Bloodraven

by Nunn, PL

  That wasn’t what he wished to hear. He had even less of a desire to see the bronze ring that Bloodraven pulled from the sack on the ground beside him.

  “There’s a need for this, human. Come here.”

  Yhalen set his chin stubbornly and refused to move. “If you want it on me so badly, then you get up and do it. I won’t crawl to you for the chance to be collared like one of your dogs again.”

  Bloodraven lifted a brow and his mouth quirked. He found amusement where Yhalen felt nothing but dread. Bloodraven shifted his new sword aside and rose. Yhalen shut his eyes and hunched forward, close to his knees in unhappiness. He heard the creak of leather and the rustling of pine twigs and leaves as Bloodraven knelt behind him. Shivered when Bloodraven’s big hands brushed across his shoulders and the back of his neck, shifting his braid aside. He felt the edges of the collar that Bloodraven had pulled apart just enough to slip around his neck, then felt the backs of his knuckles as he forced the metal back together.

  He fastened it less permanently than the smithy in the ogre camp had done. A simple iron ring fit through holes on each of end of the bronze collar—small enough that Bloodraven could only use two fingers to grip it, yet thick enough that he grunted once in the effort to bend it open enough to fit through the collar holes, and then force it back into shape with barely a discernible gap. Yhalen might have overcome the more malleable bronze of the collar, but the iron ring that served to connect it would be beyond him without the aid of tools.

  He fought the urge to touch it, to give it that acknowledgment, but lost in the end and reached up to run his fingers along the smooth surface. It was plain, but well crafted and light, sitting easily about his neck. It was by far more comfortable than the first Bloodraven had fitted him with.

  Bloodraven’s hands lingered on his shoulders, thumbs on the skin above his collar. They had spoken very little during the day, both their thoughts on other things. It had been, strangely enough, a companionable ride, for Yhalen didn’t mind the silence and Bloodraven was prone to keeping thoughts close to his sleeve. Bloodraven’s callused thumbs on his neck spoke volumes and Yhalen shivered, too sullen and angry at the moment to submit to any urges Bloodraven might have without a fight.

  He shifted forward, moving to the other side of the fire and glaring balefully from under the fall of his hair. Bloodraven shrugged and rose, dusting his hands on the front of his pants. He unrolled the bedding, settling first his and then the smaller bundle that was Yhalen’s, overlapping.

  Yhalen crouched, frowning at the grouped bedding. Bloodraven ignored him in favor of retrieving his sword and laying it next to the spot he’d chosen to sleep. He removed very little of his clothing. Only the heavy belt with its rings and buckles, and his boots, before he settled down.

  “We start early tomorrow. Sleep while you can.”

  “I can sleep across the fire easily enough,” Yhalen said.

  “No. You can sleep here.”

  Yhalen pursed his lips in frustration, contemplating curling up in the leaves next to the fire without benefit of bedroll. He’d slept in worse places under harsher conditions. But Bloodraven was raised on an elbow, waiting, and Yhalen had little desire to be fetched by an irate ogr’ron, so he let out a breath of chagrin and moved to Bloodraven’s side.

  He lay down on his side with his back to Bloodraven at the very edge of the bedroll, but as Bloodraven settled, he snaked out a thick arm and drew Yhalen close against him. He did no more than that though, and there was no sign of arousal pressed against Yhalen’s back, so it seemed likely that Bloodraven indeed had no intentions past sleep.

  “Do you think I might flee?” Yhalen asked, caught snugly in the curve of Bloodraven’s arm.

  “Tonight. Yes.” The answer was low, on the verge of slumber.

  “Just tonight?” His curiosity was piqued.

  “Tomorrow your anger over the collar will have faded.”

  “So tomorrow, I won’t have to sleep with you?”

  “No. You will. Quiet. I seek my sleep, even if you prefer to waste the night away.”

  They cut sharply north during the next day’s travel, following no discernible trail, but letting the horses find their own path to a certain degree. The mules followed doggedly along, snapping at leaves or green brush whenever the chance arose, and often dragging on the lead ropes and slowing the stride of Yhalen’s horse. Late afternoon forced them to turn dead west, for the northern ascent was too steep for man or beast or ogr’ron.

  They followed a rocky gully trail for hours, always on the lookout for a promising path north. Come dark, however, none had presented itself. They camped well after nightfall and ate the last of the prepared food. Exhaustion had Yhalen asleep before Bloodraven had fully settled in behind him, and he was dead to the world until the stirring of the next dawn when Bloodraven nudged him awake.

  Breakfast was tea and pan bread, though Yhalen put two handfuls of dried beans in one of the canteens to soak so they might be quickly cooked that night.

  The woods here weren’t as thick as those of the great forest, but the going was treacherous and tiresome, and these weren’t even the heights of the mountains proper. He could well understand how harsh a life it must be for the peoples that dwelled here. Why humans chose to live in the reaches, prey for the likes of ogres and worse things, when they could just as well migrate down to the flatlands of the south, was beyond him.

  He asked Bloodraven just that, after they had ridden in silence for hours on end.

  “They’re not of your people. Or the peoples on the other side of the northern range,” Bloodraven said simply. “They prefer not to live under the rule of your king and his lords, I suppose. I never asked.”

  “They prefer to be hunted by your people and enslaved?”

  Bloodraven turned a toothy grin his way. “They’re not scared rabbits, the human clans that live in the reaches. Only the unlucky ones. They’re wily and they have teeth. Much as you do.”

  Yhalen sniffed, wondering if Bloodraven teased him, but there was little he could tell from Bloodraven’s back save for the twitching of one tapered ear.

  They stopped at a mountain-fed pond about mid-afternoon, to let the animals drink and to fill their own canteens. Yhalen stretched legs gone stiff and sore after a morning’s ride. He found a batch of lambs’ ear mushrooms at the foot of an old tree on the shady side of the pond, and happily plucked them all. They would make a fine addition to the night’s soup, and what wasn’t used would dry and keep well.

  It was another two days before a way north that met with Bloodraven’s satisfaction, presented itself. Each day they traveled in relative silence and each night, Bloodraven did nothing more than sleep close to Yhalen’s back. The abstinence puzzled Yhalen, for Bloodraven had shown little enough desire for it when they had traveled with his war party through enemy lands and there had been no less danger then. It also began to put him at ease somewhat, the security of Bloodraven’s solid bulk at his back during the dead of night, in this mountainous land that was unfamiliar to him.

  He began to set snares when they stopped to camp for the night, and Bloodraven offered no opposition to Yhalen disappearing into the shadows of the wood alone to set his traps.

  Yet one more puzzlement, that trust, but it was not nearly so mystifying as the opportunities he let fall through his grasp. He could have slipped away a dozen times. Though he didn’t know this land, he knew well enough which way was south and could have fled stealthily and silently on foot. Instead, he set his traps, far enough from the campsites that his prey wouldn’t hesitate to venture out, and returned, and Bloodraven would only look at him and nod or grunt before he continued on with whatever task he was about.

  On this night, he’d started the fire while Yhalen was setting the snare and now tended to the animals. Large and intimidating as he was, the horses and mules trusted him implicitly, more so by far than they did Yhalen, who’d always had a way with animals. Perhaps they sensed that even after weeks
in the saddle, he still had little care for riding.

  He fed the fire and began to prepare supper. Bloodraven came and sat across from him as the stew was bubbling, broad face set in thoughtful lines.

  “We’ll get snow tonight,” he said finally.

  Yhalen looked up in surprise. It had grown colder night by night as they ascended into the mountains, yet it didn’t feel chill enough to predict snow.

  “How can you know? The weather seems mild enough.”

  Bloodraven shrugged. “It brews there.” He jerked his head to the inky black sky to the north.

  “Beyond the peaks. We’ll get the edges of it.”

  Yhalen stared northward at a sky that was just visible through a gap in the trees, a sky that was blacker by far than the gray expanse overhead. Reflexively he extended his senses for something he hadn’t bothered to look for before and felt the broiling unease in the atmosphere far to the north. It was so distant that he doubted they would see even the outer reaches of it, but he didn’t argue the point with Bloodraven.

  “It’ll drive things down from the reaches,” Bloodraven said somberly. “Be cautious.”

  “What things?” Yhalen asked, thinking of fearsome mountain lions and lumbering bears.

  “Beasts that don’t fear ogre or man, at best. Mountain trolls at worst. If I tell you to flee, do so without question. Cut the mules loose if they hinder you.”

  “Trolls are that dangerous?”

  Bloodraven leaned forward a little, staring at him unblinkingly. “If the mountain itself came alive and threatened, there would be less to fear. Heed my warnings.”

  Slowly, Yhalen nodded, dredging up the few rumors and folk tales he’d heard about trolls and piecing them together with the uncharacteristic wariness in Bloodraven’s tone.

  They finished supper and he cleaned the pan and fed the fire, then without prompting lay down next to Bloodraven on the bedding. Bloodraven’s arm came around him, a heavy weight across his hip.

  After a while, when he’d began to slip into the first stages of sleep, Bloodraven’s hand slid down his thigh, then back up, fingers splayed across his stomach and ribs, a leisurely, slow migration that sent shivers of expectation across his skin. He lay there, waiting to feel the bulge of Bloodraven’s arousal pressed into his buttocks, for Bloodraven’s fingers to slip beneath the layers of his clothing and touch bare flesh, but neither came. Bloodraven was content with the slow movements of his hand, perhaps not even thinking of Yhalen at all in his preoccupation with the storm to the north, and his predictions of what it might drive their way.

  Eventually Yhalen slept, but his dreams were restless and left a taste of frustration and unfulfilled passions behind when he woke.

  He was no small bit surprised to find a dusting of white had obscured the earth tones of the wood.

  Flakes still drifted down here and there from a morning sky thick with gray clouds. The temperature had dropped considerably since they’d bedded down, and the world outside the snug blankets was unwelcoming. There were overcoats in the packs, provided by Elvardo and distinctly ogrish in design.

  Though Bloodraven’s was fine indeed, beaded and thick with insulation—an impressive garment for a young ogre warrior—he declined its warmth, claiming the weather too mild yet to warrant it. Yhalen wasn’t so stalwart, and donned his plainer coat happily enough. His coat boasted no beads or intricate needlework with leather, for it was the coat of a slave. It was warm enough, so he had no qualms.

  He trudged out of camp to check on his snares while Bloodraven poked at the dead fire. The snow was light and soft, displaying the track of every animal that had passed across it.

  The snares held game. The first one a brown squirrel, the second a plump rabbit. They’d eat well tonight. As he skinned and gutted his catch, he mouthed the reflexive thanks to the Goddess for the sacrifice of her children to fill his belly. At home, he would have made use of every part of the game, letting no waste come of the lives he had taken, but he doubted Bloodraven would allow the time for the curing of hides, so he left them for other woodland scavengers. Besides, he doubted the Goddess was paying much heed to him now. He rose, leaving a bloody patch of snow at his feet, and began to walk back to camp.

  The braying of a wolf too close for comfort gave him pause. Bloodraven had said the storm to the north would drive things down from the reaches. He supposed that meant game as well as predators.

  The wolves would have ample hunting, and nature would drive them to it with a frenzy, what with the onset of winter and the prospect of a long, hungry season ahead. He searched for the presence of a pack, stretching senses that had grown so much keener than they had been in the great forest. He felt no multitude of focused canine minds, just a single one. A lone wolf separated from its pack, and no solitary southern wolf would attack a man unless it was sick and desperate.

  He stood listening a moment longer, but the howling was not answered from any distant pack and the wood remained quiet around him, caught in the insulating thrall of first snow. Almost he’d reached the campsite when he heard the crashing of something heavy through the brush. He took the Goddess’ name in vain and dropped his game, drawing his knife in its stead. He’d face whatever it was in favor of being run down by it from behind.

  He expected a wolf. Lean, rangy, dog sized at the least. What came out at him was nothing of the sort. Dog-like, yes, but huge and dark, with a blocky head filled with long white teeth. Its head came almost level with his shoulders until it crouched, preparing for a lunge that would take Yhalen down without question. It occurred to him in that brief span of time he had for reflective thought, that he’d faced something like this before, in a very similar situation. And had come out on the losing end. In fact, past the mud coating the short, black coat, he thought he could see the tracings of a brand.

  The dog bunched its muscles to leap, then stopped short as a booming command in the ogrish tongue cut through the silence of the wood. The dog’s ears pricked, and its massive head swung away from Yhalen and towards Bloodraven, who was approaching with sword drawn. The deadly serious scowl on his face turned to one of pleasure as the beast bounded towards him, its whole body quivering in abject excitement. It fell onto its back at Bloodraven’s feet, making deep, rumbling whines and slavering as Bloodraven crouched and rubbed its chest and belly, speaking to it in his native tongue. It rose, its tail thumping the ground as it tried to squirm as close as possible, and Bloodraven showed it more affection that Yhalen thought it possible for him to show.

  Yhalen took a breath, loosening his grip on the knife and scanning the woods for signs of the other of Bloodraven’s dogs, but there was neither sight nor sound of it. This one seemed the worse for wear.

  There were wounds both fresh and healing on its flesh. Wounds that had surely come from manmade weapons. Not surprising, since this animal had been roaming human lands in the midst of a human hunt for invaders. It was entirely surprising that it had survived all this time, for surely it must have been trailing the fading echoes of Bloodraven’s scent to have found them here.

  He tightened his lips, wondering how many humans this beast had killed in the process of getting those wounds. Remembering with sickening clarity the jaws of either this beast or the other one, rending his flesh and snapping his bone. He shuddered, stooping to pick up the dropped game before striding past Bloodraven and the dog towards camp.

  Bloodraven had brought the small fire back to life and it crackled merrily, a beacon of warmth in the crisp morning air. Yhalen threw the carcasses down and went to rummage in the pack for the meal and flour needed for pan bread. He heard the sound of Bloodraven and the dog approaching. He flinched a little as the beast trotted up, drawn by the smell of the bloodied game.

  Away. Away! he willed at it furiously, and its cropped ears twitched, lips pulling back to show teeth.

  “Vorja,” Bloodraven said and the dog immediately padded over to sit before him as he settled down upon the rolled bedding. He produced a scr
ap of cloth and wet it with snow before wiping down the dog’s short coat. Apparently this morning there would be no rush to be on the way.

  “You’re afraid of her now,” Bloodraven commented in the midst of his grooming. “You weren’t before. She senses it.”

  Yhalen narrowed his eyes, focusing on the cooking pan bread. He knew very well the beast sensed it.

  He’d warned the other unfortunate human slaves that to show fear would be their downfall with these beasts, and yet he couldn’t control his own now.

  “That was before you had them hunt me down like prey.”

  “You shouldn’t have run.”

  Yhalen looked up, glaring at halfling and dog alike. “Your hospitality was wearing thin,” he said tightly.

  The dog growled, sensing animosity now instead of fear, but Bloodraven slapped her flank good-naturedly and her ears flicked up as her tail wagged, so eager was she to suit his mood. He went back to cleaning mud and blood from the dog’s coat and Yhalen hastily flipped pan bread that had come close to burning.

  “Is the other one dead, do you think?”

  Bloodraven shrugged, frowning. “More than likely. They never roamed far apart. Vorja was the smarter of the two and B’rag followed her lead always. Even as pups….”

  He trailed off, big hands resting on the dog’s broad back. There was something in his eyes that hinted at reminiscence and regret. The dog butted her head against his chest and whined, perhaps grieving with her master over the loss of her mate. Yhalen frowned, remembering animals from his own youth. Remembering the loss of those same friends.

  “Here.” Yhalen broke off the larger portion of the pan bread and handed it to Bloodraven. The dog’s small, dark eyes followed the passage of the food with fevered intent. With an irate sigh, Yhalen tossed the squirrel carcass into the trampled snow a few feet away from the beast. She sprang upon it, gulping it down in a few bites. She looked back at him, eyeing the rabbit at his side.

  “Don’t even think about it. Hunt your own rabbits.”