by Nunn, PL
The impressive bulk of the Lord of Tangery occupied it while Lord Dunval sat behind his own desk.
There were only two guards in the room and they seemed more aides to the lords than men at arms.
“Have you forgotten your manners?” one of the aides snapped when Yhalen made no move to bow in the presence of his betters.
He had to be truthful, and though it galled him to humble himself before Dunval, Tangery seemed worthy of at least an inclination of the head and a murmured, ‘My lord.’
“Ydregi, no doubt. They’ve little enough use for titles of nobility,” Tangery commented with some bit of amusement in his deep voice. Dunval glowered, not quite as entertained.
“You left without my consent yesterday,” Dunval accused.
“I wasn’t aware that it was forbidden. I wished to return to my home and let my family know I lived,” Yhalen said, then added insolently, “my lord.”
Dunval’s eyes narrowed. His mouth twitched.
“I’m told you’re blood kin to rite master Yhalor,” Tangery said, adding, “I met him at Nakhanor. Interesting man.”
“Yes,” Yhalen said, hope blossoming within him. If Lord Tangery held his grandfather in high esteem, then he might be willing to see Yhalen swiftly returned. “He’ll think me dead. I must let him know otherwise.”
“I’ll have word sent,” Tangery said.
“But…no messenger not Ydregi could find his way through the sacred wood….”
“You’d be surprised.” Tangery shrugged. “Who’d have thought ogres could make it as far as Nakhanor and not be discovered until they’d wrought their damage.”
“And that,” Dunval interrupted, “is of far more concern at the moment than your return home.”
Yhalen blinked at him, not understanding. “But what more can I do? I know nothing of them or their plans.”
“No. But the creature in my dungeons does,” Dunval said coldly.
“Half human,” Tangery said. “We knew rumors such halflings existed, but they’d never ventured down from the north far enough to confirm. This half man is of great interest to the king and to myself. It’s fortunate that Lord Dunval didn’t kill him outright.”
“Why?” Yhalen whispered, the sick feeling in his gut expanding, making his knees a little watery and his hands shake.
“It’s not for you to know the reasons of the king and his council,” Dunval snapped angrily, standing up suddenly, and pressing his hands flat on his desk. Perhaps some of that anger came from the fact that even he didn’t know all Lord Tangery’s motives.
“He’s intelligent,” Tangery said. “Very much so. Not unreasonable, either, I think. There are things he knows—things he might do for us that very well might mean the survival of the people of the northern provinces…if a bargain might be struck.”
“Bargain? What sort of bargain?”
“Well, for that we’ll need to negotiate, but crafty creature that he is, even the start of that depends on our willingness to offer a concession.”
Yhalen didn’t want to know. He took a step back and his shoulders hit the door. That solidity was the only thing that kept his legs under him when Dunval said coolly, “To agree to talk with us he’s asked for one thing—you. Of course, we’ve agreed. Little enough sacrifice for the survival of the north, don’t you think?”
CHAPTER TEN
If there had been no guards outside to hinder it, Yhalen might have fled. But of course there were, the lords of this keep knowing full well that their ‘concession’ might not sit so well with Yhalen. His refusal meant nothing to them. Their motives, as Lord Dunval pointed out, were for the good of all. Was it so much to ask some small sacrifice on his part?
As if they knew.
They weren’t his liege lords. This wasn’t his land. The Ydregi wouldn’t tolerate such treatment of one of their own.
“The Ydregi are as aware of this threat as we are,” Lord Tangery said, calm and reasonable, his face showing nothing of his true feelings. “Even your esteemed grandfather agreed that measures must be taken.”
“I find it hard to believe he’d have countenanced this. Do you wish to make enemies of my people as well?” Yhalen fought to keep his voice as calm and as reasonable as the man who held his fate within his hands. Screaming his frustration would get him nothing but ignored.
“Do you think they would overlook the greater threat, in favor of holding grudges because of your disfavor, boy?” Tangery’s broad mouth twitched in a frown. Yhalen honestly didn’t think it was directed at him, but more towards the situation he’d been forced to negotiate.
“Besides which,” Lord Dunval added, “as far as any of your Ydregi know, you’re dead at the hands of the ogres anyway, and no one will tell them differently.”
Tangery held up a hand, stilling that threat on Dunval’s lips.
“I’ve decided. You’ll play your part, Yhalen of the Ydregi, and do whatever it takes to smooth the path of negotiation between us and this half ogre, half human warlord—and if luck’s with us, you may yet return to your forest and your people. If it’s not, then the forces of the north might very well overrun the southern lands. Hold that in mind.”
He held nothing in mind, as the guard was summoned and Yhalen escorted from the room, his arms held in armored grips as if he were a prisoner among them. Then again, surely he was, for they had taken away his choice in the matter and were about to take his freedom. There was only room in his mind for memories of Bloodraven’s fury and his futile attempt to rip him to shreds the first time he’d been brought to the cell under the keep. Did they think he could negotiate anything with his neck broken?
He balked at the door to the cellars and they took a firmer hold of him until they got him through the threshold and sandwiched between them on the stairwell leading down. There was little escape then, save taking a nasty tumble down narrow steps. The closeness of the guards, combined with the heaviness of the earth hanging over his head and the expectation of what was to come, took its toll upon his nerves.
His hands were shaking badly by the time they’d reached the lower level and his knees weak under him. His breath came short and fast, accompanied by the rapid beat of his heart. It was fear and it didn’t shame him, for he’d known well enough what to expect at the hands of ogres and no sane man would not quail at being thrust back into that life by the very people he’d expected to protect him from it.
“Please, don’t.” He twisted to look back at the lord Tangery, who exuded the aura of a man of honor even if Lord Dunval didn’t. “If he kills me it will only weigh on your conscience and still nothing will be gained.”
“Shut your mouth,” Dunval snapped at him, moving through his guard to grasp Yhalen’s collar. “It’s not up to you to decide what price is paid for the salvation of this land.”
“He can’t give you that, no matter the price,” Yhalen cried. “What do you think he is?”
Dunval slammed him against the roughhewn rock of the wall and the guards milled nervously, casting glances over their shoulders. They had reached the end of the lowest tunnel, where the iron barred cell rested. In the shadows of it was Bloodraven, silent and brooding in his camouflaging darkness.
“Dunval,” Tangery said quietly, when that lord raised a hand to strike Yhalen for his presumption.
“Enough. Let him be.”
Dunval growled, clenching his open hand, the other still curled in Yhalen’s tunic. His eyes were narrowed and full of a malice that Yhalen couldn’t comprehend. Was the man so arrogant that he thought others would fall over themselves and gladly offer life and sanity at his whim?
“Master ogre.” Lord Tangery walked to the bars of the cell and stared into the shadows. “We’ve decided to meet your bargain. We expect you to meet your own half on the morrow.”
The lord beckoned and the guard caught hold of Yhalen, dragging him forward despite his best efforts to deny them. The cell door was opened, screeching on its hinges, and he was shoved inside it. It
slammed behind him before he could whirl and attempt to escape through it. He clutched at the rough, pitted surface of the bars, pleading silently to the one man who might let honor sway his actions. But Lord Tangery frowned and turned, and the guard followed his retreat. After a moment and a glare of what was almost satisfaction, Lord Dunval followed as well.
They left a single, guttering torch. Thank the Goddess for that small favor, for being plunged into darkness with the stuff of his nightmares would have robbed him of all semblance of courage. As it was, he had the presence of mind to remember the reach of Bloodraven’s chains and knew it didn’t extend to the cell door. Still, Yhalen edged along the bars to the farthest corner, shivering so badly that his teeth made audible sounds now and them from their chattering. He could hear nothing from the shadowed corner where he knew the half-ogre rested. No great surprise, however, when his head was filled with the rush of his own blood and the frantic beat of his own heart. He sank down to a crouch, the brand on his lower back a crawling reminder of what had been.
There was a shifting of shadows and a clinking of chain, which caused Yhalen to catch his breath as he held fast to the pitted bars at his side and staring wide-eyed into the darkness. His eyes slowly adjusted enough so that he made out the shape hiding within it.
“Why do you tremble, little shaman?” The deep voice purred out of the shadows, deceptively low, deceptively civil. “Why do you not cast your dark magicks upon me, as you did against my brethren?”
So they’d found Deathclaw and discovered his murderous deed. Yhalen found, days after the fact, that he held little remorse for that particular sin. He’d have killed Deathclaw with any method available to him, and blade or magic made no difference. The only problem being that the magic didn’t come so easily, nor apparently at his whim, choosing instead to gift itself to him randomly.
“I’m no shaman,” he whispered, for it was only truth. A shaman, or Wiseman, or Healer—they were only titles bestowed upon those learned in their craft, not those who wielded it with aimless luck.
There was silence from the shadows and that silence ate at Yhalen, as if it were an accusation in and of itself. As if he cared what Bloodraven thought of him.
“It’s a sin among my people, to take life with the power that the Goddess has granted us,” he blurted. “I didn’t do it apurpose, I swear—and I know not how, when I’d never shown sign of such a gift before. Twice. Twice it happened and twice I stole what should only ever be borrowed in small measures and the Goddess will never forgive me for it and my people will never forgive it, either.”
He was babbling. He realized it and snapped his mouth shut with a sharp click of teeth. There was wetness at his eyes and he hardly knew if the tears came from fear of being thrust into this dungeon with Bloodraven, or from the deeper terror of being outcast from all he knew and loved because of the path his budding magic had taken.
“Come here.” The command came out of the shadows.
Yhalen blinked, shocked almost to desperate laughter that Bloodraven thought he might obey it.
“Come here.”
It was sharper this time and brooking no argument and Yhalen flinched, suddenly experiencing a little curl of unease in the pit of his stomach at the notion of blatantly ignoring the order. Goddess, had he been so thoroughly broken by the ogr’ron that he quailed at the thought of disobeying him?
“No,” he said, more to reassert his own sense of self than out of any burning need to reply to Bloodraven’s request. “I’m not one of your dogs. I’m not the one collared and chained now.”
But of course he was caged. His own kind had seen to that.
“If you make me come and get you, you’ll suffer for it,” Bloodraven said softly.
“You can’t,” Yhalen replied, clutching tighter to the bars.
“You think not?” There was a sudden clank of chains, a grating as the plate that secured them to the stone wall groaned under the pressure, and a shifting of stone as powdered mineral began to trickle down, a little at a time. Another grunt from Bloodraven and more chips escaped.
Yhalen stared with wide, horrified eyes, gauging the weakness of ancient iron and wondering just how long it would take for Bloodraven to work the plate loose from the stone wall. Not quickly, not even with his strength, though Yhalen thought a full-sized, full-blooded ogre might have ripped it free in short order. Eventually, though, Bloodraven would tear it free. It would cost him in effort and most likely pain, though, and he’d be in no light mood when he was no longer bound to the wall.
“What will you do?” Yhalen blurted, cringing at the sound of stone grating against metal and Bloodraven’s grunt of effort. “If I come? Why should I, if it’s only for you to snap my neck?”
The ogr’ron ceased his campaign against the chains, settling back against the corner. Yhalen could just make out the whites of his eyes.
“What value would you have for me then?” Bloodraven reasoned.
“You seemed eager enough to do it before.”
“I was very angry.”
“You’re not now?”
There was a moment’s silence. “Not yet.”
Yhalen drew breath, shivering again. It took effort to uncurl his fingers from the bars, and more to pull himself to his feet when his legs wanted to stay watery and weak under him. Bloodraven remained silent and the silence itself was a command. It was the lesser of two evils, complying with Bloodraven’s wishes while he was in a reasonable mood, rather than waiting for him to fall into a rage when he was forced to come and get him. The halfling had ever been gentle with him, so perhaps—just perhaps—he wasn’t walking willingly into the arms of his own death.
Yhalen moved along the bars, gripping each one as he moved towards the other end of the cell. Close enough to the far wall that he thought Bloodraven could have risen and reached him if he wished, but the ogr’ron remained crouched in his corner, waiting for Yhalen to approach him.
He’d done it before, approached Bloodraven at his command, and done whatever the ogr’ron had requested of him to the best of his ability. He’d endured whatever had been done to him without complaint, regardless of discomfort—or the sinful pleasure, which was a worse torment by far. But it had been different then, chained in Bloodraven’s tent. His property as much as those dogs had been his property, with no free will of his own to practice without fear of retribution.
He’d had that dreadful collar removed, even if the brand still marked him. He was a slave no longer, and approaching Bloodraven as a free man was by far harder than approaching him as a slave. Even with the threat of violence hanging over his head, it was like giving up a part of himself when he bent to Bloodraven’s will. It was like admitting that he was still slave to Bloodraven’s mastery.
Bloodraven didn’t urge him further, leaving it up to Yhalen to separate himself from the support of the bars and move towards the back wall of the cell. A step at a time, his feet feeling like they were encased in iron shoes as he moved, his stomach coiling in unease and nausea until he stood encased in the same shadows that shielded Bloodraven. He stared down at the top of Bloodraven’s head, at the gracefully pointed ears with their dangling rings. He noted that a few of those rings were gone, leaving tears that had scabbed over in the shell of the ogr’ron’s ears. There were other marks, which had been hidden by the darkness, and the extent of which were still shrouded in shadow. The smell of dried blood was strong this close, mingling with that of infection.
“You’re wounded,” Yhalen said numbly. He remembered all the blood that had covered the ogr’ron when the soldiers had brought him into the keep, chained in the back of the cart like the prize of war they thought he was.
“You’re not.”
Bloodraven lifted a hand, fingers circling Yhalen’s arm—the one that Bloodraven’s dog had broken only days ago. He could do so easily again, himself, with those hands strong enough to rip a metal plate from a stone wall. But he didn’t, simply running large fingers up the length of Yha
len’s arm and back down again to his wrist. He used that to pull Yhalen that last step forward, which put him between Bloodraven’s legs and close enough to his body that he felt the heat of fever rising from the bared skin of his chest.
Wounded and fevered, then, and still he’d almost torn his chains free. If he’d have been whole, he might have succeeded faster. When Yhalen had come down the first time, Bloodraven might very likely have been out of his mind with the heat of fever. He wondered if Dunval’s men had done anything for the wounds and doubted it the moment the thought entered his head. None of them would have gotten this close while Bloodraven was conscious. Nor would they have cared enough to try.
“No,” he agreed to Bloodraven’s observation. “No. It wasn’t done…I didn’t mean—”
He swallowed, not able to explain it to even himself, much less another, even in his own defense.
He was pulled down suddenly, drawn to his knees and half turned across one of Bloodraven’s knees while the ogr’ron pushed up the back of his tunic and bared his skin. The big fingers brushed across the small of his back and the brand that marked it. Yhalen shuddered, enduring it. It was on the tip of his tongue to blurt out that it meant nothing, that mark, but a sliver of good sense intervened, warning that he was in no position to initiate an argument he wasn’t equipped to win. Though Bloodraven’s hands had yet to cause serious pain, his mood couldn’t have been the most conductive to reasoning, all things considered.
Bloodraven grasped Yhalen’s braid, winding its length around his knuckles and using it as a very effective leash to pull Yhalen closer to his own face. They were healing, but the bruises and cuts were obvious on the ogr’ron’s face.
“Will you use your black magicks on me, little human shaman, and whither my skin as you did to Deathclaw?”
The position was painful—Yhalen’s neck bent back, his body drawn half off his knees and held there by Bloodraven’s hand in his hair. Out of necessity he had to brace his hands on Bloodraven’s thighs. When he didn’t immediately answer, Bloodraven’s other hand snuck between his legs, big fingers pressing his scrotum up tight against his body. Yhalen drew breath and struggled, pushing against Bloodraven’s broad body, suddenly more frantic over the notion that the ogr’ron would rape him in this cell than he’d been over the thought of him snapping his neck.