by Nunn, PL
He did not look to see if Yhalen accepted them, only hoping that the human would be smart enough take what he was given and pride be damned.
Vorja crunched on bones within the shelter of the rock lee, content with the discarded portions of the carcass. From the way her cropped ears twitched, she had little trust for the ogre hunting party. She had little love for any ogre save Bloodraven and together with her mate B’rag, had on occasion brought down a full-blooded, armed warrior. By herself, the task would be more treacherous, but he had no doubt she would fight to the death if he required it of her. The ogres of Yellowtooth’s little band cast her occasional wary looks, but none of them flinched from her snarls and warning growls.
Bloodraven learned, sharing the fire and their meat, that they were lowland ogres from the Forked Stream clan. They were taking advantage of the easy hunting the early snow created. None of them were young warriors out to make a reputation, but more seasoned veterans with less to prove, which was why they had hesitated in killing him outright and taking his head back to their tribe to brag of the feat. It was luck on his part to have run across them, he supposed, even though he’d been ill prepared for it.
When they had eaten their full, they settled for the night, and Bloodraven fetched Yhalen, who had fallen asleep, curled in cold misery against his rock. The ogres teased him about what use he would make of his skinny human beneath the blankets, and would he lend his slave to them afterwards?
Bloodraven chose to make clear issue of ownership and the fact that this slave was not clan property but personal get. He pulled a half-waking Yhalen across his thigh and yanked coat and tunic up, revealing the skin across the small of his back where Bloodraven’s mark lay, crisp and black.
Yhalen made a distressed sound and attempted to twist away, but Bloodraven held him fast, until the lot of them had gotten a good look at his mark.
A warrior only put his personal mark on those things most valuable to him, and would take killing offense at infractions against such claimed property. They might lay more than a casual hand upon Yhalen if the urge came upon them badly enough, but only if they wished to start a blood feud with Bloodraven.
Yellowtooth chuckled finally, settling back into his own niche against the rock wall. “Only a half-blood would be tiny enough between the legs to be able to get more than a single use out of a human, anyway.”
They laughed at that and Bloodraven smiled thinly, pulling Yhalen’s coat down and depositing his struggling human onto the bedding between his own bulk and the rock wall. Vorja padded over and lay down close on Bloodraven’s other side, her big head on her paws, her watchful eyes upon the lowland ogres.
He settled under the blanket, ignoring their fading suggestions and encouragement. Even had the urge been upon him, he wouldn’t have acted upon it within the view of others, no matter that the human in question held value to him. It was more a matter of pride, and perhaps to some degree years of derisive comments about the lack of endowment halflings as a general rule possessed. Not even a warrior fully acknowledged could entirely dismiss years of such ridicule.
He laid a hand on Yhalen’s hip under the covers, a subtle, soothing touch, meant to offer some solicitude, but his human stiffened, unreceptive and no doubt resentful. There was justification, Bloodraven thought, and sighed deeply, pulling Yhalen tight against his warmth, willing or not. He would allow Yhalen his anger beneath the cover of the bedding as long as he practiced proper subservience without.
Despite indignation and fear, Yhalen slept soundly, chased into the depths of slumber by exhaustion. His weariness was so profound that even dreams did not pierce it, and he awoke only to a rough hand shaking him awake. The ogres were gathered around the low fire, feeding it to life with small branches and sticks, rumbling to each other occasionally in their rough tongue. Bloodraven moved among them, a shorter, slimmer figure beside their bulk. With true ogres as comparison, with their square shoulders and broad bodies that seemed almost disproportionate to their height, their deep brows and wide jaws, Bloodraven’s figure seemed all the more human to him. Simply an overtall man, with oddly colored skin and unfortunately tall, sweeping ears.
Since none of them barked at him, or jabbed a finger his way, he scuttled back against the rock wall, pulling the sleep-warmed blankets with him. He huddled there, watching them warily while they cut slabs from last night’s carcass to roast over the fire. Bloodraven seemed at ease among them, more so today than he had been during the first hours of their meeting. The jostling and loud outbursts seemed less likely to erupt into violence now.
Bloodraven claimed a share of meat by swiping it out of the grasp of one of the other ogres, who growled and postured, but eventually settled on another less choice piece. Bloodraven sliced the fatty gristle side off and tossed it to Vorja, who consumed it in one gulp, then cut the rest into smaller chunks and jabbed them onto the end of a sharpened stick to roast. He liked his meat rare, Yhalen knew from experience. Still, compared to the mostly bloody pieces the other ogres barely let hover in the fire before pulling back to consume, Bloodraven’s meat was well cooked.
Bloodraven ate all but one chunk, and that he tossed with unerring accuracy at Yhalen, the browned piece of meat landing in his lap instead of the ground. He felt less than appropriate gratitude for the method of receiving his breakfast, but he dared not show it. Dared not even lift his eyes and glare at Bloodraven, should the other ogres take note of his willfulness.
He consumed the meat and licked his fingers clean of the last stain of grease, hardly realizing how hungry he had been. He could happily have eaten a half dozen more such chunks, but it was not to be.
When the ogres set out breaking camp, he scrambled to roll the bedding and secure it to the mule, then took up a wary stance with the horses between him and the ogres.
When they sat out again, the pace was as grueling as before. The only saving grace was the mule.
Stubborn and steady, it refused to break into the near trot that the horses were urged to, and the ogres had the choice of either leaving it or slowing their own pace. It got many a harsh slap on the flanks though, in efforts to urge it to a faster pace, as occasionally did Yhalen from a passing ogre who thought it amusing to see him flinch or stumble. They didn’t lay harsher hands upon him though, and either Bloodraven or Vorja seemed to always be within close range.
When the snow was particularly deep and difficult to traverse, he walked in the path the horses made. When, after hours of particularly treacherous going, his legs trembled and threatened to give out, he grasped the mule’s tack and let its unflagging strength help propel him up uphill. He gleaned an appreciation for the beady-eyed creature that he’d not had before.
The ogres paused once in their trek to track prey, and with Vorja’s help, quickly cornered a massive, tusked boar, bigger even than Bloodraven’s great dog. The boar did not go down without a fight, and more than one of the ogres came back with gouges in his thick hide. But the fight and the bloodletting seemed to cheer them, for they were in as a good a mood as ogres tended to be when they returned dragging the carcass. The curling horns they kept, Yellowtooth claiming them as war trophies of his own against the muttering complaints of his fellows.
Bloodraven had blood upon his armor and sword, which he sat down to clean while the other ogres gutted the carcass. Vorja, who’d earned her fair share, got the entrails. They packed the divided meat upon the horses and continued on their way.
They trekked throughout the afternoon up a rocky, tree dotted slope that seemed never to end, and when they finally reached the ridge, Yhalen detected the faint scent of smoke rising from the vale below.
The ogres scented it too, and proceeded downhill with all haste. Vorja bounded ahead until Bloodraven called her back sharply, and she came, tail wagging and head low to pace at his side.
Through the trees and amidst a heaping collection of rocky slabs that protected the dark openings of shallow caves and niches, was a camp of sorts. It seemed a transi
ent one, consisting of hides stretched over cave mouths and tents erected close to the shelter of trees or rocky slope. He recalled Bloodraven telling him that many of the ogre clans were nomadic, following the flow of mountain game. The greater clans, like the one Bloodraven hailed from, had permanent settlements, deeper in the northern range.
This was a small clan, the majority of which emerged from their shelter when the alert was raised at their approach. Perhaps three or four dozen ogres gathered to greet their returning warriors, females and young among them. Yhalen had never seen an ogre female before, and upon observation of the broad, shrewd-faced matrons that ambled out to assess what their hunters had brought back, Yhalen began to understand why Bloodraven might prefer human bed partners. While the males might casually practice cruelty to amuse themselves, there was such animosity and spite in the eyes of the females that even the strutting Yellowtooth shed his bravado when faced with the most decorated and brazen of the females and offered the meat as if it were a token to purchase good will.
Yhalen curled his hand in Vorja’s short coat, staying close by her side as full-grown ogres clustered around him, more interested in the horses than in a human slave. They had a few human slaves of their own, silent and unobtrusive, staying far out of the way. They wore rags, threadbare ponchos and poorly assembled boots and leggings to protect from the cold. Their eyes were dead, all spirit beaten out of them.
Bloodraven was noticed, a stranger among them, and a loud outcry was raised as ogre males from the camp came threateningly up to him. Bloodraven held his ground, not touching his weapons or speaking. Yellowtooth waved a hand at him, explaining the circumstances of their meeting, perhaps.
Gesturing first towards the horses, then Yhalen, and finally the dog.
An ogre child, as tall as Yhalen but half again as broad, made a grab at him, his blunt fingers catching his braid and yanking him almost off his feet. The childish caw of laughter turned into one of fright as Vorja spun, snarling protectively.
Weapons came out then, pointed at the dog and Yhalen who stood beside her. Bloodraven did speak then, a sharp command to Vorja, who stopped her threatening growl and sat, hostility glowing from her eyes. Bloodraven said a few more words, his name and the clan from which he hailed among them.
There were murmurs of speculation that quieted as a large ogre emerged from one of the caves. Like the head female, his hair and clothing were heavily decorated with bones, polished rock, and beads.
There were streaks of gray in his braided hair and many an old battle scar on what flesh was visible.
The others cleared a path for his approach, and Bloodraven did what he hadn’t done for any of the others, bowing his head and making a sign of obeisance. There was a trembling surge of anticipation among the gathered clan, an expectation of violence. Perhaps even a hope for it.
Yhalen crouched next to Vorja, wishing he could blend into the background unnoticed like those other poor humans, and having no notion what he might do if violence did erupt.
He drew a breath of fear when the chieftain snarled and slammed out a hand, striking Bloodraven no halfhearted blow upon the chest. It forced Bloodraven back a step or two, but he kept his feet and did not reach for a weapon. Again and this time Bloodraven kept his ground, only the tightening of his fists indication of the effort it took.
The chieftain let out a bark of laughter and lifted his arm, fingers spread, which seemed a sign of sorts, for the tension bled out of the gathering and rumbling conversation started up again. Ogres began to move, gathering around Bloodraven and the gift of mountain horses he had inadvertently brought this tribe.
One of the females ventured close to Yhalen, and Vorja bared her impressive teeth, growling low in her throat. The female backed off a step and complained loudly and irately. Bloodraven canted his head casually at the complaint, and spoke a few words. Yellowtooth added a few of his own no doubt callous remarks. The female’s eyes narrowed, turning upon Yhalen with less than pleasant implications in their glittering yellow depths. She said something else, waving her hand towards the other humans sharply and other heads turned her way, gathering interest in the exchange.
Only weeks and weeks of close proximity gave Yhalen the insight to notice the small signs of displeasure that Bloodraven displayed. He said something else, and then with a sharp word called Vorja to his side, leaving Yhalen without her formidable protection.
“Endure,” Bloodraven said to Yhalen softly, then turned his attention back to the warriors, leaving Yhalen to the care of the female ogre.
No shorter than Bloodraven and at least as heavy, she jerked Yhalen up by the elbow, dragging him across the camp in her wake. There was no fighting her strength. It would have been suicidal to contemplate struggle in the midst of this camp, so he kept her pace as well as he could, trying not to cry out at the painful grip on his arm.
The human slaves he had seen earlier had vanished to an area beyond the main camp. It was a work area, apparently, where the handful of the clan’s slaves labored. Two younger men were planing a long tree trunk, while another, older one, industriously helped a young woman stretch a hide between poles to scrape and dry it. Yet another was hastily disappearing down a path with two large buckets attached to a pole that rested across his shoulders. None of them looked up at the female ogre’s approach, instead bending more assiduously to their tasks.
She hissed something that was beyond Yhalen’s ken, and then smacked him across the side of the head hard enough to send him to his knees on the muddy ground. He could barely hear the words she uttered next due to the ringing in his ears, much less understand them. Her face twisted in anger at his non-compliance. She lifted a foot and kicked him, catching his hip with the blow instead of his stomach, but it toppled him backwards regardless. He rolled into a wary crouch, favoring the throbbing hurt in his hip. He didn’t look her straight in the eye, knowing from experience that they didn’t like that. Bow his head and act humble, and maybe she wouldn’t beat him to death. Maybe she would calm down and let the other human slaves direct him.
She jabbed a finger at the oldest human, growled something, then with one last withering glance at Yhalen, she turned and stomped back to the gathering of her kin in the main camp clearing.
Yhalen drew a great breath of relief, dropping his head for a moment to thank the Goddess for escaping that encounter relatively unscathed. The older man said something to him in a tongue he did not entirely comprehend. There were hints of words that might have meant something, if the accent hadn’t mangled them so badly. Yhalen stood, staring about the dismal little human work area, at the flimsy lean-to against a tumble of huge rock and the evidence of threadbare blankets and bedding within its minimal shelter.
The humans were in a sorry condition, worse by far than the slaves that had come with Bloodraven’s little war party on their initial expedition into human lands. These were lean with malnourishment, and the skin visible was marked with old scars and new bruises. The woman was probably younger by far than her appearance suggested. Her face was tense with apprehension, and a long puckered scar ran from her temple down across her mouth and onto her chin. The older man was missing two fingers on his left hand and most of one ear.
Yhalen shivered and shook his head in incomprehension. “I don’t understand,” he said in his own tongue. The two young men paused in their work, now that the ogress was gone, to stare at him. He waved a hand vaguely southwest and tried to explain. “I come from the lowlands. The forests far beyond these mountains.”
“Lowlands?” the old man said and ran his hand through the air horizontally.
Yhalen nodded. “Yes. Yes. Do you speak my tongue?”
“I speak,” the old man said, but his accent was strong enough that Yhalen had to concentrate to comprehend his words. “You. Thaya take. Wash.”
Yhalen canted his head, not quite understanding. The young woman made a motion and scurried away from the stretched skin, eyes downcast and movements furtive, like an animal tha
t had been beaten one too many times. She caught at Yhalen’s sleeve, urging him to follow. He did, having little choice save standing there and debating the old man’s blunt direction. The girl picked up a battered woven basket, large as a half barrel, and dragged it behind her as she approached the dwellings of the ogres. Yhalen caught the free handle and took its weight from her. She glanced back at him, then away.
Most of the ogres were gathered around a great fire pit at the center of the village clearing. Yhalen saw Bloodraven among them, speaking in those rough ogre tones that seemed foreign now to hear issuing from his mouth, after so long hearing him speak the smoother words of the human language.
Yhalen didn’t have time to stare, for the girl dropped her side of the basket and ventured into the first tent, emerging a moment later with a heaping armful of furs and clothing. He began to understand what the old man had wanted of him. They moved to the next tent and doubled their foul smelling load. The third dwelling, and an old female ogre barked at the girl and smacked her for no reason that Yhalen could discern, harassing her as she gathered the soiled laundry and fled outside with it. The old ogress followed to the flap of the tent and glared at them, causing the girl to almost fall over herself trying to drag the overflowing basket out of her range.
“What did you do?” Yhalen asked her as they made one last stop by the hide-covered mouth of a shallow cave. But the girl didn’t answer, perhaps not comprehending his language.
It took the two of them to haul the full basket back, and even then it was a heavy load. Two ogre children, one the very same that had pulled Yhalen’s braid when they had first reached this camp, harassed them on the way. They jabbered unintelligible words at them and lumbered alongside, attempting to shoulder them off their balance or outright shoving and pinching them as they labored with the basket.