Bloodraven

by Nunn, PL

  Yhalen drew in a hissing breath of frustration. Duvera waved a hand.

  “Suffice to say, if the prince is satisfied with what your halfling has to say, then it’s very likely that he’ll no longer be held at this keep.”

  Yhalen lifted a brow, interest suddenly pricked. He fought to keep the eagerness from his face.

  “No?”

  If they moved them, there was no direction they could go that wasn’t through some forested lands.

  Yhalen might find the chance to escape yet.

  “If treaties are to be made, it’s best they’re discussed in a place where the people are less inclined to raise arms at the thought of negotiating with a murdering ogre. Some place more secure.”

  She left the interview at that. Annoying, frustrating woman. He left with a great deal of questions tumbling about in his head, and a great many uncertainties. Of course that was what she’d intended.

  She enjoyed the manipulation, he realized. It was a game to her, and she didn’t often have such interesting pieces to play.

  He was allowed another hour’s respite in the warm light of the yard before two more guards approached the one that had been dogging his heels and drew him back into the coolness of the cellars and the sunless embrace of Bloodraven’s cell. All signs of Tangery’s presence were gone. Only Bloodraven remained, reclined easily amongst the pillows of his pallet, eyes hooded and thoughtful, only briefly flickering up to take note of Yhalen’s return before dismissing his presence completely.

  No matter how badly he might want to know what had gone on in his absence, he didn’t voice the question. The thought of talking to Bloodraven as if he were a comrade or friend who would willingly share information made his back stiffen in stubbornness. Still, there was something grim about the halfling’s expression, something deadly serious in his contemplation that made Yhalen’s stomach clench in dread—yet no word of it was uttered. Whatever Bloodraven and Tangery had discussed, Bloodraven had taken it in all seriousness.

  It went badly, Yhalen thought. Tangery was even now considering sending men down to slit Bloodraven’s throat. And what would they do with the one witness to all of their maneuverings? It would be easier on all of them if he simply disappeared, buried in the same secret grave that they disposed of Bloodraven’s body in. Goddess. To spend eternity rotting alongside his captor, his tormentor. He shivered and drew his knees up tight against his chest, working himself into a nervous frenzy over the thought of it. So much so that when the door did open, he was on his feet with his back to the wall, his fists tightly clenched at his sides, ready to defend himself if need be.

  It proved a needless precaution and an embarrassing one. It was only dinner, brought by two servants and the ever-present guard. He forced himself to relax. Forced himself to walk over and take the heavily laden tray with shaking hands. Bloodraven was watching him as he sat it down, one black brow arched curiously. Yhalen put the tray down with a clank and went to retrieve the flagon of wine and mugs.

  The wine tonight was exceptional. The food mouthwatering. Yhalen couldn’t imagine Lord Tangery and the lord and lady of the keep ate anything less at their table. With such fine food and wine, it seemed unlikely that things had gone badly between Tangery and Bloodraven. One might even assume that Tangery was quite pleased.

  Bloodraven didn’t give the fine fare the attention it deserved, though, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.

  Yhalen ate his fill and still there were scraps left for the servants to take back up. The wine was consumed in whole, however. Bloodraven took the large flask after Yhalen had filled his mug the first time and drank from the bottle itself. He still didn’t offer comment on his meeting with Tangery, which presented some bit of disappointment, since Yhalen had vowed not to ask himself, but he wouldn’t have rebuffed an offering from Bloodraven.

  In fact Bloodraven paid him very little heed for the remainder of the night, preferring to brood in silence, leaving Yhalen to dwell on the hope of leaving this place and the possibility of slipping away in the forest between here and wherever it was that Tangery might consider a safe haven to hold discussions with an age old enemy. But of course thoughts of flight led to ones of homecoming, and the prospect of revealing the paths his burgeoning power had taken. Or concealing those facts, as the lady Duvera had suggested had been done in the past by others who had abused the Goddess-given gifts.

  He fell asleep agonizing over that decision, to lie or to be condemned for the truth. He woke many hours later with Bloodraven’s large, warm body close against his back, his head resting on one large outstretched arm, and Bloodraven’s other arm draped heavy and lax across him, as efficient a deterrent against withdrawal as any bonds.

  Whether it was still night, or if they had slept through till morning, he didn’t know. His sense of time had grown distorted, held so long from the rising and setting of the sun. He lay for a long while, relaxing from the tension of waking in the embrace of the halfling, letting the deep, slow breaths of the body against his affect the state of his own breathing. Bloodraven was warm and solid—not entirely uncomfortable to lie against when he was tranquil and slumbering, his scent musky and not unpleasant since they’d been provided water for bathing.

  Almost Yhalen dozed again, in the utter silence of their cell, protected against the chill by a blanket of flesh. Bloodraven’s hand drifted up his arm, then down, tracing the line of his hip in slow, lazy movements. There was no threat in the motion, nothing to make Yhalen bolt away from the contact.

  How long had the halfling been awake, lying so still beside him? Bloodraven didn’t make a sound or a demand, content, it seemed, to stroke his hair, his body, like Yhalen might pet a tame leerkit absently, gaining relaxation from its mere presence. And did not the leerkits always purr in contentment at such attention? Arch their sinewy backs and beg for more?

  Yhalen shut his eyes, shivering at the passage of a powerful hand across his ribs. Whether the tremor was from fear or revulsion, or some elicit thrill of excitement he couldn’t fathom. It was hard enough to think at all, so focused was he on the passage of Bloodraven’s idle hand.

  He broke his vow simply to shatter the spell.

  “What did he ask of you?”

  “Nothing that I didn’t expect,” Bloodraven answered after a moment, the casual movement of his hand unceasing. Nothing, Yhalen thought, that Bloodraven himself hadn’t already considered.

  “What was it that you expected, then? What bargain did you strike?”

  “A beneficial one.”

  “Beneficial to whom? What do you care what benefits humankind?” Yhalen felt a stab of frustration. Talking to Bloodraven when he chose to be cryptic seemed as fruitless as babbling at him before Yhalen had known he even understood what he was saying.

  “My father’s people were human.”

  “Your father was a slave.”

  “Umm.”

  Bloodraven shifted and something in the inflection of his touch changed. He bent close, inhaling the scent of Yhalen’s hair. The hand that had been gently skimming pressed firm against Yhalen’s belly, molding his back tighter against Bloodraven’s body. Against hard planes sculpted with muscle and the ridge of the halfling’s not quite fully erect manhood.

  The hand drifted down, across Yhalen’s crotch, fingers testing what lay beneath the thin material of trousers. Yhalen tensed, dreading reaction, dreading the stirring of his cock as Bloodraven’s fingers cupped his balls.

  “Break…breakfast will be here soon,” Yhalen gasped, knowing well enough that Bloodraven did not care to flaunt his sexual activities before the eyes of his human captors.

  “Not so soon,” the halfling murmured, pressing his mouth against Yhalen’s neck, a moist sweep of tongue across sensitive flesh. Yhalen shuddered as his skin went goosepimply. His cock twitched to greater life. Mortifying to find his body responded to the touch of his rapist.

  “Let me go,” he whispered hoarsely. “I don’t wish this.”

  Bloodraven�
�s hand stilled in a long moment of silence, and then miraculously enough, withdrew to rest lightly atop Yhalen’s hip.

  “No?”

  “No.” Yhalen rolled away, immediately bringing up a knee to hide the tenting of his trousers. Not that Bloodraven didn’t know.

  The halfling shrugged, rolling onto his back and shifting his hand to the much more impressive bulge in his own pants. He lazily slid his fingers beneath the waistband of his trousers to tend to his needs.

  Yhalen watched for a moment in horrified fascination, the life between his own legs refusing to dwindle.

  He had to turn away. Had to retreat with a single thin blanket to the far corner and stare instead at the blank wall before his erection died.

  It left him in a foul mood afterwards, temper curdled in the flames of embarrassment. Taking that temper out on Bloodraven would have been foolhardy at best, and only invited the physical engagement that the halfling had been kind enough to cease at Yhalen’s urging. Bloodraven in a good mood, it seemed, was generous. In a pissed off mood, stung by the temper of a human half his size, he’d probably not be so inclined to stunt his urges simply at the plea of one he still considered his property.

  So, wisely enough, Yhalen held his tongue and confined his glares to subtle glances from under his lashes, which the halfling seemed not to notice at all as he rose and splashed water on his face from the basin of wash water. He then proceeded to sit at the edge of the pallet and work the snarls out of silky fine ebony hair before pulling the portion at his temples back and fastening it into a small topknot.

  When he’d finished, he looked over at Yhalen, stewing in his corner, and tossed the bone comb his way.

  It hit Yhalen’s knee and skittered onto the floor.

  Yhalen stared at the comb, stubbornly refusing to touch it. It occurred to him that he hadn’t so much as finger combed his hair since he’d washed it during the small sliver of freedom he’d been allowed yesterday. It would be painful working out a day’s worth of tangles. Admitting that it needed doing was beyond him. He sat his jaw and pretended the comb and the suggestion that he needed it were not there.

  “Are there birds here that have escaped my notice,” Bloodraven observed quietly, some hint of amusement in his deep voice. “That have taken up nesting in your hair?”

  Something nasty hovered on the tip of Yhalen’s tongue. He swallowed it back with effort.

  “Come here. I’ll tame it.” Bloodraven’s deep voice sounded uncommonly good-humored. But then, his mood had been fine all morning.

  “No.” Yhalen’s head snapped up, nostrils flaring in indignation. “Thank you for the offer.”

  “I could come to you, but I’d be less…gentle about the business, if forced to sit on cold stone floor instead of this nice pallet.”

  Yhalen stared, stubbornness fighting with the absolute certainty that Bloodraven meant what he said.

  “Come here. And bring the comb.”

  This time it sounded less a suggestion and more a command. Yhalen hissed under his breath, then swiped up the comb and padded over to the pallet before turning his back and flopping down cross-legged on the edge next to Bloodraven.

  Bloodraven was surprisingly adept at working complex snarls out of lengths of hair without tugging too strenuously at the scalp that had sprouted it. For hands so large and so capable of mayhem, he had a delicate touch, when it suited him. Yhalen could almost forget the threat, if he shut his eyes and endured the grooming, imagining instead that it was friendly hands upon him. Imagining that he was sitting outside his family house, his mother working the tangles out as she had so many times before.

  “Are all ogres as fastidious as you?” Yhalen asked, needing to break the soothing spell.

  “Are all humans?” Bloodraven countered. It was a fair enough question and Yhalen could honestly say that a great many of the people outside of the Ydregi forests were most definitely in dire need of basic hygiene skills.

  Bloodraven finished. Yhalen tensed for some further touch, but the halfling merely sat back, creating space between himself and Yhalen and allowing escape, if that was what Yhalen wished. Yhalen sat there, strands of flyaway hair tickling his cheeks, the mass of it lying smooth and tamed down his back. He was saved having to offer gratitude by the arrival of breakfast.

  The keep servants came trooping down with platters of breakfast fare, better than any Yhalen had eaten since he’d been here, and certainly better than any he’d seen in captivity with Bloodraven. A fresh loaf of bread with butter, and a jar of fruit preserve warming next to it. No less than a dozen poached eggs, ham friend crisp around the edges, and potatoes fried with chunks of onion and peppers. There was also porridge with honey and butter mixed in, and a steaming kettle of strong tea.

  Fresh water was brought for the washbasin and clean cloth for drying, as well as a stack of new clothing, complete with boots.

  “You and Lord Tangery must have gotten along very well indeed,” Yhalen commented when the servants had gone and the guards had closed the door behind them. “Or perhaps they simply want to fatten you up so you’re too slow to be any threat.”

  Bloodraven canted a dubious look at him, in the process of sniffing the jar of jellied fruit. “Your people,” he admitted, “are truly creative with the preparation of their food.”

  He took what he wanted and when he’d settled back to eat, Yhalen took a portion for himself.

  The day wore on much like previous days. Bloodraven made no overture towards him, and Yhalen’s pride wouldn’t allow him to pester the halfling for details of what bargain he’d struck with Lord Tangery.

  It wasn’t until many hours had marched by, and the upper earth had to have been kissed by the light of the moon, that the sound of boots on the stairwell alerted them to the approach of more men that it usually took to bring them their supper.

  When the door opened, there were indeed no servants outside it, but a great many armed men. One, in a livery that Yhalen didn’t immediately recognize as either Dunval’s or Lord Tangery’s, stepped forward, motioning the others to hold their ground. Bloodraven rose, slowly and casually, as though any man might do such when a dozen armed soldiers stood tense and ready for some offensive move from him.

  The knight, for surely he must have been one, judging by armor under the tunic he wore and the longsword at his back, moved towards Bloodraven without hesitation. Perhaps he’d less reason than most to fear, being a very tall, very broad-shouldered man who moved with the gait of a hunter born.

  Though the armor under the tunic was fine and well-maintained, there were nicks and dents here and there that hinted that it had seen more than the inside of a stronghold’s main hall. The man’s face did as well, one long scar starting at his forehead, cutting through his right brow and traveling down his cheek. Whatever injury had caused it had only just missed taking his eye as well.

  “It’s time,” the scarred knight said, and Bloodraven inclined his head, turning towards the table and the new clothing that had been brought. He pulled on boots and tunic over the clothing he already wore.

  “You too,” the knight said to Yhalen. “Dress for a night ride.”

  “A night….” He trailed off, remembering what the lady had told him. Hurriedly he pulled on boots and pulled a thick woolen tunic over his linen shirt, all the while preparing himself for a break for freedom if the chance arose.

  The knight beckoned, and a pair of guards entered the room, accompanied by the clank of chains.

  The knight took them in his own hands and stared pointedly at Bloodraven.

  “You understand the need?”

  The halfling looked down at the manacles, and perhaps some flicker of disappointment crossing his features before he shrugged and extended his thick wrists for the knight to clamp the manacles about.

  “Where are we going?” Yhalen asked, no longer able to keep his silence.

  The scarred knight glanced at him briefly, eyes gauging. “East,” he finally said. “You’re goin
g east…to meet a man.”

  Before Yhalen could ask who or why, the guards ushered them out of the room and up the narrow stairwell. The keep was dark when they reached the ground floor. Darker than usual perhaps, for such a place, wall sconces unlit and the main hall eerily deserted. Hurriedly they made their way towards a side doorway, and down a hall that Yhalen had not traversed. He picked up the scent of horses and manure before they reached the exit and guessed that this hall led directly to the stable yard. More men waited there. A great many more men. Tangery was among them, as was Lord Dunval. Tangery inclined his head to the scarred knight and the man returned the gesture. They were of a height, Tangery and this younger knight, though Tangery had the girth of a man well into his middle years.

  “We’ll ride hard and fast tonight,” Tangery said. “There are too many folk who would take exception to your presence, master Bloodraven, to risk exposure. I only hope your lady sister can keep our pace, Lord Dunval.”

  Yhalen saw the lady Duvera for the first time, tall and reed thin. Dressed in dark clothing amidst the thicker bodies of men. She was dressed for travel.

  The knight frowned. “I still hold misgivings about the presence of a woman on such a journey. She’s better tending to the business of her keep.”

  “My sister has many skills, Sir Alasdair. You may find her invaluable,” Dunval said with a sly smile. The knight, Sir Alasdair, didn’t return it, turning instead to wave the soldiers holding the reins of horses forward.

  “Lord Tangery, we’re losing darkness. We need to be on the road if we’ve a hope of reaching Karspont by morning. He’ll be none too happy if we’re forced to take shelter from daylight travel and lose a day in the process.”

  “Ah,” Tangery said grimly. “Well do I know the extent of his patience…or lack of it. I grew up with him, remember?”

  “Aye, milord.” Sir Alasdair’s mouth twitched in what might have been a smile before he banished it, bellowing for horses.

  They brought a great, thick-legged creature that must have been taken straight from the fields for Bloodraven. Only a workhorse could have carried him for any duration without breaking down.