by Nunn, PL
Hands on his body, hauling him up, with his arm caught between himself and Bloodraven, and agonizing little sparks of pain making bright patterns in his vision.
Bloodraven put him down against the tree and he whimpered, then screamed outright when the ogr’ron lifted his arm. It was slick with blood and torn flesh. There was the faint glimmer of white bone beneath the red.
“Thak noz gru—hold still, fool!” Bloodraven hissed at him, and it occurred to Yhalen through the pain that those last two words had not been the only ones spoken to him that he’d understood.
“You bastard! You…lying b-bastard, you understand. You understand!” Yhalen screamed it, because at the moment a scream was the only thing his tortured body could produce.
The ogr’ron ignored him. He pulled off his tunic and ripped it into strips before wrapping Yhalen’s arm and binding it immobile against his chest. The procedure stole what was left of Yhalen’s coherency.
He didn’t quite pass out—the hurt was too poignant to allow him that grace, but he drifted. Heard through the rush of blood in his ears the sound of Bloodraven’s voice yelling at the dogs. Felt, through the Goddess-sent numbness that was creeping over his limbs, the ogr’ron move away from him, perhaps physically reprimanding the dogs when they ignored the verbal warning. They were not entirely tame then, to even their master’s hand. Little surprise there, for no wild beast forced to domestication ever truly was. And they’d tasted blood and the smell of it was still fresh in the air.
Then, minutes later—hours?—the ground disappeared from beneath him and the world swam, clouded in darkness. And after that, Yhalen ceased to know anything.
CHAPTER SIX
The trickle of blood was a warm, wet reminder of the wound in Bloodraven’s side. His human had a bite. And a temper. Which was all fine and well when a body was of a mind to be amused by the antics of a body’s personal possessions—but damned annoying when the same antics roused the whole of the camp and put Bloodraven himself at a great disadvantage in the eyes of his fellows. It was a blow to an ogre’s honor to be disregarded by a slave. A thin-limbed, little human slave at that, who was a head or more shorter and half his weight. Even more devastating a blow that the same frail human had scored a hit and drawn blood, especially with such an inconsequential weapon. Bloodraven picked up the small cooking knife and snorted, disgusted at himself for allowing it to happen—for leaving himself open to such a desperate, and no doubt lucky, lunge.
He should have let the dogs have him. Should have stood back and let them rip the boy to shreds and taken back the head as a trophy to let his fellows know that the hunt had not been an unsuccessful one. It wouldn’t have stopped Deathclaw from mocking him for letting the slave escape in the first place. Deathclaw never passed up such an opportunity, but then again Deathclaw hadn’t the wit to know when he was treading on ice too thin to support his massive body.
Deathclaw, like the majority of full-blooded ogres, thought less with his head and more with his heart, following the dictum of whims and by far too interested in the deadly scramble for power that appealed to the whole of their race. As if he’d know what to do with it, once he got it. As if he’d do anything other than thrash about crushing those weaker than himself, consumed with the notion that that was the only proper way to show the world and his fellows what a great warrior he was.
The fact that he was here, under Bloodraven’s command at the behest of his ominous and much respected sire, was proof that the Mountain Gods were frowning on this venture. But then Bloodraven had stopped praying to the Mountain Gods a very long while ago when they’d showed no interest in granting him their protection.
Bloodraven scooped up his human and the boy’s head rolled listlessly against his shoulder, lashes fluttering against too pale cheeks. The bandages were already soaked through. With the loss of enough blood and the shock, he might not survive the trip back to the village. Despite Bloodraven’s irritation and the problems likely to arise at his return, he rather hoped that wouldn’t be the case. This little slave amused him. He was appealing in both body and spirit.
It was a mystery why Deathclaw had gifted him with the boy. It made little sense. He’d expected some monumental flaw, some embarrassing trick—but the young human proved faultless—perfect in body if not always in disposition. There was no dishonor in owning a spirited slave as long as he bent to his master’s will, and for the most part this one had, adjusting to his place quickly enough.
Adjusting to Bloodraven’s body well enough also, which wasn’t always the case with humans. It was always a pleasure to discover one with the capacity to accept the entirety of an ogr’ron member.
The dogs ranged afield as Bloodraven padded through the wood. He lost track of them often, but trusted they’d stay close enough, having found the trail he’d set them upon. When he heard the jangle of tack, he almost thought it was some of his fellows, discovering the escape and following his own trail, but it was distant enough from the little village and accompanied by the muffled thump of hooves.
Riders. No ogres then, but humans. And a fair number of them from the sound of it and himself not armed or armored to take on a band of mounted men. So he did what very few full-blooded ogres would have, and dropped to the ground, using a gully to shield himself from the approaching band of men as he silently wished the dogs far enough away not to be heard, or to hear and come crashing in upon the riders.
There was a trail of sorts, leading northeast. There were perhaps a dozen armed riders. Good serviceable armor and weapons of war. These were not like the hunters that had attacked them yesterday—these were men that would have a bit more bite. But they were still men and no one of them would be a match for an ogre. Not hand-to-hand, at any rate—not unless it was a very fast man, with a very sharp weapon. The riders came from the southwest and were headed not towards the village and his company, so at the moment were little threat. But they would be. His company had avoided serious conflict up till now, avoided the discovery that a major battle would necessarily incur, but it wouldn’t be long before they were detected. There was little way to avoid it, for the ogre race had never been one to lurk too long in the shadows. It wasn’t in their nature.
His men were aching for combat and for victory and yesterday’s skirmish had only whet their appetite. Those women that Yhalen had helped escape—the same women that were still out there—would alert their people and then the humans would gather their forces en masse to repel them.
They had already repelled sorties into their lands by other bands and they were smart enough and wily enough to realize that something was brewing in the North. Bloodraven didn’t see them as sheep for the slaughter as so many of his fellows did. He saw them as something else entirely.
There was movement against him as they passed. A sudden jerking spasm as his human came back to himself, no doubt panicked and in pain. Bloodraven shifted, bringing a hand up to cover Yhalen’s mouth and tightening his other arm around the young man’s waist. There wasn’t much struggle in him, as weak from injury as he was. Aside from a few aborted attempts to free himself, Yhalen soon went still again in Bloodraven’s grasp.
When the riders were gone, the sound of hooves swallowed up by distance, Bloodraven loosened his grip and rose, pulling his human with him.
“Don’t…touch…me!” Yhalen cried, but it was more like a sob, disoriented and desperate. The young man pushed himself away and Bloodraven let him go, watching as his legs gave way almost immediately and he crumpled.
“Where are the dogs? Where are the dogs?” Yhalen moaned, and at first Bloodraven thought it was fear of them that prompted the query before it occurred to him that it wasn’t for himself that the human asked, but for worry over the women and children.
“Quiet. It doesn’t matter.”
He reached for the boy and Yhalen swiped at him with the arm that wasn’t mauled, trying to fend him off and scramble backwards at the same time.
“It does. Goddess damn you, m
onster. It does.”
It was amazing, the degree of the young human’s presumption, to rebel against him when he was in such a state. To curse him when he knew now that Bloodraven was perfectly capable of understanding the insult. He must have been insane with the pain, for even courage had its rational limits. He struggled when Bloodraven caught him and screamed at the agony he caused himself. Bloodraven clamped a hand across his mouth and considered silencing him with a blow. It was what a true ogre would have done—and probably killed the boy in the process. All pride aside, there was another way and that was simply to answer the question put forth with such desperate urgency.
“Be quiet, little fool. The dogs are here. They follow me, not those sniveling women that you risk so much for. Be still before I break your other arm, understand?”
Yhalen shuddered, but he ceased his struggling, head lolling against Bloodraven’s chest, strands of loose hair sticking to his skin and Bloodraven’s shirt. The hair glinted in the weak light, as fine as spun silk and more luxurious when a body had his hands in it than the most precious of animal pelts. There was value here that even a slow-witted, full blooded ogre could see, and perhaps that value might save Bloodraven face and his little human slave’s life when they returned to the village.
It took him an hour to trek back to the camp. His party was in turmoil, half his forces gone into the woods around the village to search for human prey, the others milling about the village, uneasy and volatile. Violence erupted easily among ogre kind—even as Bloodraven entered the outskirts of the village he heard the full-throated roar of male ogres engaged in battle amongst themselves and saw the gathered backs of his men as they observed a fight. There was no sound of clashing steel, which meant that the combatants were going at it hand to hand—which meant whatever dispute was being settled wasn’t of a mortal nature. It gave him the chance to move into the village relatively unnoticed. The human slaves saw, though. Wisely, they were staying far away from a battle between ogres, and Bloodraven beckoned. Vorjd, the headman among the northern slaves, followed him into the hut he’d taken for his own. His pale eyes warily flickered over Yhalen as Bloodraven lay him down upon the cot.
“See to him,” Bloodraven said in the ogre tongue and the man nodded, waiting for his master to move away before scooting in to lay hands on Yhalen. There was the sound of barking outside and curses. The dogs had come back sooner than he’d hoped, and their presence would alert the others of his return as well. He snatched his mail shirt and slipped it over his shoulders, then hastily donned his leather vest over it. He buckled his sword on as he made for the door, haphazardly armored and armed. A great ogrish form appeared in the doorway before Bloodraven reached it. A snarling, angry face that thrust itself into his domain unwelcome.
“Get out,” he growled, shoving a hand hard against the chest of Kragnor Deathclaw. The larger ogre took a half step backwards, but his bulk still filled the door and his small yellow eyes scanned inside the hut, focusing on the humans beyond.
“You brought one back alive. Are the others dead, Bloodraven?”
“Get out,” Bloodraven repeated, his hand on the hilt of his sword, his teeth bared. Deathclaw met his gaze, gauging as always how far he could push before violence was exchanged, then he backed up into the street where a crowd of his fellows waited.
“You should have called a hunt,” Deathclaw accused. “They laugh in the face of us all by their escape.”
Bloodraven waved a hand at him, dismissing his words, though he knew by the faces of the others that the lot of them had already worked themselves into a fervor over the indignity.
“If I’d wanted the woods full of our men, I’d have roused them, fools. We grow nearer to the human cities and their armed forces and I’d not have us discovered before we’re ready.”
“Puny humans can do us no harm,” one of the ogres shouted, brandishing a meaty fist in the air. His fellows joined in, boisterous and loud and ignorant.
“We’re thirty, they have hundreds—thousands. We’re not here to conquer the south, only to poke it a little.”
They stared, not quite comprehending his grasp on mortality, so he bared his teeth and stated it more simply. “Dagfari Wartooth sent us for slaves. Southern slaves to replenish the northern ones that grow scarce.”
“We have no slaves,” Deathclaw reminded them all. “Those we had have fled, and the blood I smell on you belongs only to that one you brought back. Where are the others?”
“The dogs killed them,” Bloodraven said. “Go and sniff about their muzzles if you wish and distinguish the flavor of the blood they’ve consumed.”
Deathclaw snorted. “You should have let them finish the one in there as well. A slave that escapes should be killed as a warning to the others. This is the way.”
“It’s the way,” the others agreed.
“No,” Bloodraven said simply, hand moving in no uncertain terms to grip the hilt of his sword. They eyed him warily, not so dense to doubt his speed or the sharpness of his blade. He’d not survived among them for as long as he had without shedding ogre blood, a great deal of it. They knew it and held respect for him because of it.
He cast a wry glance at Deathclaw and said, “To discard the gift of an honored comrade would show little esteem for the gesture in which it was given.”
They murmured at that, and Deathclaw’s lips drew back in a snarl, frustrated at the legitimacy of Bloodraven’s claim.
“Are you so weak that you let your slaves run away in the middle of the night while you sleep like a slow-witted mountain troll, and then won’t even avenge your stolen honor with punishment?”
Deathclaw sneered. The others seconded the conviction for the most part, firmly of the same opinion as Deathclaw. The same opinion any good ogre should have regarding the lesser races. The weaker races.
“I’ve no intention of letting the act go unpunished,” Bloodraven said, and meant it—he was simply not willing to let Deathclaw dictate the manner of the reprimand.
“Punishment between your bedfurs won’t avenge our honor!” Deathclaw cried and looked to his fellows for agreement. “We will hear his screams and see his blood, otherwise our vengeance will not be satisfied.”
It was only just. It was expected. Only a weakling would bend to the whims of mercy. If he’d just let the dogs have Yhalen and dragged his corpse back here, he’d not have found himself the focus of this growing hostility. And being a halfling—having the taint of human blood in his veins—he had tenuous enough control of the full-blooded ogres under his command as it was. He might be more deadly than the majority of them with the sword at his hip—quicker, smarter and more agile—but it didn’t mean they didn’t sneer at him behind his back and joke around the fire when they thought he couldn’t hear about the puny human male his mother had kept to warm her bedfurs.
An ogr’ron became used to such derision. An ogr’ron ignored it if he wished to survive into adulthood long enough to receive a warrior’s name. An ogr’ron learned at an early age, that no matter how he might truly feel about certain things—no matter what mental weaknesses human blood might have cursed him with—he never let on and he never scoffed at the traditions of the people.
So with one last, unflinching look at Deathclaw, who stood smugly in the company of Bloodraven’s warriors, he turned on his heel and marched back into the human hall. He startled his northern slaves, and they cringed at the look on his face, scattering when he stalked to the bunk.
“Has he woken?” he demanded of Vorjd.
“Only slightly,” the human said softly, not meeting his eyes. “He stirred a little through the sewing of his flesh and woke briefly when we straightened the bone, but fainted again soon after.”
Vorjd and his fellow slave had bound the arm with splints and clean cloth, though a little fresh blood had soaked through. They were quick and efficient in their ministrations, having learned that little time would be allowed them to tend to their own injuries.
“Wake hi
m,” Bloodraven said and Vorjd shuddered, long enough a slave to know that dire things were afoot. He didn’t argue—leaning to get a tin of water from the half-full bucket by the bunk, he tossed it onto Yhalen’s slack face.
Yhalen moaned, lifting his uninjured arm and dazedly blinking wet lashes. Tendrils of hair clung to his face in long, undulating patterns. Even in suffering he was beautiful, like the paintings in the ruins of old cathedrals in the north. Like the plundered statues, graceful even in decay, that even brutish ogres didn’t destroy out of hand when they claimed the ruins of more ancient civilizations for their own.
Bloodraven didn’t wait for him to regain coherency, but simply latched onto the good arm and hauled him up, dragging him along at his side, supporting more of Yhalen’s weight than Yhalen did himself. Outside and through the crowd of eager ogres, Bloodraven growling when they clustered too near, reaching out great hands for what was his and his alone. There was a wooden post in the center of town, where a banner had flown and garlands had been twined. It was stark now, its adornments stripped away by the hands of invaders. The cord that had held the banner still hung down, though, dangling uselessly.
Bloodraven shoved Yhalen face first against the post, grabbing the cord and drawing it though the loop at Yhalen’s collar. He then pulled it taut so that his listing slave was held on his feet by the metal about his slender neck. Bloodraven barked a command and someone brought him more strips of cord, which he used to bind Yhalen’s arms at the elbows around the shaft of the post. It was a small enough mercy, tying his arms above the splint, though not enough of one to keep the pain tears from the human’s cheeks. He took the frayed braid in his hand and laid it over Yhalen’s shoulder, tucking it under his arm to keep it out of the way.
Another sharp command and Ironbone the smithy grumbled in disappointment before turning to amble off towards his fire. Deathclaw himself gleefully extended a cruel, many tongued whip, embedded with bits of metal to tear flesh. It was a weapon that would have shredded thick ogre flesh, much less human, and would have rent Yhalen through and through wielded by the strength of an ogre arm. Bloodraven ignored it, turning instead to Werg Bloodaxe, one of his more trusted warriors, and asked for something more suited to frail human skin.