Thrall - Christie Golden [45]
Thrall grunted. “A crafty, selfish drunkard trying to create an army of orcs to use against his own people?”
“In this timeway he is a crafty, selfish, sober general who doesn’t need an army of orcs to use against his own people,” she said. “From what you have told me”—she turned her short-cropped head to eye his powerful build—“you are a mighty warrior. And I believe it. It sounds like Blackmoore relied upon you and his secret scheme too heavily. When you died, he had to do the work himself.”
“Normally, that is an admirable trait,” Thrall said.
“Normally. But he is hardly … normal.” She turned away as she said it.
There was something in her expression that made Thrall instantly alert. A personal anger, and … shame?
“He … you were his mistress in this timeway too,” he said. “I am sorry.”
She laughed harshly. “Mistress? A mistress gets to attend parties, Thrall. She gets jewelry, and dresses, and goes hunting with her master. Her family is well taken care of. I was nothing so respected as a mistress.” She took a deep breath and continued. “I was just a diversion. He tired of me quickly. I can at least be grateful for that.”
“Your parents … what happened to them?”
“They were punished.” She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes. “For ‘letting’ you die, not very long after we lost my brother, Faralyn. Father lost his position and was demoted to the basest task of cleaning the stables. Mother died when I was eight. Blackmoore wouldn’t even let her see the doctor that winter. Father died a few years later. I took what meager savings they had and left without a backward glance. By then Blackmoore couldn’t have cared less. He was too busy ruling.”
“Ruling?” Thrall gaped at her.
“No one recognizes his claim to the throne of Lordaeron, of course. But no one dares topple him from it.”
Thrall sank back, trying to make sense of this. “Go on,” he said, his voice hollow.
“He was so popular. He started only with his own men, training them, driving them to perfection.”
Thrall thought of the endless gladiator matches he had been forced to endure. This did, in a twisted and bizarre way, sound like Blackmoore.
“Then he hired mercenary soldiers and trained them the same way. And after the Battle of Blackrock Spire, well, there was no stopping him.”
“What happened there?”
“He slew Orgrim Doomhammer in single combat,” Taretha said offhandedly, and took another handful of berries from those Thrall had gathered earlier.
Thrall could not believe his ears. Blackmoore? That sniveling, drunken coward? Challenging Orgrim Doomhammer, warchief of the Horde, to single combat? And winning?
“The defeat completely disheartened the greensk—I’m sorry. The orcs,” Taretha quickly corrected herself. “They’ve become slaves, Thrall. Their spirits are broken. They’re not even kept in camps like you told me about. Any found wild are purchased by the kingdom and either broken to servitude or, if they prove too defiant, killed.”
“That’s why you wanted me alive,” Thrall said quietly.
She nodded. “If I turned in a wild orc, I could live on what they paid me for more than a year. It’s … that is how my world is, Thrall. It’s how it’s always been. But …” Taretha frowned. “… I’ve always felt … well, it never felt right. Not just morally, but …” Her voice trailed off.
Thrall understood what she was trying to say. “It never felt right because it isn’t,” Thrall said firmly. “This timeline is wrong. Blackmoore is dead; the orcs have their own land; and I have made friends among humans.” He smiled. “Starting with you.”
She smiled a little in return and shook her head. “It’s strange, but … that seems right to me, now.” She hesitated. “I notice that you never mentioned what happened to me in that other timeway.”
He winced. “I had hoped you would not ask. But I should have known you would.”
“I, um … I take it I don’t end up like this Jaina Proudmoore woman you spoke so highly of,” she said, attempting lightness