Lord of the Clans (Warcraft, Book 2)
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In the mist-shrouded haze of the past, the world of Azeroth teemed with wondrous creatures of every kind. Mysterious Elves and hardy Dwarves walked among tribes of Man in relative peace and harmony -- until the arrival of the demonic army known as the Burning Legion shattered the world's tranquility forever. Now Orcs, Dragons, Goblins, and Trolls all vie for supremacy over the scattered, warring kingdoms -- part of a grand, malevolent scheme that will determine the fate of the world of
Slave. Gladiator. Shaman. Warchief. The enigmatic Orc known as Thrall has been all of these. Raised from infancy by cruel human masters who sought to mold him into their perfect pawn, Thrall was driven by both the savagery in his heart and the cunning of his upbringing to pursue a destiny he was only beginning to understand -- to break his bondage and rediscover the ancient traditions of his people. Now the tumultuous tale of his life's journey -- a saga of honor, hatred, and hope -- can at last be told....
certainly not this peculiar, unnatural lethargy. “Go on,” said Waryk, shoving Thrall gently toward the nearest cluster of orcs. “Food’s put out once a day. There’s water in the troughs.” Thrall stood up straight and tried to put a bold face on it as he strode to a group of five orcs, sitting beside the aforementioned water troughs. He could feel Waryk’s eyes boring into his scraped and bruised back and heard the man say, “I could swear I’ve seen him somewhere before.” Then he heard the men
They cut him to bits. He thought they were making sport of me, that I was being attacked twelve to one. He died to protect me.” Hellscream said nothing, merely continued to eat while watching Thrall closely. Famished though he was, Thrall let the haunch of meat drip its juices onto the stone floor. Someone had given his life to protect an unknown young orc. Slowly, without the keen pleasure he had experienced before, he bit into the flesh and chewed. Sooner or later, he would have to find the
briefest of moments, Blackmoore’s thoughts drifted back toward that final beating he 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 it all 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,
Immediately, the fire burnt more swiftly and with more heat than Thrall had ever experienced. The body would soon be consumed, and the shell that had housed the fiery spirit called in this world Orgrim Doomhammer would soon be no more. But what he had stood for, what he had died for, would never be forgotten. Thrall tilted his head back and bellowed a deep cry. One by one, others joined him, screaming their pain and passion. If there were indeed ancestral spirits, even they must have been
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.