had been touched by that, but as he grew older and learned more, he understood that Clannia had not been moved to suckle him out of love, but out of a desire to increase her standing with Blackmoore.
Blackmoore. All roads of thought ended there. He could forget he was a piece of property when he was writing to Tari and reading her letters, or searching for her golden hair in the stands at the gladiator matches. He could also lose himself in the exciting thing Sergeant called “bloodlust.” But these moments were all too brief. Even when Blackmoore himself came to visit Thrall, to discuss some military strategy Thrall had studied, or to play a game of Hawks and Hares with him, there was no link, no sense of family with this man. When Blackmoore was jovial, it was with the attitude of a man toward a child. And when he was irritable and darkly furious, which was more often than not, Thrall felt as helpless as a child. Blackmoore could order him beaten, or starved, or burned, or shackled, or — the worst punishment of all, and one that had, thankfully, not yet occurred to Blackmoore — deny him access to his books.
He knew that Tari did not have a privileged life, not the way Blackmoore did. She was a servant, in her own way, as much in thrall as the orc who bore the name. But she had friends, and she was not spat upon, and she belonged .
Slowly, his hand moved, of its own accord, to reach for the blue swaddling cloth. At that moment, he heard the door unlock and open behind him. He dropped the cloth as if it were something unclean.
“Come on,” said one of the dour-faced guards. He extended the manacles. “Time to go fight. I hear they’ve got quite the opponents for you today.” He grinned mirthlessly, showing brown teeth. “And Master Blackmoore’s ready to have your hide if you don’t win.”
FIVE
M ore than a decade had passed since one Lieutenant Blackmoore had simultaneously found an orphaned orc and the possible answer to his dreams.
They
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