Bloodraven

by Nunn, PL

  Bloodraven snarled something else, hands clenching so hard into fists that the tendons stood out, then he whirled and stalked into the night dark mountain wood, leaving Yhalen and a whining Vorja in the flickering light of a half-smothered fire.

  The rage was upon him. A rage so commonplace among his people, blind and terrible and oftentimes set off by nothing more than a minor irritation. It didn’t come so often to him as it did his full-blooded brethren, nor was he so prone to the berserker rages that came with it, doing damage to anything and anyone in his reach. Regardless, Bloodraven had had the presence of mind to take himself away from the things that he might, in his anger, irreparably damage. It was still some way into the shadowy wood and with some shedding of blood before his vision cleared and the rage cooled.

  He’d hit a tree, a great old grandfather of the forest that accepted his violence without tremor. His knuckles bled as a result and throbbed with a pain that helped bring back sanity. He leaned against it afterwards, head bowed, and breathing harsh. In a moment of raw honesty, he admitted that frustration and fear had driven him to this.

  It was no easy admission, the latter bit of that honesty. A thing no warrior liked to admit, even though it touched them all upon occasion. The trick was to plunge forward despite it. It was the unknown that got to him. The uncertainties that plagued him, down below the veneer of confidence every ogre learned to construct, eating away at his self-control. He feared he was on a fool’s errand. He feared the enormity of his task and the cooperation of the halflings whom he hoped to lead to a better life. He feared the creature he traveled with, who slept in his bedding—a creature who could create fire in snow-sodden wood and summon mountain trolls to take his vengeances.

  He hated admitting that most of all. And the worst thing was—the most appalling admission on Yhalen’s part—was that it had been accidental. That he’d called death down upon a clan without truly meaning it. It would have been better had he spent time and great effort on the task. That it had been a thing of whim, so easily accomplished, was horrifying. Bloodraven had spent days in silent contemplation of what else Yhalen could do at a whim.

  He hit the tree again, and twice more, the bark driving into the flesh of his knuckles as he welcomed the physical sensation.

  He hated fearing what was his!! He would not! And yet for days he’d traveled, so wrapped up in cursed uncertainties and superstitions and dread imaginings, that he had hardly felt male. That part of him that daily required attention of some sort hardly rose to attention at all, only in the stupor of early morning, before sleep fully abandoned him. It was embarrassing, that lack, and infuriating. And Yhalen had walked witless of the turmoil he caused, eyes distant, face often marked with concerns of his own while Bloodraven brooded. While Bloodraven watched the mountain sun glint off his hair and smooth motion of a fit young body meeting the challenges of the trail and weighed the attractions of that against the ease of which the destruction of a clan had been brought about.

  Not that he’d have hesitated bringing destruction himself, had they threatened his cause. Luring a troll among them would have been a stroke of inspired luck, had it been done mundanely. A trick to be bragged about around the fire for years to come—and Yhalen shed tears over it, silvery traces down his cheeks and would hold guilt over it forever, Bloodraven thought, where any self-respecting ogre would hold such a feat his greatest triumph.

  Little fool! Little fool who was the cause of this futile frustration, who belonged to him and refused to acknowledge it. Who insulted him with word and deed and threatened the very nature of his manhood by creating fear and doubt. Even his own dog, a snarling beast that even full-blooded ogre warriors were wary of, more often than not padded at Yhalen’s side more than his own, gentle as any cowering camp cur. He could only assume that something of that same magic that had drawn a troll up the mountain on a path not its choosing, had bespelled the animal.

  There was a tightness between his legs that must have come on the heels of righteous anger and the spur of physical pain. He reached a bloody hand down to adjust it, grimly satisfied at its presence.

  The touch felt immeasurably good, his fingers firm against the length of it, between layers of clothing. It would have felt better buried between Yhalen’s tight buttocks, and he smiled grimly at that thought.

  Expanded on the mental whim as he idly rubbed the outline of his growing erection.

  Perhaps this was a sign. Perhaps the tool he needed to put his apprehensions to rest lay throbbing between his legs. He glanced back through the darkness of the wood, a different sort of rage upon him, a controlled, hungry wrath that demanded satisfaction.

  He retraced steps he barely recalled taking in his fit of anger, finding the little campsite more from the faint orange glow of the fire than from any certain knowledge of where he’d left it. Yhalen had righted the wooden lean-to that Bloodraven had upended, probably with no small effort, and had used the loose ends of brittle twine to secure several large evergreen branches thick with greenery across the space where the old wood had broken away. The fire was flickering greedily again, fed by the selfsame wood that had come from the lean-to.

  Vorja met him before he quite reached the camp, tail wagging excitedly at his appearance, but she quickly enough sensed his mood and her ears went down. She kept her distance, whining a little in supplication, making enough of a noise so that Yhalen turned from tying off ends of twine on the inside of the little shelter and came out to watch his approach. He hesitated at the edge of the shelter, wary curiosity changing to alarm as Bloodraven stalked towards him. He took a hasty step backwards, but rock was at his back and there was nowhere to flee. It was just as well for Yhalen, for had he fled and made Bloodraven take up the chase, all reason might have deserted him, overcome by animal instinct.

  As it was, Bloodraven caught him by his narrow shoulders, jerking him forward. Yhalen put hands against his chest, a panicked protest not backed by enough muscle to throw Bloodraven off.

  Bloodraven dragged him against his body, grinding the hidden erection against Yhalen’s torso as he pulled him up, one hand pressed hard against the small of his back and the other gripping the nape of his neck. He covered Yhalen’s mouth in a savage kiss, more a brand of domination than any savoring caress.

  Yhalen’s lips parted yieldingly, mouth accepting the intrusion, hands grasping helplessly, searching for something to touch that wasn’t Bloodraven. He tasted of—winter berries. Tart and sweet and slick soft on the inside. He smelled of evergreen, fresh cut and potent. It was intoxicating, maddening, the smell of him, the feel of his lithe body squirming against Bloodraven’s own.

  He tightened his grip, trapping Yhalen against his body and the wall, wanting Yhalen’s fear and panic to provoke the things of his own superstitious nightmares. Wanting black magic to strike against him, for how else could he conquer that fear other than to face it?

  But it did not strike. He tore at Yhalen’s coat, snapping fastenings, yanked at his trousers exposing pale, shrinking flesh and no wash of weakness struck him, no searing fire. He turned Yhalen against the wall, feet dangling, pressing face and chest against dirt and rock, fumbling to free his erection and Yhalen’s breath came in harsh, catching sobs. Bloodraven laid the length of his cock against the chilled flesh of Yhalen’s cleft, trembling, waiting.

  “Do it!” he snarled. “Defend against me with your human magicks. Why do you not strike?”

  Yhalen shuddered, teeth chattering hard enough for Bloodraven to hear. He made no reply and Bloodraven growled in frustration. “Turn Vorja against me, as you turned the troll to the village. Do something!!”

  He thrust his body hard against Yhalen’s, crushing the air from him, not entering, for that part of his body was curiously less hard than it had been.

  “I can’t!” Yhalen cried finally, gasping on scant breath, “for she loves you.”

  Bloodraven froze, caught off guard by that odd statement. He canted his head, finding the dark bulk of the d
og cowering outside the boundary of the shelter, tail weakly thumping the ground. Love was a word that held no meaning in ogre vocabulary. Ogre mothers held ambition for their sons, but no such emotion as love. Ogre warriors coveted the shrewdest females, the most physically appealing, but they held little affection for them. They desired their offspring to carry on their line—which survival instinct stayed their fists when otherwise short ogre tempers might easily destroy rambunctious younglings. Love was a human emotion. He wondered if it were a canine one. If so, how bleak for his mother’s people.

  He backed off suddenly, letting Yhalen down, taking his hands off him as soon as his feet touched earth. The edges of his coat fell to hide his failing erection. He turned to the woods, stuffing it within his trousers, refastening loosened lacings, face hot with an odd sort of embarrassment that he had no wish for Yhalen to see. He retreated far enough into the shadows for anonymity and Vorja crept after him, sitting at his feet when he stopped, lying against his leg when he sank down to sit at the base of a great tree. He put a hand on her thick neck and simply breathed.

  Strangely enough, Yhalen hadn’t been afraid. He’d been startled, yes, and wary as any sane creature would have been with Bloodraven, who outweighed him twice over and then some, bearing down with irrationality imprinted on his features. But not scared.

  Oh, if Bloodraven had raised a fist towards him, had drawn his blade, Yhalen might have wisely considered flight over any other of his limited options, but it hadn’t been a fist used against him. It had been a frustrated, not entirely punishing kiss, and the pressure of a heated body. And Bloodraven’s body didn’t hold the fear for him that it once had. He had blackmailed him into sex, bullied him into it, overpowered him and bound him, but he’d never used it as a method of torment. Had never beaten him simply because he could, and even in the midst of this present fit Yhalen—perhaps stupidly—trusted he would not break that habit.

  And when it was over, with surprising abruptness, and Bloodraven stalked away some distance to sulk in the shadows, no doubt to gather usually unfrayable nerves, Yhalen thought he detected in one brief glance a measure of contrition. Granted, a great deal of frustrated disgust was mixed in, but the remorse was there and that puzzled him, tempering his own indignity at the unprompted rough handling.

  He was curious, for even in situations of great stress Bloodraven usually kept firm hold of his self-possession. It was a point of pride for him, Yhalen thought, retaining his reason amidst his brethren who possessed neither the desire nor the ability to restrain their baser emotions.

  He peered warily into the lengthening shadows, rubbing his neck and running the tip of his tongue across the swelling of his bottom lip where teeth had impacted. The lacings on his trousers were broken, which was no minor irritation with no replacements in this cold environment. He cast one baleful look at Bloodraven, who he could just see by the bole of a thick pine some yards out from the shelter, and sat down upon the folded bedding to pull the broken leather fastenings free and attempt to make a whole from several severed lengths.

  There was a muffled rustling of snow-crusted mulch and Vorja darted off into the darkened woods.

  He made an effort not to feel after whatever it was that had sparked her attention.

  She was back in short order, going first to Bloodraven, who shooed her away with a growl, and then loping towards Yhalen with a large winter hare hanging limp and bloody from her jaws. It was a welcome sight and with soft entreaties, he coaxed the dog to drop the carcass on the ground. He made short work of skinning it, tossing the waste to Vorja, who happily consumed it.

  He added a few larger chunks of wood he’d gathered to the fire, then spitted the gutted carcass and propped it over the flames to cook. Even without seasonings, the smell of roasting flesh, of fat dripping into the flames, was wonderful.

  “You might as well come get your share,” Yhalen said into the darkness. Tarter remarks hovered at the back of his throat, things concerning Bloodraven’s ill-temper that probably were best not said if he wanted to bide his peace and practice diplomacy.

  Bloodraven made no move, content, it appeared, in his brooding distance. Yhalen shrugged and pulled the hare from the fire, tearing off bits of juicy flesh and enjoying the outer, almost charred, portion of meat. Vorja whimpered and edged closer. He licked his fingers and tossed her a bone.

  There was a rustling of snow and leaves. Yhalen pulled off another strip of mostly cooked flesh and extended the spit with the greater half of the hare still intact. Bloodraven took it silently, and sat down upon the stump, face fixed with a distinct lack of emotion. He bent over the meat, letting night-black hair slide forward and help shield whatever emotions he cared not to share. His left ear twitched a little and Yhalen noted that amidst the healed nicks where his earrings had been ripped loose after his capture, that there was a new silver hoop. He must have gotten it at the ogre clan. Perhaps he’d traded for it. Perhaps it had been a guest gift. Yhalen didn’t know the practices of ogres towards strangers that had been granted guest rights. He’d never inquire, having no desire to bring up that particular clan again between them.

  “It was lucky Vorja caught this. Sleeping on hollow bellies is no comfort,” Yhalen ventured.

  Bloodraven tore off pieces of meat, licking his big fingers after each bite. His gaze was distinctly distant.

  Yhalen let his own drop to the mostly empty cup of tea in his hands. He puzzled himself with the need to provoke some sort of response. He still felt the imprint of Bloodraven’s grip, and yet he felt less anger over it, or fear, than curiosity.

  He tossed the dregs of the tea out, and put the cup in the open pack. “I’m tired—I’ll sleep now.” He pulled off boots, the only concession to comfort they allowed themselves and settled onto the blankets, turning his back against the fire and Bloodraven’s presence. He tried to find sleep, but every little movement and sound rang with clarity upon his awareness. The creak of leather, the metallic clink of buckle and harness, and the soft hiss of blade being slid from its sheath.

  He drew a breath and turned, peering under his hair at Bloodraven, still sitting on the stump with a naked sword across his knees. But there was a whetstone in his hand that negated any violent intentions.

  “Will we take watches?” Yhalen asked softly. They did not always, with Vorja to watchdog their sleep.

  “No,” Bloodraven said finally, sweeping the stone along the edge of his blade.

  He made no comment on that, knowing that Bloodraven’s stamina far outshone his own, but he would be weary tomorrow and short of temper because of it. Almost that made Yhalen laugh, for he could be no shorter of temper than he had been tonight, so perhaps his mood could only improve, regardless of circumstance.

  “How long before we come upon more of your people?” he asked, having no hope of easy sleep himself.

  Bloodraven tossed him a brief, sharp glance, mouth tightening. Yhalen began to understand. A glimmer of it that touched on his own guilts.

  “Unless there are stray trolls about, they have little to fear from me.”

  The stone ceased its motion on the blade. Bloodraven remained, bent over it, only bits and pieces of his face illuminated by the orange glow of the fire.

  “More from me,” Bloodraven finally said.

  “I would imagine. Since you come sparking rebellion and I come…at your whim. That you regret now, yes?”

  “Regret?” Bloodraven stroked the length of the blade slowly, then looked up, a glint of yellow-gold eyes, large-pupiled in the darkness, and exotic. “You…baffle me.”

  Yhalen pushed himself up, warily. “Then we’re agreed, for I baffle myself on occasion.”

  Bloodraven’s head canted. “You’re a wizard –”

  “I’m Ydregi. No more.”

  “Elvardo is Ydregi.”

  “Perhaps. I’m not what he is.”

  “Could you be?”

  Yhalen blinked, afraid of that question. “I don’t wish to be,” he whispered, ho
nestly.

  “No,” Bloodraven agreed and looked away. “I regret…my loss of…temper.”

  Yhalen had no earthly idea of how to deal with that concession. He felt a vague little tingle of elation that it had been offered at all. He waited, but Bloodraven said no more, apparently having dried up his reserve of conversation. Yhalen settled back down into the bedding, curling within meager warmth. Bloodraven did not join him there, and soon enough sleep did creep up and take him.

  He woke with Vorja snuggled close beside him, on her back, legs twitching as she experienced dog dreams. Of Bloodraven there was no sign, and for a moment Yhalen experienced panic, thinking he had been abandoned. But the big axe was there, lying against the stump and the packs still lay where he’d left them, so he assumed that Bloodraven hadn’t moved on without him. Silly to have worried after all, he told himself, since desertion by Bloodraven would have meant freedom.

  He pushed at Vorja to free himself from the blankets her considerable weight trapped him beneath.

  She growled and snapped at him, woken too quickly from her dream hunt and he flinched back, forgetting sometimes that she was less tame by far that the dogs that trailed human heels. Much like her master she was quickly angered, and quick to recover. She rose, the snarl gone, and trotted off into the wood to relieve her bladder and sniff out possible breakfast.

  He sighed, sitting for a moment with the blankets still around his shoulders, enjoying the process of letting sleep seep away slowly for a change instead of surging up to break camp with due haste.

  The fire was mostly out, just embers that let off scant heat. He pulled on his boots and searched out twigs and small sticks to coax it back to life, stubbornly doing it the mundane way, since apparently he had time to kill with Bloodraven absent from morning camp. He had a need for tea this chill morning, even if it was bitter and unsweetened.

  It did seem to be a clear day, though, and the scant bits of sky visible through the pine canopy were blue. It was early still, and he had hopes that midday would bring warmth with it.