Read Online Lord of the Clans by Christie Golden - Free Book Online Page B

had impaled him. They would have to come soon if Thrall were to be able to fight again tomorrow.
    Thrall heard the lock open, but could not lift his head to see who entered his cell.
    “The healers will be here,” came Blackmoore’s voice. Thrall tensed. The voice was slurred and dripped with contempt. His heart began to speed up. Please, not this time . . . not now. . . .
    “But they won’t be here anytime soon. I wan’ see you suffer, you poxy son of a whore.”
    And then Thrall gasped in torment as Blackmoore’s boot kicked him in the stomach. The pain was incredible, but not nearly as searing as the shock of betrayal that shuddered through him. Why would Blackmoorestrike him when he was so badly injured? Did he not see how well Thrall had fought?
    Though the pain threatened to cause him to lose consciousness, Thrall raised his head and stared at Blackmoore with blurred vision. The man’s face was contorted in anger, and even as Thrall met his eyes Blackmoore struck him soundly across the face with a mailed fist. Everything went black for an instant and when Thrall could next hear, Blackmoore was still railing.
    “. . . lost thousands, do you hear me, thousands! What is the matter with you? It was one pathetic little fight!”
    He was still raining blows on Thrall, but Thrall was starting to drift away. He felt as if his body only vaguely belonged to him, and the kicks Blackmoore delivered felt more and more like taps. He felt blood sticky on his face.
    Blackmoore had seen him. He knew how exhausted Thrall had been, had watched him rally again and again and again to hold his own eight out of nine times. There was no way anyone could have expected Thrall to win that fight. Thrall had fought with everything he had, and he had lost fairly and honorably. And yet that was not good enough for Blackmoore.
    Finally, the blows stopped. He heard the steps as Blackmoore left, and a single phrase: “Let the others have their turn.”
    The door did not close. Thrall heard more footsteps. He could not raise his head again, though he tried. Several pairs of black military boots appeared in frontof him. Thrall now realized what Blackmoore had ordered. One boot drew back slightly, then swung forward, kicking Thrall in the face.
    His world went white, then black; then he knew no more.
    Thrall awoke to warmth and a cessation of the agony that had been his companion for what seemed like an eternity. Three healers were working on him, using their salve to heal his wounds. Breathing was much easier and he guessed his ribs had been healed. They were administering the sweet-smelling, gooey stuff to his shoulder now; clearly that was the most difficult wound.
    Although their touches were gentle, and their salve brought healing, there was no real compassion in these men. They healed him because Blackmoore paid them to do so, not out of any real desire to ease suffering. Once, he had been more naive and had thanked them sincerely for their efforts. One of them looked up, startled at the words.
    A sneer had curled his lip. “Don’t flatter yourself, monster. Once the coins stop flowing, so does the salve. Better not lose.”
    He had winced from the unkind words then, but they did not bother him now. Thrall understood. He understood many things. It was as if his vision had been cloudy, and a thick fog had suddenly lifted. He lay quietly until they had finished; then they rose and left.
    Thrall sat upright and was surprised to see Sergeantstanding there, his hairy arms folded across his broad chest. Thrall did not speak, wondering what new torment was coming.
    “I pulled ’em off you,” said Sergeant quietly. “But not before they’d had their sport. Blackmoore had some . . . business . . . he needed to talk w’ me about. I’m sorry for that, lad. I’m right sorry. You amazed me in the ring today. Blackmoore ought to be prouder’n hell ’o you. Instead. . . .” His gruff voice trailed off. “Well, I wanted to make sure you knew