Bloodraven

by Nunn, PL

  “I’ll braid it for you after we eat,” she said, after a moment, smiling up at him with a little less shyness than one would expect from a girl suggesting such a thing.

  It was tantamount to asking to share his bed. But she wasn’t Ydregi, so perhaps she didn’t know.

  He cast her a look askance, trying to gather wits that he hadn’t had about him for many, many days.

  There was a certain look of speculation in her eyes that suggested that perhaps she did know. It was flattering, and though in the past Yhalen had never been one to turn away an offer of sex—at the moment he’d had rather too much of it forced upon him to find interest in this girl. Better to pretend it was an innocent offer.

  The stew was more of the same he’d partaken of earlier in the day, this time outside in the courtyard amidst the gathered villagers. No one afforded him much attention, dressed as he was in clothing much like their own. He and Meliah sat against the outer wall and used the crusty bread to soak up the last of the gravy, then dipped water from the central well to wash it all down.

  “I heard,” he said, “That the child didn’t recover from his injuries. I’m sorry.”

  She looked down, a sad smile on her face. “He was always a sickly baby. Poor thing. There’s nothing left at all of his family now. He’ll be with his mum, at least, on the other side.”

  There was a commotion that grew from a soft murmur at the gates, to a greater cry of excitement.

  Men at arms and knights rushed forth from the keep and the surrounding courtyard, yelling for the plain folk to move back out of the way.

  “What is it?” Yhalen asked, jostled against the wall by the press of the crowd.

  “I don’t know,” Meliah called back. “Perhaps they bring back the dead.”

  Perhaps they did. The gates creaked open and a line of knights and soldiers rode in, some of them wounded and slumped upon the backs of their horses. Some were thrown across the saddles like bags of grain. A great cry went up from those closest to the procession of returning warriors.

  “They’ve taken one of the monsters,” a woman’s shrill voice cried out. “Kill it! Kill it!”

  The crowd surged forward and men at arms pushed the villagers back under the threat of violence.

  There were steps on the outer wall, leading up to the battlements. Yhalen pushed his way through the press and climbed up a few steps to better see the incoming men.

  A great creaking cart, pulled by two heavy horses, followed the line of knights. He thought it might have been one of the ogres’ carts, bereft of their great beasts of burden. Men at arms surrounded it, mounted knights at each side and behind it, with lances held at the ready. It had been emptied of everything save for a large, blood-caked, motionless body.

  But not that large. Not as large as a full-blooded ogre. Chains encircled arms and legs, fastening them to the stout timbers of the cart. Blood seeped onto the floorboards and stained pale ocher-green skin. Though the tangled, matted hair covered most of the face, there was no doubt as to the identity of the prisoner. Whether he was actually alive, though, seemed in doubt.

  Yhalen molded himself back against the cool stone of the wall, shuddering, hardly able to catch his breath. He shut his eyes to blot out the details as the cart passed on towards the keep. He couldn’t shut out the cries of the people, the questions and demands for swift justice. He sank down onto the steps, weak-kneed all of a sudden. They’d call on him sooner or later, he knew. They’d summon him to look on Bloodraven and confirm what he was and who.

  He didn’t want to. Most adamantly he didn’t. He looked towards the gates, still open, with men still trudging in and wondered if he might not be able to slip out and lose himself in the land outside.

  But the forest was a good ways distant, and the guards on the wall would spot a man fleeing across the tilled fields.

  Goddess. He leaned his head against the wall, fighting off nausea. He’d thought he’d escaped. He’d thought he could put it behind him—but they’d brought the substance of his nightmares into this very keep.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Yhalen had the castle smithy remove the collar. It was no pleasant procedure, himself face down against a human-sized anvil and bracing against the impact as the heat-welded seal was hammered loose. The smithy asked to keep the piece of bronze and Yhalen happily consigned it to him, well rid of it and the weight of what it represented. If only he could be as easily free of the mark upon his back.

  He’d seen it for the first time in detail in a polished metal mirror hanging on one of the castle halls. It wasn’t a particularly unappealing design—it was simply unasked for and unwanted as too vivid a reminder of the nightmare he’d survived.

  He walked in dread afterwards, cold and trembly for no good reason, save that the brand made him imagine the face of his captor all too well—also reminding him that that same elegantly broad, inhuman face was somewhere in the depths of this castle.

  He’d had to part with Meliah over her prattling on about it. There was too much glee in her voice and in her eyes at the prospect of the vengeance her lord would take for the murdered villagers. Too much speculation on what that vengeance would consist of and too much expectation of Yhalen’s energetic agreement on the matter. It wasn’t that he didn’t think retaliation was due—he just felt sick in the depths of his stomach hearing the gruesome details bantered around the courtyard. He felt sick when they looked at him, waiting for him to add his own wishes to the list.

  If they brought Bloodraven’s head out now and placed it on a pike on the wall as a warning to any who might think about attacking this castle right now, it would be by far preferable to listening for days to the all too vivid, all too horrible imaginations of the folk here as they theorized on what was happening in the dungeons under this fortress. A quick clean death was at least honorable—and oddly enough, Yhalen wished that much for Bloodraven.

  Now had it been Deathclaw—if Yhalen had not taken care of the matter himself—that would have been another matter. He thought he would have shocked his gentle mother with his capacity for vengeful thoughts where that particular ogre was concerned.

  Two days passed and they didn’t summon him. Yhalen began to think they wouldn’t. Began to think that Bloodraven was already dead and they had no need to question Yhalen about his identity. He began to relax a little more as the gathered villagers began to trickle out of the safety of the castle, desperate to return to their homes, their fields, and their livestock. More soldiers had come and Lord Dunval assured his people that he’d protect them. Yhalen began to contemplate his own departure from this place. No one had said he couldn’t leave, and certainly no one had paid him much heed since that first day of accusation and interrogation. He wondered if he ought to ask the lady of the keep, who seemed only slightly more approachable than her brother, just to avoid trouble should he be apprehended at the gates.

  But then, rather unexpectedly, a pair of guards tracked him down in the servant’s quarters where he still was allowed to use a bunk, and flatly demanded that he come with them. They were not particularly communicative as to where, though, and Yhalen’s heart began to beat faster in dread when their path led to a thick doorway. When opened, it emitted the cool moist air of underground environs.

  When he held back in uncertainty, asking again who summoned him and where, they frowned in irritation at having to coddle someone who was very obviously of the peasant class ,and snapped that it was their lady who’d asked for him and he’d know where when he got there. They threatened to cuff him if he hesitated longer and he glowered indignantly at them, steeling his courage in the face of their obvious disdain for him.

  There must have been something in his eyes that hinted at more than peasant meekness, for the one with the raised fist backed down, grumbling, and they crowded behind him without laying a hand to him, but allowing no room for passage any way but down. So down he went, past the storage rooms and the wine cellars, on down to another level where the air was p
ungent with the smell of minerals and earth.

  Being forest bred and weaned on the grace of the Goddess and the earth she nurtured, Yhalen found the close walls and the sense of so much earth and stone overhead stifling. He began to shiver a little, feeling as if the walls were closing in, and fearing a collapse of the ceiling. When they passed by thick oaken doors with only small barred openings at eye level he knew they had reached the infamous dungeons he’d heard so much about from the simple folk above ground. If ever he had to dwell in such a place, Yhalen thought he would prefer swift execution to such a stifling existence.

  There was a group of men at arms standing down the narrow hall, illuminated against the dark walls by both wall-mounted and hand-held lanterns. The men parted as Yhalen as his guides approached and he saw not only the lady of the keep, but her lord brother as well. Lord Dunval frowned darkly at him, but the lady’s mouth curved into a smile and she beckoned with a motion of one slender hand. She moved forward, meeting him halfway, and didn’t hesitate to put a hand lightly on the back of his arm.

  “Ah, our Ydregi. How have you fared, these past days, Yhalen?”

  He didn’t know what to say, since the truth was that he’d rather have taken his leave long past.

  “Fine, my lady, though I’d rather be home. What do you wish of me?” he said, too uneasy for tact as his eyes darted nervously about the ominous, carved passage.

  She smiled, though it hardly reached her eyes.

  “You said he spoke our tongue. He has refused to do so, despite my brother’s best… efforts…and we wondered if he were even the one you spoke of after all, though most certainly there’s human blood running through his veins.”

  Yhalen’s stomach lurched. He wanted to back up, retreat to the surface, but he doubted any of them would let him go. The lady slipped her hand through his arm and he had no choice but to move forward at her urging, into the group of guardsmen and through to an empty space before a large barred cell at the end of the hall. The cell itself was chiseled out of stone, roughhewn and more like a cave than a room. The floor was covered in dirty straw and the bars that fronted it, as thick as Yhalen’s wrists. The cell door was open and three guards with drawn weapons stood inside the doorway, eyes fixed upon the corner.

  And in the shadows of that far corner, a large figure sprawled. Chains encircled his wrists, ankles and neck. His head was bowed, so Yhalen couldn’t see the damage to his face, but his formerly clean, long black hair fell in bloody, matted tangles about his shoulders. One of the long side braids had come loose, and a lock of hair longer by a head than the others stuck to the new blood matting a naked chest and stomach. He was wounded gravely, Yhalen thought, judging by the color of blood that slowly seeped from untended wounds on shoulder and side. They’d taken his armor and his boots, as well, and Yhalen thought no few of the gold rings that had dangled from his ears had been ripped out. There were marks aplenty on pale green skin, some which were as fresh as moments ago. He’d walked in upon their efforts then, at gaining information from their captive and it made him tremble in revulsion “This is the one, is he not?” Duvera asked, giving Yhalen a little shove towards the open door of the cell.

  If he lied, perhaps they’d cease this torture for the sake of information and simply kill Bloodraven.

  Wouldn’t that be the kinder course? Wouldn’t he rather someone had done him the same courtesy when he’d been at the mercy of Deathclaw?

  “Yes,” he said and his voice wavered as his eyes fixed on the tattered figure in the corner, vision diluted by a surprising sting of tears. “Yes,” he said again. “May I go?”

  He half turned his head to seek approval of his escape from the lady, and missed the sudden surge of movement from the shadows. The guards did too, distracted by his presence, and it was only the chains that kept Bloodraven’s hands from him, though stone powdered from the bolts holding the chains fast. The ogr’ron roared in frustration, his golden eyes gleaming in a not quite sane fury—and very, very intent upon Yhalen. Yhalen scrambled backwards, as did the guards—even the armed ones in the cell, startled by violence where there had been none a moment before.

  Hands grabbed Yhalen from behind and hauled him out of the cell, his retreat followed with alacrity by the guards. The cell door shut and locked in the face of a growling, lunging ogr’ron.

  “Well,” said the lady. She seemed satisfied, her cheeks flushed from the excitement. “He does seem to respond to you. More so than to anything else we’ve tried. How interesting.”

  Her brother frowned, not as thrilled at the excitement of Bloodraven’s reaction as his sister, and marched forward to stand before the bars of the cell.

  “We know who you are, beast. We know you’re well able to speak our tongue. This boy confirms that, yet still you refuse. Is it your ogre blood that makes you so dull—or your injuries?”

  Bloodraven didn’t look up, crouched in his corner like the beast Lord Dunval called him, his breath coming hard from his exertion and fresh blood pooling in the filth of the cell floor from wounds torn freshly asunder. And they didn’t see it. None of them realized the sheer intelligence and vitality that dwelled behind those fierce golden eyes. All they saw was a monster. Not even a true monster, but a mongrel one. If they treated him as such and neglected to kill him in their arrogance, they’d suffer for their stupidity. Yhalen knew that as surely as he knew that those same fierce eyes were staring at him from under the tangled veil of Bloodraven’s hair.

  “He’s a dog. A dangerous beast,” Lord Dunval sneered in angry frustration.

  His lady sister, though, tilted her head. Her eyes were full of a speculation that perhaps hinted she wasn’t so blind as the others.

  “Not so monstrous, I think,” she said very softly—so softly that perhaps it was intended only for Yhalen’s ears as she stood behind him. “What say you on the subject, Yhalen of the Ydregi?”

  He stood rooted to the spot, speechless and besieged from all sides. Bloodraven’s appalling attention on the one, and the lady’s sly whispers from the other.

  “I’ve known a man or two as large,” she added softly. “And before this one woke up and his features became twisted in his rage, his face was not…unappealing, in an exotic sort of way, don’t you think?”

  How did one answer that? Not at all, if Yhalen had his druthers. Just as he’d rather be far away from this dank dungeon, back above ground and in the light of day. Lady Duvera seemed not to notice or care about Yhalen’s discomfort, and leaned in close over his shoulder, one hand on his arm and her lips close to his ear, though her eyes remained very much fixed on the chained halfling within the cell.

  “Tell me,” she whispered, “I’ve not seen the whole of him. Can the rest of him be measured in human terms, or would it be beyond the capacity of a woman to accommodate such a thing?”

  If it had been a man who asked, Yhalen would have shrugged him off violently, as affronted as he was by the inquiry. As it was, he rather thought he’d find himself in similar circumstances as Bloodraven if he cast the lady off. He swallowed, flushing as he chose silence as an answer in the face of her embarrassing question.

  She laughed and very softly answered her own query. “Ah, but you’re alive, so I suppose that is proof enough, eh?”

  She whirled then, radiant in her satisfaction, and beckoned to her personal guard. “I’ve had enough of this moldy darkness for today. I’ve other duties to attend.”

  She swept away, her guard trailing in her wake. As uncomfortable as she’d made him, Yhalen shivered at her retreat, left alone in even less savory company. Her brother, Lord Dunval, made no pretense over his dislike and his guards mirrored their master’s emotions.

  “My lord—” Yhalen started to say, flinching a little when Bloodraven growled at the sound of his voice, rattling chains in his agitation. Best to ignore him. He was safely behind bars and no threat, for the moment. “If you’ve no further need of me?”

  Dunval slowly moved his gaze away from Bloodraven
to Yhalen, eyes speculative. For a moment he was lost in thought, than he moved his hand dismissively. “For the moment, no. You may go.”

  Yhalen didn’t waste time uttering thanks, but simply turned on his heel and hurried down the corridor towards the stairs. He needed out of this place so badly he felt short of breath. It was only when he reached the fresh air of the surface that he felt he could breathe freely again. It wasn’t simply the dungeons. He felt trapped in this keep, below and above, almost as much as he had in Bloodraven’s care. It was just a different sort of yoke they wanted about his neck. One he was expected to happily comply with. He hated the caste system these people employed. He hated having to bow his head in respect to a man that he in no wise respected.

  The Ydregi had no such separation of classes. Everyone had as much right to respect as the next and honor was given where it was due. No one served the clan chief and neither the clan chief nor the shamans expected anyone else to do work that they themselves were not prepared to do, or had done to excess in their youth. One might bow their head in respect to man older and wiser by far than one’s self, but no one would slap you upside the head to force it.

  Meliah found him in the courtyard, dazedly taking in the healing rays of the sun. She wrapped her fingers about his arm and gently led him to one of the rough benches against the outer bailey wall.

  “What happened?” she asked, and he blinked at her concern, thinking how terrible he must have looked to have warranted it.

  “They—they took me to see him—below the castle.”

  “It’s still alive then,” she grated out.

  “Him,” he corrected numbly but she shrugged that clarification away.

  “They should kill him now. As retaliation. As a warning to the others.”

  “I don’t think there are that many others left,” he said slowly. “I think chances are they’re dead or have fled. There’s no one to impress.”