Bloodraven

by Nunn, PL

  “Were you one of those reckless young warriors you spoke of? Have you been to these lands—what did you call it— Fah’nak Gol?”

  Bloodraven’s mouth twitched in something that might have been a smile and he lowered his head somewhat, letting his hair slide down to conceal it.

  “No. Not I. My recklessness took other paths. But I know from those that made the attempt…well, those that returned at any rate, that Fah’nak Gol lies further northward.”

  His prediction proved right. It was another two days of picking their way through mountain trails before they found the first marker stone. Ages old and covered with runic etchings, it sat at the side of a well-used game trail they were following. They found another further on, and another, until it seemed a path had been laid out to follow many years past, though the ground showed no sign that human feet had utilized them in decades. Still, the presence of markers was a welcoming of sorts, a fact that contradicted this place’s ominous reputation.

  They came upon the vale just before dusk. Not a shallow valley, but a long, narrow one that was a green and fertile strip between rocky crags and thick forested slopes. It was broader than it seemed from the trail above, and they followed the winding path of a small mountain-fed stream down, the horses picking up their pace as they scented green grasses.

  Bloodraven scanned it carefully, eyes narrowed and wary, searching the shadows of the tree line, accessing the height of the opposite craggy rise. Finally, he nodded and murmured, almost to himself, “Protected. Winter winds would have little foothold here, sheltered as it is.”

  “Look.” The lady Duvera pointed towards the shadows made by the rocky side of the vale. In the purplish, evening light, lines that were not made by nature became clear.

  The walls and turrets of a citadel artful in its design loomed ahead. Constructed of a stone that varied from slate gray to the glistening white of granite, and shot through with spidery lines of rose quartz that made parts of the wall appear as if they were stained with blood, and all of it melting.

  Bleeding into the very rock of the mountainside itself.

  After many days on the road, they had reached the domain of Lord Estalan Elvardo and only time would tell if the end of this journey would meet with welcome or bitter disappointment.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  There was no dissimulation in their approach to the seat of Fah’nak Gol. Sir Alasdair squared his shoulders and set his broad jaw, then led his party directly up a much overgrown path towards the foot of the keep. It was a steep trail up to its outer walls, and one that looked not to have been traveled for many years. There was indeed a question as to whether anyone still lived here at all, for the amount of activity they saw on the walls. Which was none.

  No movement. No sound of alarm. Nothing. And upon closer inspection, the stones that made up the walls of the keep were stained with algae and overgrown in places with lichen and moss, making it seem very much as if it had sprung out of the rock itself instead of being planted there by the hand of man.

  There was a cold, lonely feel about the place, which seemed to infect the men of their guard. Many a wary look was cast up the towering walls, and many a hand clutched the hilts of weapons. Yhalen felt it himself. Desolation, and a sense of decay that repelled the casual visitor. If he’d not been under the duress of Alasdair’s guard he’d have happily turned and left this vale for more welcome places.

  A crow squawked from the crumbling ledge of a window far up the wall and took flight, the flapping of its wings a ghostly whisper in the quiet that surrounded this place. A man cried out, startled by the bird’s call. His men began whispering among themselves, full of frightened speculation.

  Alasdair scowled and held up a hand to quiet them.

  “It’s not real,” the lady said softly, her sharp eyes flickering along the ancient stonework. “This unease we feel, is manufactured.”

  Alasdair’s scowl deepened. Being told such a thing in no wise eased a nervous mind. Yhalen frowned, stretching his own senses, searching for whatever telltale tendril of magic the lady had sensed.

  And found nothing tangible. Nothing so obvious as what he’d sensed from Duvera upon her attempts at bewitching Bloodraven and himself. Only that deep-seated sense of unease that seemed to spring from the very earth itself, so vast and all encompassing that he couldn’t find its roots. He wondered if she sensed anything at all, or merely made assumption.

  Two gray stone beasts flanked the entrance when they finally reached it. A great arched portcullis, its iron grate raised, granted entrance into the shadowed tunnel beyond it. A menacing, horned, snarling beast, the like of which Yhalen had never seen, nor wished ever to see in the flesh, glared down from raised pedestals on either side of the archway. He saw Bloodraven glance up, the halfling’s lips twitching a little, baring just the hint of teeth. He liked this place no more than his human guards did, Yhalen thought. Pride alone kept him from showing it.

  Alasdair hesitated only momentarily at the open portcullis, staring up warily at the heavy grate. It reminded Yhalen of the open mouth of a beast, waiting to consume them. With a motion of his hand, Alasdair urged his party forward. The horses’ hooves clattered on the paving stones beyond the portcullis, echoing within the confines of the squat tunnel. Darkness descended upon them, as if the light from outside had found some obstacle in following them within. Yhalen shivered, winding his fingers in the rough mane of his mount and wishing very much he had a weapon of his own.

  They came at the end of the darkened tunnel to a stone courtyard that was only marginally illuminated by two guttering torches, set at either side of a set of stout wooden doors, high at the top of a wide stair. The horses pricked their ears, nostrils flaring wide as they sensed the smell of fresh water and the still stronger scent of stables.

  “Welcome.”

  A young woman stepped forth from the shadows.

  A good number of weapons were half drawn before they realized that it was simply a slender girl, and no armed warriors or fanged beasts accompanied her. She smiled benignly, long golden hair caught in a loose tail at the back of her neck, her shapely form clad in a low-necked, simply cut dress of blue velvet. She was quite beautiful. Quite distractingly fertile, with her soft breasts swelling over the neckline of her bodice, and the way the material of her gown clung to rounded hips. Yhalen found himself blinking at her, as much as the other men of the party.

  She lifted her hand, indicating the shadowed row of half doors along either side of courtyard.

  “There are stables for your horses. Fresh hay and water, too. Please make use of them, if you wish.”

  She stood waiting for their decision in the matter, seemingly uninterested in what they might decide one way or another. Finally Alasdair signaled for the party to dismount and set men to leading the horses towards stone wells filled with water trickling from the mouths of stone gargoyles. They found oil lamps and lit them, providing more light to work by. The young woman watched all of this, until Alasdair strode up to her and announced their business.

  “We’ve come to see Lord Elvardo upon King’s business.”

  The girl smiled, inclining her head. “Follow me.”

  Four men were left to watch over and care for the horses, while the rest trailed after the blonde girl, through the stout doors and into the castle proper.

  There were torches along the walls of the inside hall, but not enough to chase all the shadows away.

  It was an eerie, high-ceilinged way, which opened to a large lobby dominated by the curving foot of a massive stairway. Paths led off around the base of it, revealing dark portals leading to darker places.

  The stairway itself was constructed of blackest marble, its railings of polished black ironwood, supported by a twisting, convoluted tangle of wrought iron fashioned to look like thorny vines. It wound upwards, branching off at a balconied second level.

  Standing at the base of this daunting staircase were two more young women and a young man. The young women
were dressed similarly to the first they’d met. One had hair of blackest raven, the other, flame-kissed locks. They were no less voluptuous than the first and with no word or deed, seemed welcoming and wanton in that way that most appealed to a man who had not had the touch of a woman in many a long night. The young man was of average height and slender, dressed in a simple black tunic and pants. His shoulder-length hair was a burnished bronze, face as sensuously appealing as those of the young women.

  They all inclined their heads, smiling in welcome, the young women bowing just enough to show ripe cleavage to its best advantage.

  “Welcome, travelers,” the redhead purred. “Please allow us to provide you with refreshment after your journey.”

  “It’s no easy pilgrimage to this valley and you’re no doubt weary of body and spirit,” added the dark-haired girl.

  “We’ve come on business with your lord,” Alasdair said impatiently, with a decided lack of tact.

  Lady Duvera slithered up next to him, smiling her own serpent’s smile at the dark castle’s servants.

  “Please forgive our abrupt arrival. Were it possible to send word, we would have.”

  The young man inclined his head. “Lord Elvardo was aware of your approach, lady, but unfortunately he’s indisposed at this time and cannot greet you as you deserve. He asks that you take advantage of his hospitality in the meanwhile. When he’s able, he’ll receive you, of that you have his word.”

  “This is King’s business—” Alasdair started to say, glowering in frustration, but the lady Duvera stopped him with a hand on his arm and very likely a press of nails through the skin of his wrist. The knight started in some surprise, mouth open, but silent.

  “Of course,” she said smoothly. “Your lord’s kind offer is appreciated.”

  The young man canted his head somewhat, looking from the lady to Alasdair’s grim face. He half bowed, his eyes still on the knight’s face with what might have been a trace of amusement.

  “Then please, allow us to help ease the stress of such a long and arduous road from your bodies.”

  There was something entirely seductive and alluring to the young servant’s words and hearing that, no few of Alasdair’s party felt the heat of the proposal. Yhalen felt it, eyes glued to the lovely creatures that served the lord of this keep. Ydregi or no, there wasn’t one of them that he’d have turned away from his bed had the chance arisen. The young man in particular, for his delicate features were more reminiscent of Ydregi than any other that Yhalen had seen since he’d left his forest home.

  Yhalen felt a hand on his shoulder, a tightening squeeze of fingers that shook him out of his appreciation of the three servants on the stairs. Bloodraven had moved up behind him, close enough that he felt the heat from the halfling’s body, and felt the press of his hip against his back.

  Yhalen blinked, looking around at the faces of his party. Most were wide-eyed and flushed—even Sir Alasdair’s cheeks were stained with the pink of embarrassment. The black-garbed servant smiled and lifted an arm, gracefully indicating the path leading along the right side of the stair.

  “This baths are this way. When you’ve washed the dust of the road away, and eased your aches, dinner will await. After that, Lord Elvardo will receive you.”

  The red-haired girl slipped past them, eyes flickering over the group with amused speculation as she urged them to follow.

  “Come. Come,” she said, walking through a very dark passage as if the lack of light were no hindrance to her.

  They had light again soon enough. Lanterns hung from hooks in the walls of the next hallway, and all of them relaxed as the shadows were chased away. They were led down a set of stairs to a room with stone benches and stone cubbies hewn out of the wall. There were towels in some of the cubbies, and an array of soaps and other scented substances in stoppered glass bottles.

  “The baths are communal,” the redhead said. “But privacy is provided for, should you wish….” She smiled at the lady Duvera. “If you wish to bathe with your men, you may, but there’s a more secluded pool for your needs if you’re modest.”

  Duvera arched a brow, but followed the redhead to a narrow doorway leading to a smaller changing room.

  The servant closed the door behind the lady Duvera, and stood surveying the men with red, curved lips.

  “If you should require my assistance, I’ll be happy to serve.’

  “No,” Alasdair said sharply, before any of his men could respond favorably to her offer. “We’re capable of seeing to our own needs.”

  She shrugged and glided out of the room, to a post, one might guess, not far away.

  With a collective sigh of relief—or possibly regret—at her departure, the men began shedding weapons, boots and clothing. These men were somewhat more modest of their nudity than the Ydregi, but not so much that they shied from ridding themselves of dirty, sweat-dampened clothing before padding in ones and twos through the arched doorway leading to the baths. No few glances were passed Bloodraven’s way as he disrobed, men being men and having a somewhat more exaggerated appreciation for size than women. Yhalen, who knew that overlarge member rather too intimately, averted his gaze and retreated to the bathing chamber.

  The room was large, dominated mostly by a large pool of water, and fed, like the troughs in the stable yard, by an intricately carved beast head protruding from the wall. Natural looking walls of stone jutted out here and there around the edges, forming small grottos where a man might retreat if he wanted privacy. Smooth stone ledges lined the sides, forming comfortable seats.

  Stepping into the water was an ecstasy in and of itself. The warmth crept up a body like friendly fingers. At the deepest point, in the middle of the pool, it was shoulder high. Around the edges and in the grottos it reached Yhalen’s hips. He took a chunk of soap and retreated to a sheltered nook, settling on the ledge and shutting his eyes to relax as the warmth suffused him, indeed easing aches and pains.

  He heard the conversation of the other men beyond the bend of his own little retreat, a murmured rush of voices over the soft sounds of lapping water.

  The water rippled against his chest, a subtle warning before a body waded into his private spot. He blinked up as Bloodraven settled down beside him. Water that topped Yhalen’s chest, barely topped the ogr’ron’s waist as he leaned back. Yhalen made a sound of protest, not wanting this company—any company for that matter—and made to move, but Bloodraven’s hand on his thigh under the surface of the water stopped his escape.

  Yhalen looked away, scowling. Bloodraven rested his head against the rock wall behind them, content for a while to merely sit quietly as they absorbed the benefits of a deep fed hot spring. His hand stayed on Yhalen’s thigh, not venturing further, simply a hindrance to Yhalen’s retreat.

  Eventually he slitted his eyes open, looking down at the top of Yhalen’s damp head.

  “You may soap my back.”

  Yhalen looked up, indignant and snapped back, “You may do it yourself.”

  The grip on his thigh tightened and Bloodraven leaned closer, golden eyes narrow. No word of threat was needed. Perhaps, even with the collar long removed from his neck, Yhalen still recalled the lessons of a slave too well. Bloodraven’s patience had its limits and as of yet, the king’s minions had shown no inclination to treat him as anything other than Bloodraven’s chattel. He wondered what they might do if Bloodraven took the notion of punishing him.

  He swallowed and sullenly snatched the soap from the little rocky shelf where he’d left it.

  Bloodraven slipped down off the ledge, immersing his head and shoulders before rising up to kneel in front of Yhalen. Tentatively, Yhalen gathered streaming, black hair and laid it over one broad shoulder, then lathered his hands and laid them on Bloodraven’s back. It was a wide expanse of surface to cover, hard muscle rippling now and then as his hands passed across sensitive, ochre skin. Over shoulders and down the thickly muscled arms, which Bloodraven lifted for him to wash the undersides of. Yhalen h
ad almost finished the above water portions of him when, without warning, Bloodraven rose, casting a steady look down over his shoulder at Yhalen, as if daring him to complain of the expanded duty.

  A faint exhalation of breath passed the halfling’s lips as Yhalen bent to the task, running soaping hands across the back of Bloodraven’s thick thighs, across his buttocks and hips and down his legs to the knees and calves that disappeared under the water. Bloodraven turned and Yhalen shut his eyes, drawing a shuddering breath as he prayed to the Goddess that none of Alasdair’s men waded towards the back of the pool and his grotto.

  He avoided the placid organ between Bloodraven’s legs, instead washing his thighs and hips before rising to reach stomach and chest, all the while resolutely refusing to meet Bloodraven’s amused gaze.

  His wrists were captured somewhere around Bloodraven’s ribs, and firmly guided downward.

  A small whimper of a sound escaped Yhalen’s throat as his fingers grazed soft, pliant flesh. Biting his lip and flushing terribly, he cautiously began soaping Bloodraven’s member. The flesh stirred under his hands, slippery and velvet to the touch. The balls were large, loose sacks that shifted in his fingers.

  A tremor of sensation stabbed his lower regions, no less pronounced than his acute embarrassment and his fear that someone would see him performing what they no doubt speculated about among themselves.

  Bloodraven grew in his hands, thick with pulsing heat, thoroughly soaped and more than clean, yet Yhalen’s hands remained, both fascinated and horrified by the familiar size and heft of the shaft. By the head that blushed violet with the plumping of red blood beneath.

  With a startled realization of his lingering intrigue, he drew his hands away, glaring resolutely at the dark water. There was what might have been a chuckle from Bloodraven, before he sank down, pushing himself back into deeper water so that he might completely immerse his body and rinse the soap away.

  He surfaced, water sluicing down the defined bones of his face, his hair slick and glistening as it clung to his skull and shoulders. It made his ears seem more prominent, the delicate tapered points standing level with the top of his skull. Squatting shoulder deep in the pool, he fixed his golden gaze upon Yhalen. There was something in his eyes that spoke of intent, and Yhalen paled, casting a nervous glance beyond him, just past the rocky barrier that separated them from the other occupants of the bath.