by Nunn, PL
Bloodraven shed water with a twitch of his shoulders and ran one hand through his hair, sweeping wet tendrils from his face. It rolled off his armor and puddled on the floor. He unfastened his sword belt and tossed it past Yhalen and onto the bed. Easily within Yhalen’s reach if he’d been capable of wielding a weapon that was more than likely over half his weight. He stared down the length of it regardless, wondering how much innocent blood it had tasted today. Wondering how many human lives Bloodraven had taken. More than he’d saved, Yhalen was sure of that. He looked up under his lashes, letting the fall of his hair hide the hatred in his glare. Cowardly not to cry it out, how much he hated them— him—but with the bloodlust in the air this night—perhaps it was prudence that kept him silent and still.
“Yhalen.”
He blinked at his name and at Bloodraven’s golden eyes fixed on him, as if the ogr’ron could sense his hatred. He looked up and Bloodraven beckoned with the crooking of one finger. The ogr’ron said a word that Yhalen was almost certain meant, now or hurry. So he rose, trailing his chain and approached warily. But Bloodraven only indicated a buckle at his back and Yhalen bit his lip, having no desire to be reduced to what Vorjd and his fellows were—willing and docile slaves that ran to do their masters every bidding. One thing to be a captive against his will and quite another to bend to all his enemies’ whims.
“I’m not a manservant,” he ground out, safe in his complaint by the distance of language. “Call Vorjd, if you want your armor cleaned.”
“Yhalen —Kravznar!”
Bloodraven twisted his head to look down at him, eyes narrow and impatient. There was some bit of anger there, but Yhalen wasn’t certain if it were for him, or for something else. Regardless, it would shift to him soon enough if he continued in his refusal. He frowned and reached up to work at the buckle of one shoulder guard. The leather was wet from more than rain. His fingers came away stained red. Not the ogr’ron’s blood, surely. Not past the armor and the chain mail. More than likely the blood of some innocent child that had been slaughtered. Or of a father desperate to protect his village.
A large hand suddenly caught his arm and he found himself half lifted off his feet, shaken with enough force to rattle his teeth—had he spoken out loud? Had he stood there for long enough with the bloody leather in his hands to draw Bloodraven’s anger down upon him? The ogr’ron tore the shoulder guard off and tossed it down, not waiting for Yhalen’s help with the other one, but yanking it over his head, along with the chain mail it was attached to. Underneath there was blood on the linen shirt that protected skin from the harsh bite of chain mail. The shirt was stained red, as was the front of Bloodraven’s neck where a rivulet of red ran down from behind his ear, the source of the blood hidden by thick hair. He’d taken a wound then, between the protection of armor and helm. The ogr’ron slid his fingers under his hair and brought them out red. He swore in disgust and shook the blood off.
Yhalen stared at the blood. As dark and red as his own. He felt a little tingle of retribution. A little tingle of vengefulness.
“I wish it had been mortal,” he whispered and meant it with all his heart. He wished it on all of them and this one mostly, who had charge of his body. Mother would have frowned at that ill wish, but then Mother only knew of healing hurts. Mother didn’t even eat the meat of animals, the vein of preserving life ran so deep within her soul. She’d tried to teach him, tried to steer him down the path of the healer, hoping he’d inherited her gifts—but he’d been too swayed by the life of a hunter, as were most young men of the people. Well, he had the gift, he’d discovered that profoundly enough—but even if he found freedom tomorrow, he thought he might never have the heart of a healer. Healers didn’t hate. They didn’t wish death and destruction—not even in their dying breath.
Bloodraven shed the rest of his armor and in a fit of irritation shoved Yhalen towards his bunk.
Yhalen stumbled and caught the edge of it, crouching there, awaiting whatever molestation would follow. But none did. Not then. With a low growl, the ogr’ron stalked to the door of the hall and bellowed something out into the rain. His lieutenants soon came in, bending low to enter, shaking the rain off massive shoulders. With the rain, with this roof available, perhaps Bloodraven had bid his closest companions to share in the plundered shelter.
A human slave came not long after and quickly set a fire in the hearth. It was blazing soon after, with dry wood from inside the hall. The ogres spoke amongst themselves at the far end of the hall, where the tables had been cleared to make room for their bulk. They sat on the floor and talked about whatever it was that ogres spoke of. Yhalen crouched at the head of Bloodraven’s cot, using it as a shield between himself and them and while the human slaves came in and out with cooking utensils.
Another pair of wet ogres entered, jangling with weapons but washed free of human blood by the rain. They joined the others, a cramped grouping in a hall designed for human stature. Yhalen thanked the Goddess that Deathclaw wasn’t among them, but then he doubted that Deathclaw was ever welcome in the midst of Bloodraven’s confidantes.
The slaves came in again, bearing the carcass of some slaughtered animal, and with them two cowering women from the village, who had in their arms strings of dried vegetables and sacks of flour or meal. Yhalen heard Vorjd whispering harshly to them that if they wished to live, and if they wished the other women and children too as well, then they would prove how valuable their skills at cooking were. They stared, wild-eyed at the ogres at the end of the room, then back at Vorjd, who did their bidding.
“You’d have us feed them?” the younger one ground out, low-voiced and resentful. Yhalen thought she was the one who had stood up for the child earlier. The fearless one. Either that or entirely stupid.
“I’d have you do what you’re told, if you value your life, girl,” Vorjd whispered back. “He’s a taste for something other than trail rations—bribe his palate and perhaps he won’t give you to the others to play with.”
The other woman, the older one, pulled hastily at the younger one’s arm, frantically gesturing for her to be quiet and comply. She did, and the two of them sat about the hearth while Vorjd and the other blonde slave spitted the carcass and set it over hearth. The hearth was big enough that it had probably served as a main cooking spot for the entire village. It would serve larger appetites tonight.
Yhalen sat staring, motionless, fingers clutching at the furs of his master’s cot, afraid that he’d be noticed by them—by these women, who would conjecture most likely correctly about to what use he was put. The older one was busy about her work, tears slowly streaking her broad face, but the eyes of the younger one found him. Large, wary eyes under hair that held the red hues of autumn. She took him in—his scant clothing, the collar and the chain, the bunk upon which he leaned—and her gaze narrowed.
“Why are you chained, when the others run to do their bidding like dogs?” she spat, loud enough that her voice carried.
Loud enough for the ogres to hear, even though they might not understand. Foolish, foolish girl, to draw attention to herself and to him. He didn’t answer, not knowing how—not wanting to admit ever, to anyone, whose pet he was and what function he served. He looked to the ogres to see if any of them paid heed to their human captives, but they were busy amongst themselves.
Embarrassment urged him to stay put and avoid their company, but the thirst for companionship with someone other than the dead-spirited northern slaves made him rise and carefully work his way towards the hearth. The women looked at him, one mixing dough for bread and the other chopping vegetables with a dull edged knife. The young one frowned at him as he hesitated at the edge of the hearth.
“Did…did no one escape?” he asked softly and the older woman tightened her lips, eyes leaking fresh tears.
The younger one glared at him, fist tightening on the knife and hissed.
“We’re not cowards. None of us would flee and leave the rest to perish. We serve them only because
of what they would do to the children if we didn’t.” She said it as if he were here of his own volition.
He knew not what to say to that. He sank down at the edge of the hearth, shoulder to the warm stones of the chimney.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean—I’d hoped someone might have escaped to tell your liege lord.”
The girl frowned, considering his words, then dipped her head marginally and admitted, “I don’t think any did. He won’t come for us then, will he? What will they do with us?”
“Take you north.”
“North? For what?” she cried.
“They have…slave markets…I’m told.”
“Oh, god of the sky, protect us,” the older woman moaned.
“They captured you, too?” the younger one asked, and Yhalen nodded.
“I’m of the Ydregi.”
“I’m Meliah of Cantog village. This is Hester.”
“Yhalen,” he said softly, glad to share his name with human folks. Glad that the derision in this girl’s eyes had finally faded.
“Work. No talk,” one of the northern slaves snapped at them, his accent harsher than Vorjd’s.
“Let me help,” Yhalen said softly, and the girl handed him her dull knife for him to peel root vegetables.
“Is that the leader?” Meliah whispered, her eyes flickering across the floor to where the ogres sat, Bloodraven among them, his ears glittering with gold rings. The true-blooded ogres’ voices were loud and gruff, their bodies large and cumbersome and by far more powerful—but they deferred to him.
That was clear even to a frightened village girl.
“Yes. I think he is.”
“And you stay in his quarters?”
There, the question Yhalen had dreaded. The one that would reveal his shame and humiliation. He reddened. He felt it flood his cheeks and lowered his head so that his hair fell to obscure it.
“I…yes. I do.”
“Why?”
He couldn’t answer that. Words lodged in his throat. To lie would be even worse—even more of an embarrassment when the truth was revealed.
“He…uses you?” the girl whispered, coming to her own shocked conclusions. “Is it possible—they’re so large. But he’s smaller—I’ve seen a man or two almost his size, so I suppose—”
“Yes,” Yhalen hissed, glaring at her in frustration, ears burning at her supposition. “He uses me in that fashion and yes, I survive it—and please speak of it no more, it…shames me.”
Her eyes grew round with what he thought might have been pity, and that galled as much as the rest. She put a hand out and tentatively touched his wrist. He jerked back a little, not wanting her attempts at comfort. Wishing he’d never come over here, but loath to give up the human presence.
“No shame,” she said. “Not if you defy them.”
He half laughed at that. Stupid girl. Had she no idea what cost defiance would bring? Had she no notion how strong they were, or how cruel?
“Do you sleep between his sheets?”
He swallowed, angry at the question. “Morbid curiosity?” he hissed.
“Do you?”
“When he’s of a mind.”
“Then keep the knife,” she whispered. “Slit his throat when he sleeps and you’ll deprive them of a leader and regain your tattered honor in one stroke.”
Yhalen blinked at her, then down at the paring knife in his hand.
“When you have,” Meliah said. “Slip out the back of the hall. There’s a secret hatch in the wall at the far end that leads to a cellar where we keep dried meat and vegetables for the winter. You can escape that way, and it will put you on the far side of the main street. They’ve put us in the smallest shack at the end of the street. You can cut the twine that binds the boards together at the back of it. If you can free us, do so. If not, then flee and warn our liege lord of what has happened.”
There was something in this girl’s eyes that was hard and determined. She spoke of killing and flight and of her own sacrifice as if it were nothing. She was harsher than he was by far, for Yhalen’s hands were shaking, so that he had to press them between his knees to hide it.
“If I flee—they may kill you,” he whispered, remembering what Vorjd had told him.
She flinched a little, but nodded. “Then try to take us with you. But better that the word gets out if you can’t.”
He stared at her stricken, heart thudding in his chest like a wild thing trying to escape. She made assumptions about his bravery—perhaps because her own was so careless. She made assumptions about his skill—for surely, surely Bloodraven was never so careless of him. And yet, he couldn’t deny her hope. There was something in her eyes that spoke of a faith and determination that he no longer had. But then, she hadn’t felt the sting of their wrath, of their casual amusement. If she never did—if any of those hapless women and children never did—it was worth him summoning the courage to try and help.
He nodded once, not quite able to form words of agreement, and sat thereafter in numb awareness of what went into the preparation of the ogre’s meal. When it was served, he was shoved back and out of the way as the monsters came for their shares. He huddled by the cot with the women as the ogres sampled the fare and found it to their liking.
“They’re beasts,” the girl said, not bothering to whisper as she crouched next to Yhalen, clutching his arm.
And for the most part, they were uncivilized, grabbing hunks of meat and slopping stew from the great pot into large bowls that their northern slaves had brought in. They ate quickly, like dogs that knew not where or when their next meal would come. Only Bloodraven sat and savored his choice morsels, having first selection among them. Yhalen felt his eyes upon him and upon the girl who pressed herself so firmly against his side. He barked something finally, and the northern slaves bustled to do his bidding, demanding that the women get up and return with them to the prison the ogres had selected for them. The girl cast one last look back at Yhalen as she was dragged away. Expectant and hopeful.
It ate at his heart.
When they were gone, Bloodraven called his name and Yhalen blanched, staring in dismay at the circle of ogres that surrounding the halfling—dreading the very notion of putting himself in their midst.
When he hesitated, the ogr’ron’s eyes narrowed and Yhalen knew that if he made Bloodraven call his name once again there would be punishment to be expected. He rose, moving to the end of his tether to stand in the center of the hall, his head down and hands clenched at his side. Vorjd appeared beside him, silent and efficient and released the chain from Yhalen’s collar. Then the man quickly faded back into the shadows to await further command.
Bloodraven crooked a finger, and Yhalen forced his legs to move, breath fluttering in his lungs as he slipped between two ogres as tall sitting down as Yhalen standing. Bloodraven was smaller, but no less frightening. The ogr’ron patted the floor by his side and Yhalen carefully settled to his knees beside him.
A morsel of meat was offered, held delicately between the ogr’ron’s thick fingers.
Anything but complete submission in the very midst of this gathering would earn him great pain.
And his stomach was rumbling. He reached for the meat and Bloodraven spoke a word that Yhalen recognized as no. Yhalen froze, not understanding at first, then finally realizing that the halfling wished him to take the food from his very fingers, like a dog. Collared like a dog, leashed like one. Fed like one.
He got very much the treatment that Bloodraven’s dogs did, save that he doubted the ogr’ron rutted with them.
“I’m not your dog,” he whispered, no bitterness in his voice, no anger, nothing to set them off. But for his own piece of mind, for the sake of what tatters of pride he had left to him, he had to say it whether they understood or not. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t do what they wanted. It only meant that at least he—if no one else—was aware that it was done against his will. He leaned forward, before offense could be taken and
gingerly took the piece of meat between his teeth.
The others laughed, perhaps at him, making comments that Yhalen in no wise ever wanted to understand, before going back to their own conversations. Bloodraven plucked another piece of meat from his platter and held it out for Yhalen to take and another until the bone was picked clean and tossed towards the door for Vorjd to pluck up and fling outside for the dogs. Bloodraven caught the back of Yhalen’s head and drew him close, running his grease covered fingers along Yhalen’s lips, working one inside when Yhalen reluctantly opened his mouth. He obediently licked the grease from the ogr’ron fingers, his stomach churning at his own meekness. Yet one more thing to hate himself for. Yet one more thing to be ashamed of. That girl—Meliah, he thought—would have died first. Maybe he would have as well, once upon a time.
He hadn’t the stamina now. When Bloodraven pressed his head down upon his thigh, Yhalen’s body had no resistance. He curled there, like the dog he claimed not to be, close against his master’s side, while his master’s broad hand stroked his hair and his body. He listened to their guttural speech and let his mind blank, drifting far away from this bloodstained place. He felt the animal essences of the dogs outside, content to guard their master’s doorstep in the rain, suspicious of all who ventured near, whether they be ogre or human. And beyond them the life essences of the ogres outside in the village.
The ones that had not been invited to share Bloodraven’s hearth. He was aware of the humans huddled in their small prison shack, as well. Fragile and pale and frightened, smaller life essences by far, or at the very least less volatile.
Strange that he was so much more sensitive to them now than he ever was before. He could feel the pulse of power behind each shining essence. Each life had energy, had power of a sort, his mother had said. And when a body fell ill or was wounded it lost energy—a great healer could pull energy from her own reserves if the need was minor, or from outside sources if the need was greater. It was only a matter of knowing how to borrow it. Borrow? He’d often wondered at that phrase. How did one borrow what was never given back? He’d not borrowed anything from the forest he’d killed when he’d healed himself after his rape at the hands of Kragnor Deathclaw. What he’d taken could never be given back, and though the forest had given it freely, the forest always did.
