Bloodraven

by Nunn, PL

  Eventually, when Yhalen’s shivering ceased and he lay quiet and still, Bloodraven’s restlessness got the better of him and he shifted the human aside, arranging the blankets back over him before rising to examine the contents of the room.

  He stretched, working the cricks out of back and shoulders and rotating his head to relieve the stiffness of his neck. He’d been too long inactive and his body rebelled as joints and muscles cried out, aching and stiff regardless of the arcanely healed wounds.

  He shifted through the contents of the table. There was clothing and various herbs, as well as tools for grooming, which held some interest for him. There was water and rags and human soap, which he made use of. There wasn’t enough of the dirty water left to cleanse his hair, so he gathered it back and pulled it into a warriors knot at his nape, binding it with a strip of frayed leather from his trousers.

  Might as well find some use for them, torn and bloody as they were. He stared thoughtfully at the pile of clothing on the table, wondering how much face he might lose if he accepted their offerings and clad himself in human-made garments. Hardly as much face as he might lose if he faced them in stinking bloodstained leathers.

  He convinced himself to shed the trousers with little effort, tossing them to a corner and scrubbing his lower body with the dirty water before toweling dry with a swath of linen no doubt meant to dress wounds. The trousers were of a fine, stout material, soft and pliable and thick enough to protect against the elements. There was fine, subtle stitching along the waist, the delicacy beyond large ogre fingers.

  He fingered the cloth, marveling at the tightness of the weave. The things that the men of the lowlands were capable of never ceased to amaze him. Those few stolen items that trickled up to the northern tribes were bartered at high prices, for even the mountain humans who worked in fear of their lives for the tribes, did not create such clever things. But then again, perhaps they were capable, but chose not to share with the race that had hunted and oppressed them for generations. Understandable.

  If he were in the same position he’d have offered nothing more than the simplest tasks demanded of him. Not for the first time he considered the tribal chieftains of old, fools for choosing to make war with the humans rather than ally with them.

  There was the rattle of the locks on the outside of the door. Bloodraven stiffened, battle instincts coming into play unbidden. He had to force himself to relax, recalling that a mindless bid for escape did not, at the moment, lie in his best interests. He took a step backwards, resting his shoulders against the wall and forcing his body into an unthreatening stance. Still, when the guards stepped into the doorway and saw him, their weapons came up as their faces both paled and tightened. The serving man behind them flinched visibly, the stench of sudden fear pouring off him like he’d bathed in it.

  Bloodraven made no move and no sound, lowering his lashes enough so that his watchful stare wasn’t so obviously challenging.

  The guards waved in the serving man impatiently, and he reluctantly moved forward, dropping the bucket of water and sloshing a great deal of it on the floor in the process. He practically tossing the wrapped bundle into the room in his efforts to deposit his offerings and be gone. The guards backed out just as hastily and slammed the door shut behind them.

  Bloodraven waited until the sound of the locks being secured had finished before moving to retrieve the wrapped bundle. More herbs, from the smell of it. The fresh water was inviting, though, and he dipped out a handful to drink, then another, realizing only as the water hit his belly how hungry he was. He vaguely recalled picking at the first meal they had brought to this cell, but his appetite had been muted due to the infection and fever, and he’d not taken full advantage of human cooking. He rather hoped they’d send another one soon.

  He tossed the bundle on the table, uninterested in herbs, and set about more thoroughly working the stiffness out of his body. He was still sore in places, the muscles in his side and shoulder taut and sensitive as newly healed flesh was wont to be.

  He quenched his thirst with more water when he’d finished and retreated to the pallet where Yhalen still slept. He resisted the urge to touch him, to push the blankets aside and uncover the finely healed brand on the small of his human’s back. It had been placed advantageously, with thoughts of enjoying the view of it while he enjoyed the body of his little human slave. Pity he’d gotten little enjoyment out of Yhalen since it had been placed. If it had not been wounds preventing, then it had been circumstance, and if not circumstance, then he had to reluctantly admit to conscience getting in the way. And now that Yhalen had healed him—perhaps even saved his life in the doing and at great risk to himself—there was debt to be considered.

  He shut his eyes, resting his head against the wall, pondering the indignity of owing debt to a human, and a human slave of his to boot. Not that this particular human considered himself as such, regardless of capture and brand and collar. Well, the collar was gone and he was only in Bloodraven’s company by the dubious grace of this keep’s lords, but the brand was still there.

  Yhalen shifted, the first movement in some time, and moaned as he threw an arm up and across his face. After a moment, he slid the arm up to rest on his forehead and blinked up at the ceiling, eyes hazy and disoriented.

  Bloodraven watched through hooded eyes, holding himself as still as a rock on the side of a mountain, while Yhalen gathered his wits. An interesting process, watching awareness come across an expressive human face, watching the sleep fade from brilliant green eyes. Yhalen looked over at him, and those eyes widened in surprise that wasn’t at first laced with wariness. Perhaps it was merely wonderment to see him up and fit when last Yhalen had seen him caught in the throes of severe fever.

  Perhaps there was even some bit of relief, though that, Bloodraven might have imagined.

  But wariness descended soon enough and Yhalen pushed himself up onto his elbows, obviously still weak of body even though his wits seemed to have recovered.

  “You’re better?” It was a very cautious query.

  “Yes.”

  Yhalen stared, scrutinizing the simplicity of that answer, and of its own accord, his hand moved down to the place on his side that had pained him during his unconsciousness. The place where Bloodraven’s own wound had been. Uncertainty slid across Yhalen’s face and, soon after, realization, as if he himself had not imagined the extent of what he’d been about.

  “You used magicks on me,” Bloodraven said gravely and Yhalen flinched, pushing himself to a sitting position, forcing his hand away from his side and looking very much as if he’d like to scramble from the pallet.

  Bloodraven lifted his arm, revealing the healthy flesh around the scar on his side. Yhalen’s eyes went wide, fixed on that closed flesh.

  “How—how long have I been asleep?” He whispered with the tone of a young man that wished to hear many days instead of hours.

  “Half a day.”

  “Half a…. I did this?”’

  Whether the question was posed to Bloodraven or simply a thought voiced out loud was debatable.

  Yhalen certainly wasn’t looking at him in expectancy of an answer, but instead sat slouch-shouldered and stunned, staring with uncomfortable intent at Bloodraven’s side.

  Bloodraven reached out and caught Yhalen’s chin, forcing his eyes up to Bloodraven’s face instead of the miracle worked on his body. “I’ve decided not to hold offense.”

  Yhalen blinked at him, perhaps not comprehending the extent of that graciousness. There were very many others who might look at such a use of arcane powers darkly, regardless of benefit.

  After a moment, Yhalen recovered somewhat more of himself and tried to pull away from Bloodraven’s grip upon his jaw. Bloodraven let him, returning his wrist to his knee and watching in some amusement as Yhalen struggled to untangle the covers from his legs. His limbs were trembling, and there was a paleness to his skin that spoke of continued weakness.

  “Does it always impact y
ou so, the use of this magic of yours?”

  “How would I know?” Yhalen said sharply, achieving victory over the covers and scooting to the edge of the pallet opposite Bloodraven. “It’s never happened before…I’ve never tried….”

  The testiness drained from his tone and he stared in dismay at Bloodraven. “It was so easy to start, I had no idea how simple…but it was so hard to control. It pulled me in and I couldn’t stop it once it was begun. I thought I’d end up like the forest…dried and shriveled.”

  “Perhaps delving into things where you have no training is not so wise a thing, then?” Bloodraven observed dryly and Yhalen narrowed his eyes.

  But then a very faint curve touched his lips and he admitted, “That sounds very much like something my mother would advise. I believe she trained a decade with my grandfather before she began healing. Goddess, I’m starved.”

  Bloodraven felt much the same, but there was little enough to do about it save pounding on the door and demanding a break from their fast to the guards outside. There was water, though, and Yhalen leaned over the bucket by the bedding and drank several ladles full before he collapsed back against the wall. Water dripped from his chin and clumped the dangling strands of hair that had trailed into the bucket while he drank. He rubbed at his shoulder, and Bloodraven supposed he was feeling the ghost pain from Bloodraven’s own healed shoulder wound, too.

  “You took my pain?”

  Yhalen bit his lip, frowning down at his knees. “I knew—I was told that it was part of the healing. For the healer to take the pain into themselves before it dissipated. A conduit of sorts, I suppose. My mother never said…that it hurt so much.”

  Even so, he’d still known, and taken the pain heedless of that. Among ogres the giving of pain was commonplace, even among comrades. It would be inconceivable to willingly accept it for the benefit of another, most especially one considered an adversary. Bloodraven couldn’t decide whether it was a matter of honor with Yhalen and his strange people, or simple soft-heartiness or stupidity. Regardless, such a folk wouldn’t have lasted long amongst the harsh traditions of the mountain clans.

  It was just as well, perhaps, that Bloodraven had not made good his escape back to the north with Yhalen in tow. Protecting him might have been more than Bloodraven could have easily handled, and protection at the very least had been honestly earned. Gratitude was a harder burden to shoulder.

  Gratitude, like debt, was reserved for equals and nothing in Bloodraven’s upbringing had prepared him to consider human men as equals, no matter the seed that had impregnated his mother. No matter that he contemplated a parlay with the men of the south that would shake the hierarchy of the northern clans.

  “Why?” he asked instead. “Why do such things when my death would have benefited you far more?”

  Yhalen bent over his knees, resting forehead on his forearm, perhaps not willing to answer, or not able to, strange creature that he was.

  “Is that the way your people think?” he asked finally, as he turned his head to peer up at Bloodraven through the thick fall of the hair around his face. “That death is more beneficial than life?”

  Bloodraven stiffened. Yhalen’s snide words before this held no offense to him—but this question, asked so softly and earnestly, seemed to stab at the heart of ogre tradition…and condemn it.

  “You’re not to judge,” he growled.

  “I wasn’t.”

  Bloodraven hissed, fighting the sudden impulse to grab Yhalen up and shake him, then wondering a moment later why so simple a query bothered him so much. Perhaps because it was true and it was a truth that stung. Perhaps because he’d never enjoyed the infliction of pain and death as much as his full-blooded fellows, and had always felt deficient because of it. Weak. Bloodraven hated more than anything the feeling of weakness, for it only drove home the plain fact that he was frailer and smaller than his full-blooded brethren.

  But Yhalen didn’t seem willing to say more and his silence and stance, with his head upon drawn knees, hinted at resignation.

  Bloodraven sat for a while, temper cooling as he contemplated the fact that Yhalen had not moved further than the edge of the pallet and was within easy reach if Bloodraven had the urge to touch him.

  If he did, the boy would flinch, no doubt, and try to scramble away, having quickly enough lost the obedience he’d learned while in Bloodraven’s care in the fellowship of other ogres. Away from the judgmental eyes of those same fellows, Bloodraven didn’t mind the infraction so much, having always found the dull-eyed stare of a slave with a completely broken will, unnerving.

  For the second time, the clinking of the doors heavy lock caught him off his guard. The door opened, allowing the predictable guards with their cocked crossbows and their hateful stares. The smell of roasted meat wafted in from the hallway, borne on a current of fresh air that had no doubt been pulled all the way from the doorway leading to the keep’s ground level. It smelled of pork and vegetables well saturated in the juices of the meat and Bloodraven’s stomach rumbled accordingly.

  But the long-desired meal didn’t enter first, servants continuing to hover in the tangle of humans that milled outside in the corridor. Instead, accompanied by two men at arms, and behind them the two bowmen, the swish of skirt announced the arrival of the lady of this keep.

  “Well, good afternoon,” she said without preamble, her sharp eyes taking in the details of the room and its occupants swiftly and accurately. “Tell me, was it mischief of yours or mere coincidence that sent the two guards outside your door last night to their beds with the sudden onslaught of sickness?”

  Yhalen lifted his head, the look on his face so full of shock and guilt that no sane person could have doubted his complicity. Bloodraven shut his eyes and sighed, innocent of this particular crime, and waited for judgment to fall.

  It hadn’t occurred to Yhalen, it truly hadn’t, that the guards at the door might have been affected by his healing. He felt vaguely sick at the notion of two shriveled, drained bodies slumped in the hallway outside, victims of his successful attempt to heal an enemy not even fully human.

  He tried to formulate words in defense of such a crime, but the lady waved a hand as if she were bored and said, “If it sweeps through the rest of the guard, as these things sometimes do, the physician will be overburdened with the complaints of whining men for the day or two these ills usually take to run their course.”

  Yhalen shut his mouth, wishing very much it was nothing more than a case of some common sickness that came with the change of seasons. Wishing that he’d not drawn from the vitality of the only other close living things in his working.

  “And how are you this day, master Bloodraven? You look considerably better than the last time I saw you. I see my eye didn’t misjudge the size of your clothing.” There was the faint curve of a smile upon her lips.

  Yhalen glanced about, realizing for the first time since he’d woken that Bloodraven had indeed shed his bloodied leathers and donned the trousers that the lady had sent down. He’d neglected the shirt though, and aside from the pale ochre of his flesh and the rippling muscle of broad shoulders and chest, the lack of fresh wounds was very apparent. The lady had to have seen. How could she have missed such a thing when those very wounds stank of infection and blood the day before?

  His breathing went shallow and harsh and he clutched his knees in expectation of accusation. The lady, however, seemed more interested in the cut of Bloodraven’s pants than the lack of his wounds, and she made no overt comment. She ignored Yhalen’s presence altogether.

  “Do you find these accommodations more comfortable than the last?” she inquired. “Is there something perhaps that I might send to make this regrettable room more appealing?”

  Bloodraven watched her silently from under thick lashes. A strand of long black hair escaped the knot at his neck, snaking down his cheek to tickle the jut of his collarbone. The hair pulled so starkly back from his face hammered home the fact that his bone structure
was far more human than ogre, cheekbones broad but high, brow smooth and fine, nose long and narrow, the flaring of nostrils the only indication that he wasn’t entirely comfortable under the scrutiny of the lady and her guards. Aside from the ears and the color of his skin he was really quite… well made, Yhalen realized with shocked comprehension.

  “Oh, come, is there nothing?” the lady prompted. “Or does your silence simply proclaim that you won’t lower yourself to speak to a mere woman? Are your women so servile in the north?”

  Finally a sound escaped Bloodraven. A snort that could have been aborted laughter.

  “Hardly,” he said and the lady’s brow lifted in interest. “They rule the home fires with iron fists.”

  “Ah.” She smiled in some bit of triumph at having prompted Bloodraven to speech and Yhalen’s gut flip-flopped at the contemplation in her eyes. She glided idly to the table with its array of scattered things, and her guards shifted nervously, their eyes glued to Bloodraven, who sat in apparent ease in his corner.

  “So is there nothing…?” she prompted, running her fingers over the stitching in the tunic that Bloodraven had left rumpled on the table.

  “A stream would be nice,” the halfling said.

  The lady Duvera laughed. “Ah, I imagine it would, to wash away the stench of the dungeon. As much as I’d like to provide the opportunity…I believe my brother and Lord Tangery would have issues. I do admire a man who has a care about his hygiene, but I don’t see you fitting neatly into any tub that could be wrestled down the basement stairs. Still, perhaps I can arrange something that might do in a pinch.”

  Bloodraven canted his head, watching her with curious scrutiny. Yhalen thought she rather looked like a cat on the hunt, and felt the most contradictory protective instinct to place himself between her and Bloodraven. Ridiculous, that he felt Bloodraven needed protection. Ridiculous that he should even care. But perhaps it was simply that he’d gone to a great deal of effort to heal the halfling, and the sense of danger the lady brought with her was of a different sort than Yhalen was used to perceiving from men.