by Nunn, PL
Bloodraven moved and Yhalen’s eyes snapped up, wary of the halfling’s motives. But he simply turned in a half circle, taking stock of the room, then moved stiffly towards the thick pallet and dropped down upon it with a grunt. There was a tremor to his limbs that hadn’t been there before, and a trail of fresh blood that oozed from the wound in his side. It had been a long climb for a wounded man. Man? Yhalen wondered if that term might apply, since Bloodraven had at least half human blood mixed with the ogre that ran in his veins. He supposed it did. As Yhalen had seen full-blooded ogres closer than any sane creature might wish to, the evidence of Bloodraven’s humanity was strong enough in comparison.
“Your wounds,” he said softly. “Do you wish me to attend to them?”
Bloodraven eyes flickered up to him, gauging and sharp beneath a shield of dark lashes. It occurred to Yhalen that there was also some small hint of superstition there, lurking in the golden depths. Fear?
Of his supposed magic? Yhalen took a dizzy breath at the realization that just such a thing might be true. That whether he had control over it or not, Bloodraven thought he had the capacity for magical retaliation. Just because he hadn’t struck out in the cell during provocation didn’t mean that the sight of Deathclaw had left Bloodraven’s memory. It instilled in Yhalen some small sense of…power. Of a control that he hadn’t felt in a very long time.
“Are you afraid?” He dared the question, lifting his eyes to meet those of the halfling. There were a great many men that would have reacted badly to such a suggestion, who would have struck out in anger at the mere hint that there was anything that would reduce them to fear.
Bloodraven stared at him for a long moment, and then, instead of glowering in indignation, his broad mouth split in a wolfish grin of amusement. He laughed in what Yhalen thought was honest amusement, with no hint of derision.
“I don’t fear the touch of your small hands.”
Bloodraven held out his arms in a gesture of encouragement. The right one wavered, weakened no doubt by the festering wound in his shoulder, and Yhalen doubted suddenly that the halfling could have carried out any of the threats he’d made this day against lord Dunval. His strength was very nearly at its limits.
Yhalen moved towards the table with its basin and its tray of clean rags, rolls of thin linen, and jars of salves and healing herbs. He was well familiar with the mundane treatment of ills, having a mother that was renowned for not only her spiritual healing prowess, but for her practical knowledge as well.
He’d watched her treat countless wounds and mix countless batches of medicines, listened to her name off every root and leaf and fungus that might be used to cure weaknesses of the flesh.
These medicines were unmarked and unfamiliar, but upon inspection of one ceramic-stoppered jar he recognized the scent of the jhegri root, which was used to help draw the heat of infection from inflamed wounds. In another, the crushed leaves of the slanthi plant, which although strong and bitter would numb pain almost upon touch. There were other scents that he recognized, a good many of them mixed in with thick lard instead of simply ground into the coarse paste his mother used. He supposed that it would be just as effective this way. There was also a needle and thread coated with beeswax.
Someone had taken note, then, of the severity of Bloodraven’s wounds and provided the proper supplies to treat them.
Yhalen put what he wanted on the tray and approached the pallet. He sat it on the floor by Bloodraven’s feet and stood looking down, wondering where to start. The halfling was covered in filth and as his mother had always said, filth was the ally of infection and cleanliness the enemy. Yhalen filled the basin with clean water from one of the buckets, and brought that over as well, dipping a rag and taking a great breath before dropping to his knees on the pallet at Bloodraven’s side and putting wet cloth to skin.
He refused to meet Bloodraven’s eyes, though the ogr’ron had tilted his head to watch what Yhalen was about. Refused to take note of anything but the immediate patch of skin under the rag and the way the dirt streaked under the passage of the cloth and left clean, pale olive beneath. The loosened braid was blood crusted, and strands of it had dried in the blood of the shoulder wound. Yhalen carefully freed it with water and hesitantly gathered together the shoulder blade length of Bloodraven’s black hair, shifting it to lie across his opposite shoulder. It was lank and dirty now, but Yhalen knew very well that when clean, it shone with bluish highlights and felt like slippery silk when it brushed across sensitive skin.
He shuddered, blushing at that unbidden memory, chasing it away vehemently, and glad that, for the moment, he was at Bloodraven’s back and not within easy sight. The washing of Bloodraven’s broad back provided Yhalen more than ample time to chase away the embarrassing pink. He rinsed the rag many times, squeezing out dirt and blood, until the water was murky brown and Bloodraven’s skin mostly free of grime.
Yhalen finished with the area around the nasty wound at Bloodraven’s side and here, finally, got reaction in the form of twitching muscle when he pressed the rag against the wound to loosen the crust of pus and blood. Bloodraven bit back a hiss of pain with a disgruntled expression of disgust. With the skin around it clean, the pink streaks of infection around the wound were clearly visible.
Yhalen looked up, frowning. How many days had this had to fester? He added them up in his head and bit his lip, amazed that the halfling that survived as long as he had. A human man wouldn’t have, had this gone untreated for so long. A human man most certainly wouldn’t be up and about and threatening to rip chains from walls and tear men limb from limb. One had to respect Bloodraven’s tenacity.
Yhalen emptied the dirty water and rinsed the rag, and then refilled the basin with clean water before setting about a thorough cleaning of the wounds. He began with the shoulder, washing away the blood and soaking the crusty scab that had started to form until it was soft enough to peel away. The wound bled anew then, and Yhalen pressed at the edges, forcing out pus and letting the blood wash away some of the poisons that infection had cultured.
Bloodraven sat through it silently, not flinching or jerking away at what had to have been excruciating. He’d stopped watching Yhalen, though, his eyes fixed on the opposite wall. The black centers had dilated enough that the gold was only a thin stripe around the edges by the time Yhalen finished packing the wound, slathering ointment atop, and threading the needle before sewing together the edges of flesh. He left enough of a gap at the very edge for infection to drain, planning on closing it later if the wound began to heal nicely.
When he’d covered that wound with clean wads of cloth and bound it around Bloodraven’s shoulder, he turned to the wound on the halfling’s side. It was harder to easily treat, even with Bloodraven’s arm held close to his chest. Yhalen sighed and sat back on his heels.
“Would you lie back?”
Bloodraven frowned a little, as if in the act of enduring this, lying down somehow injured his show of courage. He made no immediate move to do so. Yhalen pressed a hand against his shoulder, pushing him backwards. It was like pushing a stone wall, and the wall only gave way of its own accord as, with an exhalation of breath, Bloodraven lay back, catching his descent with one arm.
He was somewhat less intimidating reclined and he moved his arm over his head to allow Yhalen better access to the seeping wound at his side. Yhalen cleaned it and pressed infection out of it over and over, wishing they’d provided a bit of hallow leaf, which he was almost certain had been a favorite of his mother’s in treating infections gone deep into the flesh. He used what he had at hand, packing the wound when he was sure he’d drawn as much poisonous ooze as he could.
When he’d finished, the halfling lay with his eyes shut and his breathing gone harsh and uneven.
Even his skin had gone a shade lighter than its normal hue. It had hurt a great deal, his treatment, but there was no help for it. His capacity for remorse over it was limited, though, his memory of pain and humiliation fresh enough
in his memory to curb his pity.
Yhalen sat down on the carpet, folding his legs and staring morosely at Bloodraven, who still had not made a move to rouse. All this creature had given him was pain and degradation. Except for that one time—he frowned, recalling that last time before he’d run with the women and children of the ransacked village. When he’d lost his sanity for a brief moment and desired it, had begged for it with open legs—and had welcomed Bloodraven inside his body and took pleasure in it. Repeatedly.
There had been consideration there. And a great deal of care for Yhalen’s comfort, which he supposed wryly, was why he hadn’t had it in him to plunge the knife into the sleeping ogr’ron’s breast when he’d taken his leave. It made no difference now, of course. It shouldn’t have made a difference then, with himself enslaved and raped no matter how gently his captor went about it. He worked up a righteous indignation to chase away the lingering memory of pleasure, and then started at the abrupt rap on the door. He scrambled to his feet, casting a wary glance at Bloodraven, but the halfling didn’t move to rise.
It was supper. A male servant with a large tray stood at the threshold, guards at his back. The man made no move into the room, so Yhalen went to him, relieving him of the tray. The door was immediately shut and rebarred. Yhalen glared at it for a moment, resenting the men that had the freedom to come and go, then sighed and moved towards the pallet with his burden, setting it down on the floor next to it.
He lifted the top from the central platter and the mouthwatering smell of roasted red meat wafted up. A generous portion of roast was nestled within a bed of root vegetables. A loaf of bread the length of his forearm was wrapped in linen and still warm from the ovens. Yhalen’s stomach grumbled in alarming eagerness. There was no knife, but there was a wooden two-pronged fork, and he had no intention of waiting on Bloodraven’s pleasure. If the halfling wanted to eat, he could rouse himself enough to do it.
Yhalen tore off a chunk of bread and let it soak up thick gravy. Speared a tender potato swimming in the same rich broth. It was better fare than he’d received when he’d been given free rein in this keep, though he supposed it was hardly directed at him, but rather at the halfling that had snared Lord Tangery’s interest.
Eventually though, as Yhalen’s hunger was sated and Bloodraven hadn’t stirred to take an interest in his share, he began to suspect that the halfling wasn’t simply resting but had succumbed to the grip of infection and injury and slipped from consciousness.
Yhalen wiped his fingers on the side of his pant leg and cautiously edged closer to the pallet and Bloodraven’s reclined form.
“Are you awake?” he asked, nudging one thickly muscled leg.
There was a twitch of skin along Bloodraven’s stomach. Finally a faint slit between dark lashes that showed a glimmer of golden eyes.
“Were you afraid I’d died from the ordeal of your tending?”
“No. I simply did not wish to be locked in with a rotting corpse, were it the case. But since you aren’t, you ought to eat. Feed the body to fend off the sickness—”
“Don’t spew healer’s rhetoric at me,” Bloodraven growled.
Yhalen shut his mouth and shifted warily back as the halfling grunted and pushed himself up, but Bloodraven hardly seemed spry enough to make a grab for him. He sat instead slouched forward, his head down and breathing harsh. He needed food, but he probably needed clean water more. Yhalen fetched the bucket with its ladle and sat it by Bloodraven’s feet.
Perhaps he had more of his mother’s nature than he’d thought, for when the halfling made no move for the water, Yhalen dipped the ladle and lifted it up in offering.
“The fever burns the moisture out of a body. You have to drink.”
He had a fraction of a moment’s warning. Just a shift of those fever bright golden eyes behind a lank curtain of black hair and Bloodraven’s hand was swinging out, knocking the ladle from his hand, making a grab for him with more speed than he’d have thought possible from one so injured. Deft fingers caught his tunic and jerked him forward, and he barely managed to twist and avoid spilling the bucket of water onto the platter in the process.
Bloodraven shifted his grip, large hands circling Yhalen’s upper arms with a punishing pressure. He was a child caught in the grip of an angry adult and there was no fighting it, so he went limp and hung there, knees barely touching the pallet, so close to Bloodraven’s body that he could feel the fever emanating outwards.
“Don’t think to direct me. Don’t think that because I grant you liberties that you’re not my slave,”
Bloodraven growled, shaking him once for emphasis. It rattled Yhalen’s teeth. But for the first time in the face of such brute threat he didn’t feel the thrill of fear, but instead anger.
“I’m not,” Yhalen snarled in outrage, mindless of the grip he was in. “Has the fever made you daft? You’re a prisoner here among human men. I’m only here because they think they can gain useful information from you if they have some portion of your good will.”
“Oh no? Shall I prove it?” He was drawn closer, pressed tight against Bloodraven’s bare chest.
There was something missing from the halfling’s eyes. That keen bit of rationality that had always been there before. That spark of regard in which with he’d looked out at the world. It was the fever and the indignation of his position and frustration, pain and fear. And very probably, considering the latter two, shame.
“How much of a fool are you that you’d rather rail at me with misplaced pride than take a bit of good advice? You’ve very few allies at the moment—perhaps you ought not to antagonize the ones you have?”
Bloodraven drew in a shaky breath. Another, and the hands loosened a bit, smoothing down Yhalen’s arms as if to work out the creases his fingers had made in the cloth of his tunic. Not letting him go though.
“And are you my ally, Yhalen?”
A very soft question. He was in a precarious position to give a misguided answer. With his face pressed against Bloodraven’s hot, dry skin, he couldn’t even see the halfling’s eyes to gauge the shift in his mood.
“I suppose, at the moment, I am,” he said carefully. “Allies in the same prison cell at the very least. I wish you no ill….”
He faltered on this last, detecting some unerring truth within words designed to placate. He didn’t wish Bloodraven ill, though he should have. He had every right to, yet he found he rather wished worse things upon the hawk-faced lord Dunval than the half-man who had placed a brand upon his back. For the moment. Perhaps it was simply that Bloodraven was wounded and he’d always had a sympathy for wounded things.
Bloodraven sat him back, and Yhalen dropped back onto his rump on the floor beside the pallet, faintly lightheaded from relief. Bloodraven had a disconcerted expression on his face, a slight frown, but it wasn’t ominous—simply quizzical, as if Yhalen had baffled him utterly.
“Water. Then food. Then sleep,” Yhalen said, reaching for the ladle and dipping it again into the bucket.
“Are you in the habit of telling others what they ought to do?” Bloodraven asked with less fervor than he’d had when responding to Yhalen’s first request. He took the ladle nonetheless.
Yhalen thought a moment and shrugged. His bloodline was the most honored and respected of all Ydregi, after all, and Yhalen had not been averse to making others aware of that fact for his own benefit. “I suppose I am…before this at any rate.”
Bloodraven grunted, dipping the ladle again himself, water trailing down his chin and onto his broad chest. When he’d drunk his fill, he picked at the cooling food, but as expected, his appetite was less than hearty. After he’d finished and pushed the tray away, he eased himself fully onto the pallet, arranging the down-stuffed pillows in a corner and lying back with a grunt, one hand reflexively hovering over his side as the wound strained from his movement. Already a spot of seepage had stained the clean bandages. It would need to be re-cleaned and drained again before the day was through. Yhalen would
ask for more bandages and perhaps see if there were any fresh cairrib root to be had, for it had not been included among the supplies they’d given him and he recalled his mother speaking highly of its properties.
He smiled a little at his own thoughts. He’d never once wanted to follow in his mother’s footsteps and become a healer, instead following a young man’s desires for more arduous pursuits. Hunter or warrior, perhaps chieftain someday…but magic and healing had not hovered within the scope of his wants. Ironic that he found himself now in the practice of both, though the former came to him sporadically.
“What do you hope to gain, by treating with human lords?” Yhalen finally asked. “You can’t hope they’ll deal fairly with you after the bloodshed you’ve caused.”
Bloodraven said nothing, holding his motives close to home. Yhalen sighed, folding arms around knees as a faint shiver passed through him. This far underground it was still chilly. He wished there was a hearth to warm himself by, even if there was no window with a view to the sky.
“I don’t understand you,” he murmured.
“In that, then, we have a common dilemma,” Bloodraven sighed and refused to say more as his breathing evened and sleep overtook him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Bloodraven slept like the dead. So long and still, in fact, that if not for the rise and fall of his chest, Yhalen might have thought he’d succumbed to his wounds and finally journeyed to whatever afterlife his people believed in. Hours passed and the halfling didn’t as much as shift in his sleep, and all the while Yhalen roamed the limited confines of the room like an animal caged. He knew the exact count of steps it took to cross from one wall to the other. He knew how many spidery cracks pieced the surface of the floor and ceiling, and how many hewn stones had gone into the forming of four walls.