by Nunn, PL
“So, it appears you’ll be leaving our company sooner than expected.”
The lady Duvera’s voice oozed up from behind him. She moved from the shadows of the entrance and to his side, looking out over the courtyard with feigned interest. He could feel the weight of her regard upon him. He looked at her coldly, not prepared to rise to her bait, even though his pulse quickened as the ramifications of the packing in the yard and Alasdair’s irritation began to hit home.
“If I were you,” he said softly. “I wouldn’t linger here. Whatever your purpose in coming…there’s no need for it now, and I think Lord Elvardo won’t be as forgiving if you try your witcheries within his keep again.”
“You’re not one to speak. I know what you’ve been about,” she sneered.
Yhalen canted his head at her, feeling a desperate little probe urging him to reveal his secrets to her.
He ignored it—as if he had any secrets other than the midnight meetings with Elvardo. She knew nothing, he realized, and that lack of knowledge and her lack of power over him, enraged her.
“Does the captain know that it was your witchery that spurred his man to attack Elvardo?”
She glared at him, the promise of slow death in her eyes. If he’d been in her keep and under her care he’d have feared for his life, magic or no magic. As it was, her threats affected him little.
“Do you think he’d believe you over me?”
He shrugged and moved down the steps into the yard, leaving her behind him. He walked around Elvardo’s women, who looked up from their work to follow his passage slyly with their tilted eyes. He felt nothing of a magical nature from them, but he had to wonder if servants of the dark lord were entirely what they seemed.
“Yhalen. Yhalen, I want to talk to you.”
It was Alasdair beckoning him, seeming put upon. Bloodraven crossed his arms, a threatening scowl upon his face, but it was no more or less threatening than usual, so Yhalen wasn’t concerned.
“This fool is set on trekking into the mountains now and that fool up there,” Alasdair waved an arm towards the keep, “has agreed to help him on his way.”
“Did we come here for another reason?” Yhalen asked and Alasdair pursed his lips in frustration.
“We haven’t had time to plan it properly. There are maps to be scoured, routes decided…. Damn it, the lot of us need to be clear on what to expect and when. Talk sense to him.”
Yhalen looked from the knight to the ogre, then back again to the dark facade of the keep. The freedom of the mountains, even the cold mountains of the north and in Bloodraven’s company, was more appealing that spending more time in Elvardo’s keep.
“He makes no sense to me.” He shrugged, owing Alasdair and his king absolutely nothing. “Nor does he ask for, or follow advice from me. Fight your own battles.”
He wasn’t certain, but he thought the corner of Bloodraven’s mouth twitched up in a smile.
“There are no human maps that show the routes I’ll take,” Bloodraven said. “Any plans you make, fate and chance will more than likely shred. I’ll follow the paths that open to me and plan no further than the next step I take. I’ll return when I return and if you’re here, so be it. If you tire of waiting and are not, then that’s fine, as well.”
“That isn’t acceptable,” Alasdair cried.
Bloodraven shrugged, clearly having explained as much as he was willing. The knight threw up his hands and stalked away, towards the stables where his men and horses were sheltered.
“It’ll be cold in the reaches. Snow and ice. They’ve provided heavy boots and furs that won’t arouse suspicion among any of my people we pass,” Bloodraven said in a matter-of-fact tone.
Yhalen drew a deep breath, enforcing the idea upon himself that this was inevitable. That he’d be leaving with Bloodraven and willingly traveling into the territories of the ogre clans.
“When do we leave?” he asked, voice shaking only a little.
“Soon. Late afternoon. I’ll spend no other night within this keep. Nor will you.”
Yhalen looked up at him sharply, squinting his eyes against the sun behind Bloodraven’s head. Was this sudden exodus because of him? He found the notion of such concern hard to fathom.
“There’s more.”
Bloodraven took his arm, steering him towards the shadow of the keep. From his tunic he pulled out a broken bronze circle with a ring at its center. A replica, almost, of the collar that Yhalen had worn during his captivity with the ogre raiding party. He swallowed back a lump of revulsion, glaring at the thing in Bloodraven’s big hands.
“No,” he spat.
“Yes,” Bloodraven disagreed. “Without it, you’re fair game. With it, you’re property of worth and not to be killed out of hand. With it you have protection.”
“Protection? I know how you people treat your human slaves.”
“There’s a difference between a collared slave who wears the brand of a warrior and an enemy captured during the heat of battle. You’ll wear the collar.”
Yhalen looked away, past Bloodraven, past the vile collar, at the stable yard that was a blur of color through the furious tears that collected in his eyes. He pushed past Bloodraven, prepared to flee somewhere he could seethe at the injustice in private. Bloodraven caught his shoulder in a hard grip, bringing him up short. He bent low over Yhalen’s shoulder, breath warm against the skin at Yhalen’s ear.
“You’ll wear it and no arguments—but on my word, when we return from this, you may dispose of it as you like.”
Yhalen stood stiffly until Bloodraven released him, then stalked away.
It was not an unreasonable request, all things considered. It made sense, what Bloodraven asked of him, and if he took the thing again of his own volition, it made him no less of a free man because of it.
Still, visions of that huge, ogrish blacksmith pressing him face first onto stone and holding him fast while he sealed the collar shut about his neck continued to plague him. Memories of pacing, caged and restless and frightened, tethered by collar and chain to a post in the middle of Bloodraven’s tent made him clench his fists in anger.
He didn’t retreat so far as the interior of the keep. Not when everyone else was outside and he might be fair game to the keep’s dark master. Elvardo would have something to say to him, he was certain, before he fled this place with Bloodraven. If he had his druthers, he’d put it off as long as possible.
It was not to be, though. The redhead approached him, the unique, enticing scent that all Elvardo’s woman wore warning him of her presence before he heard her step.
“My lord wishes a word with you.” Her fingers touched his arm ever so lightly, urging him towards the broad steps. He might have balked at the rough touch of a man, but her presence evidenced no threat and so he was unable to summon resistance. He walked with her, thoughts of the collar fading away in the face of the more prominent uneasiness of Elvardo.
Almost, Yhalen expected to be led to some dark, private chamber, even perhaps down the secret stairs to Elvardo’s private workshop. Instead, the fair-faced lord of this keep stood not far inside the atrium, leaning insolently against a column, slim and plainly clothed in featureless black.
“Your ogr’ron is eager to be on his way.”
Yhalen stared, stopping two body lengths away and refusing to come closer.
Elvardo shrugged, unconcerned. “I might think to deter him, if his haste didn’t antagonize the knight so much. His irritation I find amusing.”
“What do you want?” Yhalen asked plainly.
“He looked as if he wished to snap my neck this morning, when he announced his plans. Does he think, perchance, I infringed upon his territory?”
“No.” Yhalen felt himself blush. “I don’t know. How am I to know what passes through his head? Perhaps he simply tires of your games.”
“Games? Have I been playing with him? Granted, I like dangerous toys, but not so dangerous as that, eh?”
Yhalen doubted tha
t, but simply pursed his lips and remained mute.
“What do I want?” Elvardo repeated Yhalen’s earlier question. “Maybe I’m bored, hmm? Perhaps living here in isolation for longer than you’ve been alive has finally worn thin? I think I’ve years of entertainment ahead. One way or another. I’d have liked to have had you for longer, Yhalen. You’ve proved a different sort of amusement altogether. But it’s not to be, at least not at present. You may not like the things I showed you—awoke in you—but you may also find them useful.”
Yhalen lifted his chin, eyes burning with frustration. “You’ve made me into what you are.”
“A pale imitation.” Elvardo laughed at him.
“Outcast!” Yhalen snarled. “Never able to return home with anything but lies on my tongue. And they would know.”
“You cling so stubbornly to the ethics of your father—and his father and his father. The day that you let them go, you may find that there is a great deal more to enjoy in this world than the Ydregi would have you believe. And for the Goddess’ sake,” Elvardo said with a sly smile, “wear your ogre’s slave collar, for both of us know that you well enjoy submitting to his hand anyway.”
Elvardo’s women were swift and organized with their packing, though Yhalen had little enough care what supplies went into the bulging packs that were fastened to the backs of the two sturdy, mountain mules. The old man who had masqueraded as the dark lord of this keep when they had first arrived, assured them the mules were bred especially for rough mountain terrain and might travel places with ease that even an agile man might not. They would be of use long after the two horses that Elvardo provided from his own stables had reached the limit of their ability.
Both mounts were shaggy and thick-legged, of a different breed than the horses they’d ridden here from the south. Yhalen’s was of normal height, dun of coat with a bristly black mane and tail.
Bloodraven’s was of similar color, but large as a war-horse and broader of back. The beast’s legs were thicker above the knee than Yhalen’s waist, its hooves the size of platters. Yhalen stepped back from it, no small bit intimidated, but the beast gazed serenely and stupidly at him from gentle, brown eyes, in no wise interested in his apprehensions.
Attached to the great saddle was a thick scabbard from which protruded the hilt of a massive sword. It was very obviously not human in design, and Bloodraven drew it and tested its great weight and balance to the obvious wariness of the knight and his men. It was no new blade, as faint nicks along the broad side of the blade attested, and the leather grip was well worn, but Bloodraven seemed pleased with it, for his face eased into almost happy lines as he wielded it. There was also a heavy hatchet and a long curving dagger, the latter of which Bloodraven fastened at his side.
There was a knife in Yhalen’s saddle gear as well. A human-sized one that could be easily concealed. He drew it, tested his thumb against a razor-sharp edge and glanced askance at Bloodraven, waiting for some frown of disapproval at his arming. There was none. He let out a breath and attached the sheath to his belt, feeling suddenly lighter with the procurement of even so small a blade. He was not likely to win battles against a well-armed man with it, and would only serve to agitate an ogre, but going armed was a breath of independence that he hadn’t felt for too long a time.
Elvardo didn’t come out to see them off. But Sir Alasdair had low words with Bloodraven, the frustration gone from his face now that the departure was at hand and beyond his control. Alasdair was a king’s man, but he wasn’t inflexible, nor was he stubbornly resistant to accepting and working around a situation that had slipped out of his hands. Bloodraven listened silently, showing neither sign of agreement or discord, then pulled himself up onto the broad back of his mount and sat with clear impatience to be on his way.
There was nothing for Yhalen to do but follow suit. The two pack mules were tied to the back of Yhalen’s saddle, and they milled behind his horse with twitching ears and baleful eyes. Alasdair stopped him before he could mount with a light touch on his arm.
“Sending you with him against your full will is a cruel thing, I know,” the knight admitted with a furrow between his brows. “But this fool’s mission may benefit all the people of the southern lands, yours and mine. Aid him in it, if you can. Look for betrayal, if that is the case, and strive to let us know. You are resourceful enough to survive this, Yhalen of the Ydregi.”
Yhalen stared at him, hiding the derision he couldn’t help but feel. It was not Alasdair’s choices that had given him back to Bloodraven when he’d only just managed to escape, a token gift to placate a possible collaborator. Higher mortal powers than him had seen to that, and though Yhalen could find little space in his heart to aid their political maneuverings, he well recalled the devastated villages of innocent peasants and farmers and woodsmen that had suffered at the hands of Bloodraven’s invading kinsfolk. He remembered Yherji’s shocked, bloodied death mask after he had run afoul of Deathclaw’s splinter group. Those poor folk and others like them, he had a care for.
Bloodraven hadn’t pressed the issue of the collar, so Yhalen’s neck was yet free from it, which was some small relief to his dignity as they rode out of the dark lord’s courtyard and down the sloping trail that led to the valley below. He doubted it would be long overlooked once they’d breached the depths of the mountains and chanced encounters with any ogre clansmen.
The weight of some heavy and unseen regard made the hairs at the back of Yhalen’s neck stand on end, so he guessed that Elvardo watched from some hidden vantage. He looked over his shoulder to see, but couldn’t discern if the dark lord stood at any of the high windows or balconies.
As they traveled down the steep path from the keep, and into the valley proper, the feeling faded and Yhalen found that he could breathe easier. An odd feeling, that relief, since he was riding into a situation that, without doubt, would be far worse. He’d discovered, over the last few weeks, that his fear of Bloodraven had diminished. But Bloodraven was not an ogre full and the thought of the towering, thick-bodied, full-blooded ogres still made his heart pound frantically in his chest, still caused his skin to break out in sweat if he thought too long and hard upon them.
He questioned his sanity as he rode behind Bloodraven out of the vale to the south and then northwest into the mountainous foothills beyond it. His woodcraft was adept enough that he could have easily slipped away and hidden himself in the thick pines and brush they traveled through.
Bloodraven had no dogs to track him by scent, and he doubted Bloodraven’s own woodcraft was equal to a child of the great forest.
Run. Run, some part of him kept whispering. And some other part ignored the suggestion, which left him torn and miserable through much of the day’s ride.
Though two travelers ahorse made better time than a large group, their late start had them barely past the foothills west of Elvardo’s vale before darkness began to hinder their way. Bloodraven plunged on relentlessly as long as he could, but eventually the uneven ground they traveled became dangerous even for mountain-bred horses, and they were forced to stop.
Silently Yhalen dismounted, scanning the shadowy shapes of trees surrounding them. The clearing was barely large enough to tether the animals and build a small fire.
Wood was plentiful enough, though, and he lent himself to the task of gathering enough tinder to start a flame. Bloodraven grunted as he assigned himself that task and went to scavenge in the packs they had divested the mules of. He considered drawing upon the resources of his own magic to entice the fire to life. It was a frightening temptation, to utilize what Elvardo had shown him, and he struggled with it a moment while Bloodraven’s attention was elsewhere.
Then he ground his teeth and set about it the mundane way, striking flint viciously to stone until a spark caught at the dry tinder and a tiny flame was born. He had started a thousand fires in his time in the very same way, and yet this one he was inordinately proud of. He fed it small sticks, watching it grow with odd fascinatio
n, until Bloodraven dropped a leather-wrapped pack beside him and sat down on the other side of the fire with the sword and hatchet Elvardo had given him, accompanied by a whetstone, oil and cloth.
So Yhalen was relegated to cook as well as fire starter. The cooking this night was limited to the heating of water for strong tea, for Elvardo’s women had provided them with a good deal of trail rations and a separate pack of perishable food for the first day’s meal. There was roasted chicken and a slab of dark, yellow cheese. The bread had, no doubt, come from the ovens that morning and was still fresh and soft in the middle. There were dried beans and fruit, and a small sack of root vegetables that would roast nicely around the coals of a fire. Packets of spices that would serve well for campfire stews, and meal for pan bread.
They consumed the chicken entirely, for that wouldn’t last another day’s ride and still be fit to eat, but the bread and the cheese would keep a while longer. Yhalen saved half of that for another day.
Besides, he was adept at setting snares for fresh meat, and he doubted there’d be a shortage until they traveled high into the snowy reaches. Bloodraven was content with that, silently wolfing down his meal before turning his attention back to the honing of his blades.
Eventually the blade was as sharp and as clean as it could be made to be, and Bloodraven slid it back into its broad sheath and sat with it across his knees, silently staring into the small fire. It was a brooding stare and the intensity of the silence made Yhalen uneasy.
“Tomorrow,” he finally said, “we’ll make good time. A dawn start will see us well into the lower mountains before nightfall. It’ll be two, perhaps three days’ hard ride before we come to a passage that will allow us easy access to the heights.”
Yhalen sat there, wrapping and unwrapping the end of his braid around his fingers, trying to fight back the apprehension. “How long before we reach your people?”
Bloodraven showed him teeth in a humorless grin. “We could see them tonight, for all I know. The clans are restless, and young warriors eager to make a name for themselves roam far afield, looking for prey.”