by Nunn, PL
Bloodraven yanked him close, pressing Yhalen’s cheek against the skin of his chest while he wormed his hand down the front of Yhalen’s pants. He snapped a lacing or two in the process, as fever-warm fingers cupped Yhalen’s shrinking genitals and squeezed. The threat against thrashing about in attempts at an escape that Yhalen hadn’t the strength to accomplish, was implicit. One finger probed further, curling around behind his balls and pressing hard against the clenched mouth of his anus.
A sob escaped him and some small bit of wetness leaked from between lashes tightly closed.
“Will you not show me this magic of yours?” Bloodraven growled at him and the tip of his blunt finger overcame Yhalen’s protesting muscles and pushed inside without the soothing benefit of salve. It hurt, dry and burning and he cried out and tried to arch away, but he was properly impaled—held close by his hair and the anchoring finger inches inside his body. After he lay still again, panting and exhausted, Bloodraven leaned his head down and purred close to Yhalen’s ear.
“Have I not given you ample cause to cast your curses on me? Why have I not seen this power of yours?”
“Do you wish to so badly?” Yhalen gasped, aware, so very aware of the thick finger slowly moving inside him. The passage was smoother now, eased by the wetness of his own blood, but no less painful because of it as the mouth of his opening widened to swallow the bulge of Bloodraven’s knuckle, then widened again as it was pulled out, only to be shoved back in roughly in a cruel parody of sex.
“I’d show you…if I could.” Yhalen ground his teeth as Bloodraven pulled him up a little by the knot of his hair, so that the hand between his legs could gain a better angle—so that the finger could thrust up into his body as far as it could go and then curl and probe inside him. Exploring the wet walls of his insides in a fashion that Bloodraven’s thick member presently could not.
“Then do so,” Bloodraven hissed at him, pulling out almost entirely, only to press a second finger at the mouth of Yhalen’s opening. Without the benefit of salve, he’d have torn with the addition, Bloodraven’s two fingers being painfully thick combined. It would be very much like what Deathclaw had done to him, mindless of the damage…simply reveling in the blood and the ripped flesh and the intrusion. Bloodraven had never enjoyed his pain.
“Please don’t,” he whispered, lips pressed against the warm skin of Bloodraven’s neck.
And Bloodraven paused, the only movement of his body the rise and fall of his chest. Then he slid his finger out, quick and smooth, the sudden void of it causing a sensation of relief so strong that Yhalen shuddered and bit his lips at the strength of it. The hold on his hair loosened enough so that he was able to slide down and rest on the straw-covered floor between Bloodraven’s knees. He didn’t try and distance himself, for Bloodraven had not completely given up his hold on the braid, but simply lay there against the ogr’ron’s stomach trying to catch his lost breath.
Nothing about that act had been sexual, he realized. His position was close enough to Bloodraven’s crotch to allow Yhalen ample opportunity to realize there had been no stirring there. It had been prompted out of anger and perhaps some small bit of fear for the unknown. If Bloodraven’s people did not practice magic of their own, then they’d have a healthy superstition of that practiced by other peoples.
There was silence for a while, save for the sound of Bloodraven’s breathing, and Yhalen’s softer inhalations. This far below the earth, surrounded by so much stone, no other noises intruded. It was as if they were entombed, which Yhalen supposed, in a way they were. He hated it. Hated not having the sky overhead and the sound of the living forest around him. There was no sense of the Goddess this far under earth and stone. Or perhaps she’d merely distanced herself from him, cutting him off from her warmth because of his misuse of the power she had granted him.
“You are,” Bloodraven said finally, “a poor excuse for a shaman. You could at least have killed him, when you cast your curse upon him.”
Yhalen didn’t comprehend at first, what Bloodraven meant or why, then it occurred to him that Bloodraven and his larger, full-blooded fellow with all the gold in his ears and cruelty in his heart, had been very clearly at odds. He’d have bet his life that Deathclaw was dead and the discovery that he wasn’t, didn’t lighten Yhalen’s heart in the slightest. Misuse of magic or no, he’d very much wished that particular ogre no longer numbered among the living. He wasn’t certain if responding as such out loud was the wisest of ideas. Bloodraven was calm now, but with prompting, he might cease to be.
Despite the permeating pain that dwelled within his body, spreading out from wounds gone too long without treatment, as well as the frustration of the chains and the cell and the humiliation of being caged at all by the hands of humans, Bloodraven had enough rationality left to know that he’d not handled the first few days of his captivity well. That he’d acted the beast—or to be honest, the ogre—and the humans had goaded him and starved him into a state that they could deal with as a result.
When they’d brought his human down he’d been very far from his right mind. It had only been afterwards when they’d left him alone with bowls of water and gruel, shoved across the dirty floor within his reach, that he started to get a hold of himself and reason things out. He’d die here if he didn’t practice reason. And reason said that he wouldn’t be alive at all if they didn’t want something of him.
To want was a two edged sword. There were things he wanted, as well. Things other than a soft-skinned little human slave, things that had only been musings and contemplations before this. The fact that they had given him Yhalen without hesitation, simply for the promise of his cooperation, told him many things. One, that they were hard, these human lords, and not to be taken lightly—for if they so willingly gave up one of their own, they’d have no hesitation betraying one not of their race. For another, they either didn’t value their shamans highly, didn’t realize they had one in their midst, or considered Yhalen inept enough to barter without incident. Bloodraven rather thought the latter possibility to be true, considering Yhalen’s inability to strike back at his own prompting.
Regardless, they had been willing to sacrifice Yhalen’s life for a shred of cooperation from Bloodraven, for they couldn’t have known what reception the boy would receive once within Bloodraven’s reach. He’d given them no reason to think he’d gently welcome his slave back after his first reaction at seeing him again, days before. Yhalen himself had certainly thought as much, from the fear he’d exhibited upon being thrust into the cell. He’d shown considerable courage, however, despite the threat of allowing himself within Bloodraven’s reach. If had been a few days before, he might not have survived the experience, but a few days here had calmed Bloodraven’s frenzy a good deal.
It was amazing that Yhalen’s injuries had faded so completely. The last Bloodraven had seen of him, he’d been weak and broken, barely able to keep his own feet. He ran a hand idly down the arm that the dog had snapped, then under the loose tunic where traces of welts from the whipping should still have lingered. There was nothing but smooth skin. Even Bloodraven’s brand, though visible, seemed like a mark of old—not one barely a week old. Yhalen shuddered, breath shaky and scared against Bloodraven’s skin, as if the boy expected more harm. He saw no reason to reassure him, having lost enough face himself because of this little human. A little unfounded fear on Yhalen’s part was only due.
With Bloodraven’s capture, his party would make its way back north, if they could. If Icehand could retain his authority as Bloodraven’s second. But even weakened, Deathclaw would poison the minds of Bloodraven’s following, spewing tales of the black magic Bloodraven had brought amongst them—conveniently forgetting that it had been Deathclaw himself that had dragged that magic to Bloodraven’s tent—reminding them of Bloodraven’s tainted blood and of his dishonor at being taken by puny humans.
Bloodraven would be hard pressed to regain his place, even if he did escape from human clutches.
He cursed in the ogre tongue and pulled Yhalen back from him far enough to see the human’s face.
“You’ve caused me more trouble than you know.”
Yhalen blinked at him, hands braced on his stomach, slim body a warm weight between his legs.
Perhaps there was some magic at work after all, some subtle curse that even in the clutches of his enemies and chained in their dirty cell under the earth, made him think of things other than breaking Yhalen’s neck and having done with it. He shifted, lifting Yhalen bodily across his leg and placing the boy between himself and the wall, preventing easy retreat and distancing Yhalen from the too easy to rouse monster in his pants. There would be no dalliance here, where the enemy lurked and spied no doubt, and where there was nothing at hand to ease the way. He would not destroy his possessions out of hand.
“You blame me?” Yhalen said softly, resting his back against the wall next to Bloodraven’s. His head was level with Bloodraven’s shoulder. “Aren’t there other heads that deserve it more?”
He was bold, considering. But then, he’d been bold when he was chained in Bloodraven’s tent with no hint of allies about.
“I didn’t offer myself up to capture,” Yhalen went on, just as softly, but with a hint of ire in his voice. “Nor did I have control over what path you chose to take, so don’t blame me for your calamity. You invade lands not your own and slaughter the people who dwell here and you think the Goddess wouldn’t turn her face from you?”
“Your Goddess holds no sway over me. The gods of the high reaches gift us with their good will—or ill—if they’re pleased with our actions.”
Yhalen snorted in derision and Bloodraven was so shocked at the scorn that he nearly reached out and shook the human by his thin shoulders. Nearly. He growled instead, leaning close enough that his hair brushed Yhalen’s shoulders.
“You make light of our gods? Do you wish to join this goddess of yours so badly?”
“She won’t have me.” It was a softly made admission, his tone weary. “Not after what I’ve done with her gift.”
It was easy enough to let go his irritation, Bloodraven’s piety a weak thing to begin with. Curiosity was a greater draw.
“And what have you done?”
“You know. You saw. The Goddess didn’t grant my people with her gift only to have them use it as a weapon or at the cost of other life.”
“This gift. Many humans have it?” Bloodraven asked with a small shudder of his own.
“No. I’m not of these people—my people live in the forests of the west, separate from the peoples under the rule of the king and his lords.”
Ah, so it became less of a peculiarity that they would sacrifice an outsider over one of their own.
“But you didn’t take his life,” Bloodraven reminded him and Yhalen flinched, looking up guiltily from under the fall of his hair.
“I did worse, the first time. I killed the forest…the trees which give freely of their own—yet I drew all they had to give without mercy….”
“When?” Bloodraven asked.
Yhalen blinked up at him, as if coming out of a daze, and his eyes became shadowed and wary. “It doesn’t matter.”
“When? Did Deathclaw see this thing you did?”
Slowly Yhalen nodded and Bloodraven’s suspicions were confirmed. Deathclaw had recognized a human shaman and thought to send that threat into Bloodraven’s tent. How frustrating for Deathclaw for his plot to come to no fruition, save his own eventual ruin.
“He gave you to me then, hoping you would work your dark magic upon me.”
He wasn’t particularly speaking to Yhalen, more voicing his own inner musings, but Yhalen answered regardless. “You didn’t do to me…the things that he did.”
“What things?”
But Yhalen shook his head, drawing his knees up close to his chest and wrapping his slender arms about them. Drawn in a knot as he was, he seemed so much smaller than he really was. A fragile, narrow-boned thing that could be so easily crushed. Bloodraven didn’t need to press the issue. He could well imagine the things that Deathclaw and his small scouting party might do to a pretty human captive. Things that no human would reasonably survive…unless magic were involved. He felt more the fool for not guessing.
“Tell me,” Bloodraven said finally, “About the lords of this place. The hawk-faced one expects obedience from the others, but the large one with the red hair walks with more of a presence of power.”
“Dunval is lord of this keep,” Yhalen said dully. “Lord Tangery is prince and protector of the Northern provinces.”
“Ah. This name I’ve heard. He commands vast armies, yet I didn’t see them here.”
“And I should tell you where the armies of men gather?” Yhalen asked with no small bit of acerbity.
He amused Bloodraven enough that he laid his head back against the stone wall and grinned wolfishly.
“They told you these things, Yhalen?”
“No,” Yhalen admitted, and then asked suddenly, “What do they want of you? What do they think you can give them that they’re willing to negotiate?”
“What would you wish of me, were you in their position?”
Yhalen looked up at him through the shadows, brows furrowed in contemplation. “You would betray your own people?” he asked finally, voice a small whisper.
Bloodraven stared at the black rock of the ceiling, his good mood dwindling. The answer to that question depended solely on just which people he considered his own and what benefit an alliance with humankind would hold for them.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Somewhere, in the midst of fear and apprehension, exhaustion welled up to overcome all else and Yhalen slept. It was a deep, dreamless slumber and he was loath to rouse from it, even at the stirring of the warmth that he rested against. He was shifted effortlessly, distanced from his pillow and set against the cold stone of a wall. It took more than a moment to collect his dazed wits enough to realize that it had been his enemy he’d been pressed against, and his enemy that had carefully moved him aside so that he might stretch long, chained limbs.
Yhalen was abashed that he’d allowed himself to fall so easily into repose, the captive of a captive and his fate so uncertain a thing.
“They come,” Bloodraven said softly, rotating broad shoulders and grunting shortly at the effort, the left one no doubt stiff and sore and oozing infection as well, from the smell of it.
Yhalen had no notion of how long he’d slept, there being no sun to hint at the time of day. Yhalen wondered if Bloodraven had slept at all, or if his hearing was just that keen that the sound of booted feet on stone steps had brought him to wakefulness. Yhalen, forest-born and bred that he was, had certainly not let the sound disturb his slumber.
The light left them, had guttered down to a mere fraction of what it had been since Yhalen had been brought here, so he gauged that some hours had passed, at the very least. The brighter light of lanterns burning at the height of their luminance made the narrow tunnel leading to this deepest of pits glow with orange brilliance. It preceded the appearance of men only by a little bit, and soon a handful of guards stomped into the chamber outside the cell. Among them were the familiar faces of Lords Tangery and Dunval.
The guards carried foldable canvas field chairs, which they set up for their lords, with one more behind them for a thin, wary scribe who settled down, parchment and ink at hand.
“Well, I see he hasn’t killed the boy yet. Surprising.” Dunval stalked up to the bars of the cell, squinting into the shadows of the corner at Bloodraven and Yha
len. “I expected to see his gnawed bones strewn about the cell. Or at the very least his ravished carcass, torn in two by the beast.”
“Ogres don’t eat humans, little human lordling,” Bloodraven said very softly, golden eyes narrow, ears twitching just enough to make a few of the lower rings jangle against each other. “Hardly enough meat on you to make it worth our while.”
Dunval’s mouth tightened, face darkening a little in annoyance. Tangery moved up beside him before he could utter a word of retaliation, laying a big hand on Dunval’s shoulder as he peered into the cell himself, a faint twist of amusement on his thick lips.
“That’s a good thing to know, lord ogre. A thing to put a man’s mind at ease, knowing that if he’s killed in honest battle his corpse won’t roast over the cooking fires of those that killed him. Now, we’ve given you what you asked for. It’s time for you to give us what we want.”
Tangery stepped back, settling himself in the field chair and a moment later, not to seem less at ease, Dunval sat down in his own.
“What do you wish to know?” Bloodraven asked simply, tilting his head in curiosity, but otherwise not shifting his relaxed position against the wall.
“Are the ogre armies of the north massing to attack southern lands?” Dunval asked tersely.
Tangery sighed, but kept his silence, waiting to see what Bloodraven might say.
Bloodraven considered a moment. “There are no ‘armies’ of the north. Not like your human armies. There are clans, and each clan has warriors that do the bidding of the clan chieftain. There’s no chief that rules all the clans and their purposes are often at odds. It would take a great event for the clan chieftains to unite in purpose.”