Bloodraven

by Nunn, PL

  The grip on him lessened, though his back was still pressed against the slick leather of the saddle, and Bloodraven’s hands still supported his weight, feet off the ground.

  “It was a spell,” Yhalen repeated, giddy. “She put a geas on you.”

  Bloodraven blinked at him, thick black lashes spiked with water, pupils huge and dilated in the storm-spawned darkness.

  “I broke it—”

  Bloodraven lunged forward, covering his mouth, tongue pushing past his lips like a battering ram as he pressed Yhalen back against the great horse, whose sides gusted with nervous breath as it took an uncertain step, which made Yhalen clutch Bloodraven in fear of that support bolting away from his back all together. Which made him forget to protest the rough kiss, opening his mouth wide and allowing it, the tongue in his mouth too forceful for him to be anything but passive in the exchange.

  Bloodraven shifted his hold, grasping Yhalen’s bottom and stepping away from the unstable support of the horse, moving instead to the nail straight bole of a mature pine. Yhalen’s back hit that, his cloak protecting him from the rough bark. Bloodraven’s mouth moved from his lips to his chin, to the throbbing hollow where his pulse beat at his throat. He cried out something incoherent, fingers curling in Bloodraven’s wet hair as his legs circled Bloodraven’s waist. He was supported himself between Bloodraven and the tree, leaving Bloodraven’s hands free to roam his body, pushing up under sodden clothing to touch chilled skin.

  Warm hands, that knew all too well the sensitive spots. Tickling first over the small of his arched back, then trailing across his peaked nipples teasingly. Down, across the hollow beneath his ribs, and down lower to the soft flesh above his hips.

  Lower. He wanted lower. He wanted Bloodraven’s large hand to encircle his yearning cock, to encase it in heat and strength…Goddess…wanted more than that.

  There sounded a crack of thunder that wasn’t accompanied by the visible aspect of lightning, startling them, although the ground didn’t shake from it. The pelting rain let up, becoming a steady, gentle shower. Bloodraven leaned forward, cheek next to Yhalen’s, forehead against the tree. One hand supported Yhalen’s back, the backside of the other softly stroked Yhalen’s belly.

  “There was witchcraft?” the halfling murmured.

  Yhalen had to blink and think a moment to recall. “Yes.”

  “But no longer?”

  “I don’t think…no. No longer.”

  “Will she know?”

  “Probably.” His destruction of her spell had not been unpretentious.

  Bloodraven grunted, and pushed back from the tree, Yhalen still in his arms. Since his feet didn’t immediately come back into contact with the ground, Yhalen secured his grip about Bloodraven’s neck, blushing somewhat now that the heat of no doubt adrenaline-fueled passion had abated. Blushing more to be carried like a child back towards Bloodraven’s great horse and swung up into the high saddle as if he couldn’t manage on his own.

  Bloodraven swung up behind him, and the gelding shifted, twitching his ears in displeasure at the extra weight. Very much annoyed not to be in a warm, dry stable somewhere, instead of drenched and cold and shouldering more than his fair share.

  “Where…?” Yhalen started to ask, as Bloodraven urged the horse about and into a walk, its hooves making sucking sounds in standing water that had yet to sink into pine coated forest floor.

  “Back to your king’s men, before they come looking for us.”

  “He’s not my king,” Yhalen reminded him, feeling suddenly embarrassed and sullen. Losing control of his horse and consequently falling off was surprisingly higher on the list than how badly his body had betrayed him in Bloodraven’s arms. Then, because it had hardly occurred to him before, in the heat of the moment, “You came after me. Against the geas, you came after me.”

  He felt the shifting of muscle behind him as Bloodraven shrugged. “You ride like a pregnant woman. I feared for the horse.”

  If Bloodraven had let him, instead of holding him firmly before him, Yhalen would have slipped down and walked, feet solid on the earth where they belonged, indignant over the slight to his admittedly poor skills as a horseman. Instead he slouched in the saddle, futilely trying not to lean back against Bloodraven. Trying not to appreciate the warmth of the halfling’s body, which seeped through two layers of sodden clothing to take the chill off his back.

  In the passage of the worst of the storm, they found Alasdair’s men easily enough, Yhalen spotting the destructive passage of man and horse through the wood before eventually hearing the sound of heavy, equine bodies and human voices.

  It was no full contingent they found, in the shelter of a sloping gully, and Alasdair seemed to be in the process of sending yet more of his wet soldiers out. The knight stopped in mid-command as Bloodraven’s great horse broke through the underbrush and leisurely made its way towards the welcome sight of other horses. Alasdair’s face was taut, strands of his dark hair come loose from the tail at his neck to cling wetly to his cheek, mingling with the pale scar.

  The knight breathed some curse under his breath, hands unclenching on hilt of his great sword.

  “Damn it!” he swore, considerably louder this time and reined his horse up next to Bloodraven’s.

  “You try my patience.”

  Bloodraven shrugged, unconcerned, veiled golden eyes flicking about the muddy forest glade until they found the most sheltered spot, where men had hastily secured a sheet of canvas between a set of likely trees in a makeshift shelter from the worst of the rain. The lady huddled beneath it, swathed in her cloak. Yhalen felt Bloodraven tense up behind him, arms trembling just a little in anger. Whether the halfling would break the truce he’d gone to so much trouble to make in a fit of indignant fury over the lady’s intrusion into his mind with her witchcraft, wasn’t a thing Yhalen wished to wait and let chance decide. His own safety, after all, depended on Bloodraven’s value to the king.

  “I lost my horse,” he said to the knight, distracting Bloodraven’s attention. “It ran with the storm. I don’t know where. That way.”

  He pointed back the direction they’d come and Sir Alasdair swore again and signaled the men that he’d been prepared to send out into the steady drizzle.

  “Go hunt down the others and tell them it’s a stray horse they’re looking for and not stray riders. But be back within the hour, horse or not. I’ll not have the lot of you out in the rain in the dark if it can be helped. Not over a horse.”

  The men nodded, grim faced at being sent out, wet and miserable as it was, but duty minded enough not to complain.

  “There’s shelter enough to start a fire here. We’ll camp the night, and see if morning brings better weather.”

  Which was fine news to Yhalen, whose back and shoulders still hurt from his fall from his errant horse. Curling up in his cloak in the lee of a tree sounded far preferable than riding through wet woods.

  He put a hand on the thick arm around his middle, still feeling the tremor of strong emotion.

  Bloodraven didn’t forget so easily, nor, Yhalen suspected, did he forgive easily.

  “Let it go,” he said softly, then when Bloodraven’s fingers didn’t loosen. “Let…it…go.” Digging his own nails into Bloodraven’s wrist, demanding attention and a shift of focus.

  The hold loosened. Yhalen didn’t look over his shoulder at Bloodraven’s face, didn’t wish to see what expression he wore, simply swung his leg over the saddle horn and dropped lightly to the ground.

  He wound his way past shivering horses, intent on a destination. He caught the lady Duvera’s eyes on him before he reached the scant shelter. Saw the paleness of her face beneath her cloak and the wary tenseness about her eyes.

  Her man squatted at the edge of the canvas, taking advantage of the shelter but not impeding her personal space. He watched Yhalen, shadow-eyed and on guard, but the lady didn’t protest the approach, so her guard didn’t rise to stop him as he bent and crouched, two foot from where sh
e sat.

  She knew. She absolutely knew who had shattered her geas. And perhaps she was as shocked by the ease at which he’d done it as he had been. Perhaps there was newfound apprehension in the way she looked at him. He didn’t dismiss it, quite readily appreciating the ability to inspire concern in a situation where he had no control otherwise.

  “Advice.” He said it softly, meeting her eyes from under the strands of his own dripping hair.

  “Ogres have a great loathing of magicks, it seems. And little tolerance for it being practiced upon them. It would be a shame if your king’s plans were shattered because you wished to practice your craft.”

  She was tired. The ride had taken its toll upon her and that weariness tempered the malice in her eyes.

  “Do you threaten me?” she asked, as if he were so insignificant, so far below her lofty station, that he dare not breath her same air, much less confront her regarding her misdeeds.

  Or maybe not misdeeds. Maybe she’d been set on this course by her king, who didn’t trust his alliance with a half-ogre collaborator so much as to let him loose in his countryside without assurances other than a group of men at arms. Perhaps all she need do was call out to Sir Alasdair that Yhalen had practiced magicks that had proven stronger than hers, to the detriment of the king’s purpose. She could cause great suspicion for him among the men, her word surely holding more weight than his would.

  “Not me,” he said quietly and her eyes flickered beyond him through the grayness, to Bloodraven.

  She looked back to him, pulling her cloak tighter around her, eyes narrow and full of speculation.

  “Of that,” she said, “I’m not so certain.”

  The rain continued through the morning. No harsh winds or thunderous booms, simply a fine, steady drizzle. It made travel a misery for man and horse alike. There were places in the woods where the foliage was so thick that it shielded the riders for a distance, but never for long.

  The day was cold and unpleasant. Other than the sucking sound of hooves in sodden earth, and the squeaking of wet leather and gear, they rode in silence. No sign of Yhalen’s horse had been found, so they’d had to distribute the supplies of one of the packhorses among the other horses so that he could ride it.

  Alasdair began to lead them northward, and they rode in and out of patches of forested land, until that afternoon they encountered the first sloping ground of foothills.

  They were lucky enough to find what might have been a farmhouse, or a traveler’s lodge long abandoned to take shelter in for the night. There were gaping holes in the roof, but after clearing out the bramble and clearing the flue, the hearth proved usable and they had a fine warm meal to take the chill off the damp night.

  Though Yhalen didn’t often willingly approach Bloodraven for conversation, the concern that the lady had been dabbling again in her intrusive magicks had been niggling at him for some time. He was too new to his blossoming talents to know how to sense if she were working some spell. He didn’t quite honestly know if such a thing could be detected, if it were not aimed at him, and its target half a dozen horse lengths away. For all he knew, she could be casting a compulsion of animosity towards him on the men of Alasdair’s guard. On Alasdair himself, even. Which thought frightened him no small bit, and had him watching the men around him warily for some time after it had occurred to him.

  But mostly, he was concerned for Bloodraven. Whether the halfling, now alerted, might be sensitive enough to sense a geas against him, Yhalen didn’t know. On the off chance that he could, Yhalen feared violence against the lady that could only result in return violence against Bloodraven, and very likely himself. And though the initial spell, in all honesty, had only been of benefit to the king’s purpose, and had not seemed one that was harmful to the victim of it, still, it bothered Yhalen that it had been cast.

  That she cast her malicious powers towards Bloodraven was as irksome as when she’d cast them at him and that, upon reflection, was a revelation that set him in a dark mood.

  When exactly had he come to consider Bloodraven of more consequence than the human men who guarded him? What insanity possessed him to care in the least if the halfling were shackled by the means of dark magicks, when such a thing should, in fact, benefit him?

  They fixed the same canvas they’d used to shelter the lady in the woods yesterday to the side of the dilapidated house, which gave the poor horses some refuge from the persistent rain. The rest of them, Bloodraven included, crowded into the little house. Although, Yhalen suspected, Bloodraven would have just as well taken his rest outside, regardless of weather. Alasdair wouldn’t have it, though, not unless men of his also braved the miserable night to keep watch on him, so Bloodraven didn’t argue the point. He simply ducked his head and shoulders to enter the house and found a relatively dry wall to situate himself against while the humans found reason to arrange their own bedrolls as far from him as the confines as the dwelling would allow.

  There was little room on the side of the house where Alasdair’s men clumped together, huddled against the damp cold. Duvera, who had not uttered a word to Yhalen since his reckless words to her the night before, observed him with dark eyes, amused at his uncertainty. Spell of hers or not, he wasn’t popular among the men at the moment, having caused a good number of them to spend the night before out in dark, rain-drenched woods and having added to their loads by the appropriation of a pack horse.

  He didn’t trust their welcome, so having little other option, he took his damp bedroll and moved to the wall next Bloodraven’s corner. A persistent drip forced him close enough to Bloodraven’s side to touch, should he care to reach out his hand. The halfling watched his movements from under eyes shielded by half-lowered lashes.

  Soon enough, lulled by a warm meal and warm tea, by the friendly crackle of the fire they kept fed in the hearth, the men began to relax, murmuring in low voices among themselves.

  If eyes were upon them, Yhalen thought, at least it wasn’t the entire scrutiny of the company. He leaned a little closer to the large, preternaturally still body next to him, wondering if Bloodraven were asleep. Just as well if he were, for Yhalen’s curiosity about whether the lady had again attempted to cast her geas upon him would be better answered by the simple act of physical connection rather than verbal questioning.

  He felt nothing suspicious three foot distant, so tentatively laid his fingertips against a hard, cloak-covered arm. The heat of him seeped into Yhalen immediately, Bloodraven still warm despite the cold air. Bloodraven always seemed warm, as if his ogre blood ran hotter than that of a mere human.

  Perhaps it did, his people living in northern mountains with their predominately frigid temperatures.

  Other than the warmth, he felt nothing like he’d sensed before. No insidious snarl of puppeteer’s strings leading back to the witch across the room. The warmth was nice though, working its way up his hand to the flesh of his arm, chilled by damp tunic sleeve. He withdrew his hand back to the cold spot on the floor, and Bloodraven reached out, catching a fistful of the back of Yhalen’s tunic, cloak and bedroll, and dragged him the few feet that separated them. No different than Alasdair’s men, who huddled together for the sake of warmth and comfort.

  Bloodraven didn’t touch him otherwise, save to slouch a little further down the wall. Yhalen waited there, close to the halfling’s side, for the eyes of the company to turn his way. Waited for looks malicious and cruel, clearly saying that they knew what use Bloodraven had made of him. But no knowing glance turned their way, men more interested in their own comfort. Not even the lady, who seemed to have drifted asleep, curled in her own fur-lined bedroll. He sighed then and let his head back against the wall, shutting his eyes for the first time in what seemed a very long day.

  Sleep came surprisingly easy, considering whose solid bulk he made a pillow of. He awoke in the crook of Bloodraven’s arm, his cheek against Bloodraven’s warm shoulder. The first calls of morning birds had disturbed his slumber, but the majority of the
others slept through the dawn. Only the one sentry that sat awake inside the door, and the other stationed outside, saw the sun rise along with Yhalen. It had always been his habit to rise with the sun at home. It was the way of the hunter, which he’d earned the place of. He’d gotten lazy of late, with no morning game to stalk, rising when it was demanded of him and no sooner.

  He abandoned Bloodraven’s side and went outside to relieve his bladder, and then to walk the perimeter of the long abandoned homestead. He found the places where fence posts had once stood, and saw the rocky bones of what once might have been a stable or a granary. By the time he wandered back, his pant legs were wet with dew and his water-sealed leather boots threatening to let moisture past their seams. The rest of him was dry, the rain having let up at some point during the night. Fog clung close to the earth, though, a heady reminder of what the Goddess might see fit to dump upon them should her mood worsen.

  The mountains loomed ahead of them for four days, the land swelling with foothills, flattening out to form deep, long vales before rising again. Each progressive set of hills becoming steeper and more jagged, a sure testament of the violence that had created this range in the days that the Goddess herself was young. On the fifth day, there was no downward slope leading to a low valley on the far side of the hills they crested, simply a shelf of forested earth that began a gradual rise towards the thicker forests, clinging to the crags and inclines of the lowest ruffles of the mountains’ outflung skirts.

  There was no road, and Alasdair stopped the party many a time, riding for high ground and consulting his maps.

  “It’s further northward, that which we seek,” Bloodraven said softly, upon one of those stops.

  “Were—”

  Yhalen hesitated to continue, wishing the query had not slipped up to the tip of his tongue before he’d reminded himself that Bloodraven was to be avoided. But as he’d uttered the first syllable of the question and gained Bloodraven’s attention, there seemed little point in refusing to continue, when he actually wanted an answer.