by Nunn, PL
Bloodraven abruptly dropped into blackness.
Yhalen slipped off the back of the horse when the man in front of him gestured impatiently. The shadow of a great wall swallowed the morning light. It was a very thick wall, made of very large stones. He’d never seen the like, living in the great forest where there were no walls and no locks. The city of Nakhanor was the largest town he’d been to, with its sprawling avenues filled with flat houses and crowded with busy people. He’d been to many of the smaller eastern settlements on this errand or that, to trade for the few things that the Ydregi couldn’t make from the bounty of the great forest. He’d always been eager to go and to explore the eastern provinces, eager for that which lay outside the familiarity of the forest and the boundary of his father and his grandfather’s rule.
Well, he was outside of it now. Both in body and in spirit. The walls of this great castle were not nearly as foreign as the dark magic he’d conjured in the forest beyond it. He’d hardly been able to dwell on anything else on the way here. Hardly been able to pay heed to the words of the men who rode in this company, though he’d gathered that the lord of this keep was among them.
That man, tall and bearded, with small dark eyes above a regal hawk’s nose, was now shouting commands to the men at arms that ran to meet the incoming party. The outer courtyard bustled with people, more bewildered looking folk in homespun who clutched children and pitiful bundles of belongings than soldiers. Yhalen assumed they were folk from surrounding villages, fled here to the safety of this keep when word had spread of invaders down from the north. Perhaps it had been the women he’d helped escape who’d brought warning here, or perhaps someone had discovered the bodies the ogres had left in their wake.
Yhalen stood amongst them, forgotten in the activity, and stared up at the keep itself. Massive and blocky, it boasted nothing of grace or beauty, but it was stout as a centuries-old tree, implacable and enduring. It would resist attack, even if the walls around it fell. There were no houses inside those walls, though there had been a collection of small dwellings outside it. There were fields beyond that, tended by the serfs that no doubt lived in the shacks by the good grace of the lord that ruled this fiefdom.
“Are you injured, lad?” a man asked of him, seeing the dried blood and lack of proper clothing.
When he shook his head silently, the old man, who had little enough himself, offered a rough blanket.
Yhalen took it, as grateful to cover the brand on his back and trailing links of chain still hanging from his collar, as much as bare limbs.
“Thank you. What keep is this?”
“Keis castle,” the old man answered. The name held some bit of familiarity. He’d been taken further northeast that he’d supposed.
“You came in with his lordship—did you see the beasts? We’ve heard there are hundreds—that they’ve destroyed every village north of the river, leaving none alive.”
“I don’t know how many villages—” Yhalen started to say. In truth he had no notion what destruction Bloodraven’s party had wrought before they’d captured him.
“It’s not for you to ask, old man.”
A knight paced up to them, armor smeared with dirt and blood, a narrow gash running down his cheek into a thick beard that covered his jaw line. The man caught Yhalen’s arm in a gauntleted hand and steered him through the gathered crowd of frightened villagers towards the castle.
Up the broad stairs and past grim looking, anxious guards he was led. He balked at the grip on his arm, at the thick, iron banded doors leading inside the thick keep.
“Unhand me,” he demanded. “I can walk on my own.”
He wrenched his arm away when the knight made no motion to loosen his hand of his own accord.
The man grunted, allowing it as he ushered Yhalen ahead of him with a light shove to the shoulder.
They entered a hall where a great many people were gathered. A fair number of weapons glinted dully in the light that filtered through high, narrow windows. There was a great hearth at the far end, and before that a long table that was mostly unoccupied. The majority of the crowd stood, talking in small groups, exuding an air of wariness that was most understandable for a people only recently under attack from an inhuman enemy.
Yhalen saw the man who was lord of this keep, in the company of several other knights and men in finer attire than the peasant folk outside in the courtyard. The men here, men allowed the safety of the keep’s inner walls, were more than likely wealthy merchants and landowners. Or perhaps politicians or priests, even kin to noble blood. They had that look about them, as obvious in the clothing they wore and the cleanliness of their skin as the cut of their hair and the expression in their faces.
“My lord Dunval.”
The knight stopped Yhalen a few yards away from the gathering of the elite, a staying hand on his shoulder. This Lord Dunval looked up from his conversation, eyes lighting on Yhalen before he turned away. He spoke further to the men around him, perhaps giving orders, perhaps assuring worried civilians that no enemy force would breach the walls of this keep without great time and effort.
Eventually, he turned and beckoned, then strode away through a crowd that hastily parted to make way for him. Two more men at arms came to draw Yhalen in his wake, taking him to a small room behind the main hall. Two of its walls were lined with tapestries to ward off the cold. One had a shelf upon which sat a good number of books and scrolls. There was also a desk and chair. Lord Dunval didn’t take the chair, but instead stood with his back to the desk, his arms crossed, waiting as Yhalen came up. He was followed by Lord Dunval’s guard and a few other folk that apparently had the right to enter what was apparently the lord’s private study.
“Tell us what you know of the beasts from the north,” Dunval ordered once the door was shut and the noise of the gathering in the hall beyond muffled.
They stared at Yhalen expectantly, as if he held the answers to alleviate their fears. He clutched his blanket a little tighter and said, “I was captured, perhaps a week ago—maybe a few days more—near Nakhanor.”
“Nakhanor? That’s a goodly ways south west of here,” one of the knights exclaimed.
Yhalen nodded, adding, “Their main company didn’t venture so far. It was a scouting party, I think, that found us—me.” He’d not thought of Yherji in some time. He felt a pang of guilt for forgetting to grieve properly.
“And they allowed you to live—when they’ve slaughtered so many others without hesitation—why?” Lord Dunval asked.
“I—I think they’re here to capture slaves,” Yhalen stuttered, so very much not wanting to go into the detail of his usage while in their power.
Someone smacked him hard up against the side of the head. “My lord!” growled a man at arms.
“You’ll address his lordship by his proper title, boy.”
Dunval watched this blandly, then asked, “If you’re so newly captured, why is the brand upon your back well healed? You’re a liar, and I’d like to know why you’d betray your own folk for the likes of those beasts.”
Someone laid hands on him, jerking the blanket away and trying to spin him around to expose the brand on his back to the lord of the keep. Yhalen had experienced far too much rough handling of late to tolerate this meekly. He spun angrily and slammed an elbow into the gut of the man who dared to touch him. Then a fist into the face of the one who rushed in to help.
Yhalen was no stranger to physical combat. The young Ydregi took as much pride in the prowess of their bodies as the old did in the benevolence of their spirits. But he was badly outnumbered here and these men had the advantage of leather and armor while he wore nothing but a slim loincloth. A blow caught him across the side of the temple and he gasped, staggering into a man on the sidelines that didn’t wear armor, but made a feeble grab after him regardless. He was about to put a knee into that man’s private parts when a higher pitched voice than the rest called for a cease.
“Stop. Now.”
A wo
man stepped out from her place by the door, and the men at arms bristled, glaring daggers at Yhalen in silent warning not to dare try and harm this particular lady. She was tall and dark-haired, bearing a remarkable resemblance to lord Dunval. Sharing his nose made her more handsome than pretty, but she was striking nonetheless.
“There has been violence enough, don’t you think, gentlemen?” she said. Turning to Yhalen, she asked, “Are you the boy who helped the girl—Meliah?—escape from her village?”
Yhalen stared at her, exhausted and dazed.
“Yes. Are they safe? They made it here safely?”
The lady smiled sadly. “All but the poor child they bore with them. He didn’t last the first night here. Poor thing.”
“Oh.” Yhalen shut his eyes a moment, offering a brief word to the Goddess on behalf of that unlucky child—then cutting it short as he thought that any request from him, with his present sins riding so heavy upon him, wouldn’t gain favor in the Goddess’ ears.
“She told us what you did—without this boy’s aid, dear brother, we wouldn’t have gotten word as soon as we did of the ogre’s presence. Can we not afford a little patience with him?”
Dunval’s lips twitched a little in what might have been a smile. He inclined his head. “Of course, Duvera.”
She walked to Yhalen, a smile that was meant to be pleasant, but was somehow…less than comforting, on her face. She was every bit as tall as he was, statuesque for a woman, meeting him eye to eye.
“Please,” she asked and he drew a breath and dipped his head, allowing her to move behind him.
She carefully gathered his hair, shifting it out of the way to reveal the brand on his lower back. Her fingertips traced it lightly and he shuddered.
“It is indeed well healed,” she said, not accusatory, not threatening, but her words somehow brooked no argument and no denials.
“I am,” he admitted softly, “Ydregi. My mother’s a great healer—and it seems I’ve inherited the skill.”
“Ydregi.” The word was whispered among the men in the room.
“Hmmm.” The lady Duvera smoothed his hair, stepping back around and away from him. “I’ve heard tales of your people. We’ll have to speak at some point. You can tell me if they’re true. What is your name, Ydregi?”
“Yhalen,” he answered.
“What was a Ydregi doing near Nakhanor?” Lord Dunval asked. “Does not your forest lie a good way west of there?”
There was nothing left but the truth. Avoiding it would only bring more of their distrust down upon him. “We were invited to a meeting of peoples in Nakhanor to discuss just this cause—my lord.”
Dunval thoughtfully rubbed the fine beard across his jaw. “Yes. I’m aware of this gathering. It seems fortunate that I declined to join, since the beasts were at my doorstep. So tell me, for starters,” Dunval stepped forward, all the speculation gone from his face, replaced by cold focus. “We’ve killed a good number of them, but there are more. How many were there, what weapons did they have, what supplies and what direction where they headed….”
Yhalen was drained. He wanted nothing so much as sleep, even above food and water. They had kept at him for hours, it seemed. Asking question after question that he was ill equipped to answer.
They didn’t seem to understand that he’d held no particular favor among the ogres. What little he knew, he’d learned from Vorjd, and the Northern slave had not been free with his tongue. Apparently the girl, Meliah, had spoken of Bloodraven’s use of him, for they inquired of that as well and he blushed furiously and refused to speak of it in detail, other than agreeing shamefacedly that it had happened. There were murmurs at that and a few low spoken, callous comments that would no doubt become less tactful once out of the presence of the lord of his keep and his intimidating sister.
“How is it possible?” that lady asked, boldly and shamelessly and no one seemed to look askance at her for the blunt question. He knew well enough what she meant without her having to elaborate.
Without looking up and meeting her eyes he explained what a ogr’ron was. They were very interested in that as well. Even more so in the fact that such a hybrid of human and ogre had commanded the war party. Most interesting of all was the intelligence that he was well versed in the human tongue.
When they finally released him, the lady Duvera walked a little way with him, beckoning a servant and giving orders for proper clothes to be brought. He begged for a pallet somewhere instead, or even a simple corner to curl up and rest in peace for a while, but she would hear nothing of it, saying he looked on the verge of malnourishment to her and she’d have none of that in her keep. He doubted he’d lost that much weight in a week, but arguing with the lady of the keep seemed unwise. He numbly followed her to the sprawling kitchen and stood by while she told the cook to provide him with a bowl of stew and a chunk of bread. She then left him to return to her own duties of overseeing a castle bustling with three times its normal population.
He ate the stew and tasted very little of it, as weary, dazed and numbed as he was. He was sure it was very good stew though, and mumbled as much to the cook when she came to take the bowl from him.
“Follow Jehan for a place to sleep—and the lady said you can go to one of the smithies to have them remove that collar, when you’re of a mind,” she said curtly, shooing him away from her kitchen and its workings as she sent him off on the heels of the servant that the lady Duvera had spoken with earlier.
The young man had a plain tunic and trousers over his arm. He led Yhalen down a servant’s hall and into a large barracks style room filled with narrow bunks. The servant’s dormitory. He was shown to a bunk near the far end and told there was water outside in a trough by the well if he wished to wash. This suggestion was made with a wrinkle of the young man’s nose, as if Yhalen’s smell was appalling. With a sigh, Yhalen trudged outside, supposing it wouldn’t be fair to offend the working people of this keep when they came in from a hard day’s labor to take a little rest of their own.
The yard outside the servant’s dormitory was small and walled, with a well at its center and a few neat rows of herbs along the walls. It provided enough privacy to wash without observation. He used the slim bar of lye soap found in a bowl by the trough, and dipped his hair afterwards, giving his scalp a good scrubbing with the soap and hoping he’d picked up nothing invasive from close association with the ogres. Bloodraven had seemed clean enough, but the others had cared little to nothing for routine baths, at least on the march. He wrung his hair out as best he could and resigned himself for sleeping on a damp pillow, for he couldn’t wait for it to dry before taking advantage of the bunk. He donned the new trousers, folding the tunic over the end of the bunk before collapsing onto it.
“Yhalen? Wake up.”
A very low voice buzzed in his ear, cutting through the dubious comfort of sleep. He’d been dreaming of unwholesome things—of himself small and helpless under an overwhelming collection of muscle and bone and flesh. He whimpered, flinching away, and the light touch on his shoulder withdrew.
He opened his eyes, hardly knowing what to expect upon this wakening and found himself looking up into the round face and large eyes of a girl. A familiar girl. Meliah. Who looked considerably healthier washed and cleaned and combed than she had when she’d been in his company.
“You’re alive,” she said, stating the painfully obvious. “It’s a miracle.”
He rather thought a miracle might imply a plethora of good fortune instead of that which he’d encountered, but the girl’s face was too filled with weary happiness to point that out.
“As are you,” he replied politely. Since she was stating plain fact, he saw no reason not to do the same when nothing else particularly worthwhile came to his sleep-befuddled mind.
“You evaded the beasts. I was sure they’d catch you. The gods must smile on you to grant you such luck.”
He sighed, seeing no reason to delve into the truth of the matter, and rose, rubbing s
leep out of his eyes and trying to get his bearings in this strange place with a girl he only barely knew, crouching next to his bed.
“Do you know how long I’ve slept?”
“It’s evening,” she said. “Almost dusk. They brought you in this morning.”
So he’d slept the afternoon away then. His body was grateful for it, though a few more hours would have been nice. He saw the tunic at the end of the cot and reached for it, pulling it on over his head and grateful when it slid down to cover the mark.
“I tried to see you earlier, but they’re keeping most folk out of the keep, so it was hard for me to get inside. There’s bread and stew to be had,” she offered hopefully. “Our lord and lady are generous. It’s being handed out in the yard by the kitchen. Will you come with me to eat?”
He was hungry again, the prospect of food not given to him like a dog, a morsel at a time, most appealing. He ran fingers through the mess of his hair, pulling it back finally into a tail at his neck and tying it off with a string plucked from the hem of his tunic. He’d take the time to comb it and braid it later.
Meliah watched him with half lowered lashes and finally said when he’d finished, “I’ve never seen such hair on a man. Is it the way of your people?”
He shrugged, fingering the one small braid that fell down from beside his ear.
“This is a hunter’s braid. I was allowed to make it when I made my first kill and properly thanked the Goddess for the bounty she provided. The braid down the back is the mark of a man grown—a mark of honor.” He self-consciously pulled at the loose hair at the end of the tail as he added, “Though I’ve been lacking in that of late, so I suppose it’s no great loss that it’s been loose more often than not.”