by Nunn, PL
He tidied the camp, gathering their scant supplies and bundling the packs. He sat afterwards, sharpening his own hunting dagger for lack of other chores until he picked up on the sound of approach through the wood. Vorja came trotting through the underbrush, taking the hard way, while Bloodraven came the easier path across clear ground. He had dangling from his hands, a great collection of long, pale, tuberous roots.
“Carabah,” he said in way of explanation, tossing them to the ground at Yhalen’s feet.
Yhalen stared down, then back up curiously.
“Food?” he asked, familiar with several root vegetables from the milder lands of the south, but not with these things that appeared distinctly inedible.
Bloodraven grimaced and said, “Eventually. Peel them, boil them, choke them down. Better than starving.”
“Ah.”
“Tonight,” Bloodraven said. “Pack them up and we’ll use them for dinner.”
Yhalen bent to do as he was asked, stomach growling somewhat in disappointment even over the loss of an unappetizing breakfast. But luck was with them, for as they broke from the thickest of the forest and reached a lesser wooded mountain trail, there was an abundance of berry bushes that held ripe winter treasure beneath the outside layer of thorns. They spent some time stripping the bushes, and Bloodraven seemed to have no issues with the delay.
Though he talked little to none at all, Bloodraven’s silence today was less strained than it had been during the past few days. Perhaps it was that lessening of tension in the air that curtailed Yhalen’s own preoccupation with what might have happened with the ogre clan and the troll. He wondered idly as they traversed the game trail, if he’d been picking up more of Bloodraven’s mood than he’d thought possible, and if it had tempered his own.
The sun did come out and the day proved clear and as warm as a fall day in the mountains was likely to get. Bloodraven avoided the higher paths, taking the longer way near the tree line. It was easier traveling, despite places where the snow reached past Yhalen’s knees.
They delved deeper into the woods to find a spot for camp. Where the trees grouped heavily, the snowfall on the ground was thinnest and easiest to clear away to make room for a fire and their bedding. Vorja disappeared in the trees, and Bloodraven and Yhalen prepared the campsite in silence.
As he arranged twigs for the fire, Yhalen hesitated calling forth flames from the ether, recalling too vividly Bloodraven’s wariness of magic. Perhaps if Bloodraven had been absent from the area, he might have summoned the flames, but with the halfling sitting there within arm’s reach, he had second thoughts.
“It would be no great chore to start this the normal way. If it bothers you,” he offered.
Bloodraven canted his head, a considering look upon his face rather than the scowl he usually wore when magic was discussed. He waved a hand dismissively towards the little pile of twigs and sticks.
“Start it.”
Yhalen watched him a moment longer, detecting a glimmer of steely determination beneath the consideration and finding it curious. Bloodraven’s brows drew, though, at Yhalen’s prolonged gaze, so he bent to the task of fire-making.
No real task anymore. The fire came to him easily, familiar in its fickle caprice. He could wither these small fires as easily as call them, and the magic had become a comfortable, second extension of his will. He tried not to dwell on what his father or venerable grandfather might say on that subject.
They put snow in the pot to melt and warm for tea, then added more to boil the carabah.
Bloodraven skinned the thick bark from the root, revealing a pale pinkish flesh beneath. It was hard and pungent smelling. He sliced it into half inch sections and dropped them into the pot. Yhalen scrounged for the very last of the spice packets that had not been appropriated by the ogre clan as tribute, and added a pinch of salt to the water.
“The healing and the fire, the troll—what you did to Deathclaw—” Bloodraven propped his chin upon the back of his big fist as he watched the bubbling pot. “What other magicks do you possess?”
Yhalen hadn’t expected that query. It put him off the complacent balance he’d settled into this evening. A little fluttery sensation beat in his chest at the listing of his sins. The healing was the one acceptable talent he’d developed, but even that he’d tarnished by his thefts from the forest. He didn’t wish to explore the other things that Elvardo had claimed were possible. Not without guidance.
That last popped into his head unbidden and he frowned, watching the fire for a few silent moments while Bloodraven watched him.
“I don’t know,” he said finally, idly using a stick to stir the boiling carabah. He glanced up warily to Bloodraven, gauging his mood and, finding nothing particularly intimidating in the halfling’s golden stare, admitted, “I never knew about the fire until Elvardo showed me.”
“It comes easier to you now than it did.”
“Yes,” Yhalen agreed slowly, wondering where Bloodraven was going with this thread of uncomfortable conversation.
“What Elvardo did to that human soldier—”
“No. Never!” Yhalen said sharply, shaken by the memory of that aberration of power.
Bloodraven shrugged, suppressing a faint shiver. “It might have been a useful skill,” he said grimly, as if the words came hard to him.
Yhalen stared, suddenly understanding what Bloodraven was not quite saying. That the use of magic against his people was an acceptable option if not an agreeable one. As if Yhalen had simply been waiting for his approval. He felt a little curl of nausea in his gut at the notion that so went against the basic doctrines of his people, but said nothing. It wasn’t so easy, he’d come to learn, to differentiate between the concept of what was morally right and the reality of desperate need.
They ate in silence, the softened root bitter and grainy. The addition of more salt camouflaged the taste somewhat, but it was nonetheless an unpalatable meal. Yhalen diverted his darker musings with thoughts on how to improve the taste the next meal. The addition of meat might make a less objectionable stew, if Vorja could bring down prey large enough to bring back to them. He wished there was time to set snares.
Bloodraven joined him in the blankets, a large, heady presence that did nothing more than share considerable warmth. Yhalen lay awake in the curl of his embrace for some time, listening to the sound of Bloodraven’s even breath, intensely aware of the places big hands rested on his body, of the heat of Bloodraven’s front pressed against his back, before sleep claimed him.
He woke again to rustling, rhythmic movement beneath the blankets at his side. He lay there unmoving, the edge of the bedding half over his face, feeling the motion of Bloodraven’s arm, listening to the low, labored sound of his breathing. It became apparent what the halfling was doing, under the cover of bedding, within the shallow tent of warmth created by their body heat. Yhalen shut his eyes, well imagining the length and girth of the sex between Bloodraven’s legs when aroused to its full potential, picturing Bloodraven’s long fingers circling it, gathering and stretching the skin at the head with his steady motion, easing out a slick bead of pre-come for his troubles.
Yhalen half groaned, feeling the answering pressure of a morning erection stiffening between his own legs. The powerful need curled at the bottom of his gut, demanding attention, demanding the touch of fingers and palm. He shifted his hand, pressing his cock hard against his belly and drawing a shuddery breath at the flare of sensation that raced through his body at the contact. But it wasn’t enough. Wasn’t what his body really craved and that was the touch of larger hands that were not his own, that were demanding, gentle, overpowering.
He slid his other hand across Bloodraven’s hip and the halfling’s rhythmic motion froze, his big body going still as the winter wood. Yhalen found the place where Bloodraven’s wrist disappeared beneath tunic and trousers and snaked his fingers down, across thick pubic hair to silky soft skin of cock, beneath Bloodraven’s own tight grip. He slid his fin
gers across Bloodraven’s own to discover the flared tip and squeeze, smearing the moisture there on his fingertips.
Bloodraven’s hand retreated, his breathing gone harsh, his body held poised under the blankets.
Yhalen’s own trembled with pent up need as dirty, shameful desires flared one after another in his brain. He shifted under the covers, drawing his head under and inhaling the faint musky scent of sex.
Sliding down Bloodraven’s legs, he paused to rub his own painfully erect cock against Bloodraven’s knee as he straddled one long leg. In the muffled darkness he pushed Bloodraven’s tunic up and found the heated length of his cock and licked it from base to tip before wrapping both hands around the base and stroking upwards. Bloodraven made a sound deep in his chest and his hands came down to tangle in Yhalen’s hair and grasp the collar of his tunic, cupping his head and urging his mouth down.
There was no swallowing the length of it, or comfortably taking the whole head in his mouth, but he licked and suckled at soft skin, using his hands to knead up and down the length and fondle big, tight balls. He rubbed his own cock against Bloodraven’s leg as he worked, rotating his hips like some bitch in heat and not caring.
Bloodraven spurted hard and Yhalen took most of it in the mouth, swallowing the salty stuff reflexively The rest ran down his chin, smearing on Bloodraven’s tunic as the halfling bodily dragged Yhalen up the length of his torso so that he lay with his head against Bloodraven’s neck and his hips on Bloodraven’s belly. The ogr’ron loosened the repaired lacings of Yhalen’s trousers and plunged his hand beneath to engulf Yhalen’s cock in his warm palm. Yhalen moaned, pressing his face against Bloodraven’s jaw as his hips jerked into the tight circle of flesh and bone. Bloodraven wiped the come off Yhalen’s cheek with his other hand, slicking his fingers, and then slipped that hand down the back of Yhalen’s pants. Sliding a finger between the heat of Yhalen’s buttocks, Bloodraven probed at his throbbing asshole.
Yhalen pushed back, wanting it—needing that intrusion as much as he needed the firm pressure of the hand on his cock. Bloodraven obliged, forcing the finger in to the knuckle, pumping him from the front and the back as he lay half on his side upon Bloodraven’s broad chest and stomach. His body jerked helplessly, overcome by the climaxing pressure of release. His balls tightened and vision went dim, then he was spurting into Bloodraven’s hand, shuddering and thrusting all at once.
He lay there afterwards, exhausted and dazed and no small bit embarrassed now that ardor was spent. Bloodraven withdrew his finger, but his hand stayed put, cupping Yhalen’s buttocks for a while as breathing slowed for the both of them.
Bloodraven moved first, laziness gone, rolling Yhalen off his stomach and sitting up, which dislodged blankets and let in the cold. Vorja lay not far away, giving them a cant-headed, curious look.
Bloodraven reached for his boots and barked something ogrish at the dog, which Yhalen had heard often enough to associate with the command to go hunt, and the dog leaped to her feet and trotted off into the wood, more than happy to prowl. But there was something very much like good humor in Bloodraven’s tone and a pleased look on his face as he took account of his weaponry next to the bedding.
“Tea,” he suggested and went off to relieve himself and find fuel for the morning fire.
“How many days?” Yhalen asked when they were packed up and heading out. “Before we reach territory you know?”
“We’re in it now,” he said and Yhalen lifted an eyebrow at his back, that information not having been offered before. Bloodraven waved a hand at the broad face of the ridge before them. “Beyond that we’ll start seeing signs of outlying bands of Rocktooth clan. Maybe hunting parties. Maybe gatherers.”
“Gatherers?”
Bloodraven shrugged. “Mateless females and slaves. Halflings with no status. Ones who work the soil in the warm season and take what they can from the forests in the cold.”
“Ah.” Luck would be with them, if they came across such a group outside the scrutiny of the ogre clans. Bloodraven could start the spread of his message quietly and without turmoil. “Did you ever—”
“No.” Bloodraven scowled, looking as if he were trying to decide whether to be offended at the assumption or not. Ogre warrior pride at work.
A while later, before the sun had even reached its zenith, they came to a broad, crudely carved band at an easy reach for Bloodraven, but higher than Yhalen could touch fingers to, on a old pine. There were symbols cut deep, hard to distinguish as anything but unrefined marks, so covered with hardened pine sap they were. But it was clear enough it was done by hands other than animals, a territorial marker.
Bloodraven hardly gave it a glance as they hiked past up the ridge, but Yhalen turned to stare at it warily as he walked, feeling a curl of apprehension in his gut. Soon enough they would be in the company of more ogres. In the company of a greater clan by far than the one left behind them. Perhaps they would even encounter ogre warriors from Bloodraven’s old war party, warriors who’d witnessed what Yhalen had done to Deathclaw—Goddess, maybe even Deathclaw himself. If so rumors had probably spread, that might work in Bloodraven’s advantage, or might not. Either way, Yhalen felt a growing sense of unease at the encounter.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Bloodraven caught hold of Yhalen’s tunic, jerking him quite unexpectedly to a stop. His big fist curled in the leather, almost to the point of restricting Yhalen’s air. Yhalen kept the complaint to himself and tried not to struggle against the hold—tried to keep very still in case some predator that Bloodraven sensed and he didn’t, approached, or worse yet, if a band of ogres were to appear through the trees and confront them.
He stretched his senses, and found something, the murmur of various life forces down the wooded slope, the swirl and buzz of purpose that belonged to no beast.
“Knife,” Bloodraven demanded softly of him, hardly giving Yhalen time to take the sheathed weapon from his own belt as he snatched at it. Bloodraven stuck the thing in his boot, then shrugged off his pack and heaved it at him. He staggered under the weight of his own pack and the heavier one that Bloodraven had carried. He arranged it as best he could, foreseeing a miserable day ahead if he had to play beast of burden for the duration of their journey until camp. It was only reasonable, though, if they were already within the boundaries of Bloodraven’s clan. It had been surprising kindness of Bloodraven’s part to risk shouldering the brunt of the burden for so long, with discovery so much a risk.
“No word from you.” Bloodraven bent and grasped his chin, the strength of his fingers brooking no argument. “Meet no gaze. Jump when I tell you, hear?”
“I remember,” Yhalen said, his sourness at the role overshadowed by fear of what was to come.
Bloodraven nodded once, satisfied, and began striding down the slope. One hand stayed on the hilt of his sword while the other touched passing trees for support on the steep way down. Yhalen followed in his wake, his shoulder already complaining of the strap biting into it and his back very likely to join the chorus in short order.
Soon enough he picked up the sounds of rustling in dry autumn leaves, and downslope saw the movement of figures. Bloodraven paused for a moment, squinting through the trees, then unexpectedly he raised his voice and called out a sharp ogre word. Immediately the movement froze, and a trio of broad faces stared upslope, trying to discern the origin of the call.
Bloodraven started walking again, a casual nonchalance to his stride that Yhalen sensed was all artifice. After a moment there were yells from down the slope and the figures moved to meet Bloodraven. Yhalen made no efforts to keep Bloodraven’s pace, content enough to hang back unobtrusively at the prospect of meeting strange ogres. But as the figures approached, he saw that they were no taller than Bloodraven himself—shorter in fact—and not so ideally proportioned. Halflings, like Bloodraven himself. Two males and a female. The female was the largest of the three, at least by girth. The other two were broad of shoulder and hip, more like their f
ull-blooded brethren than Bloodraven. But their ears were smaller, their faces held more of humanity and their skin paler than the darker green tones of true ogres. They possessed crude weapons, stone mallets and knives, and no armor. Gatherers, Bloodraven had said, and unable to win the sort of equipment that warriors boasted.
They spoke in the ogre tongue, and Yhalen only caught a word here and there that sparked recognition. Bloodraven clapped a hand on the shoulder of one of the males in an act of familiarity.
Yhalen drifted to a stop a half dozen yards upslope. If they noted him, the halflings paid him no heed, attention fixed entirely upon Bloodraven. If Bloodraven had ever spoken so many words at once before, Yhalen hadn’t heard it. He spoke earnestly now and the halflings listened with wary expressions, ears twitching now and then in agitation, eyes white-edged with nerves. Perhaps there was an argument of sorts going on, for the occasional harsh gesture pierced the conversation and the speech was full of guttural growls and sharp exclamations. But then again, the ogre language was filled with such sounds.
He wondered—if he sat down, if they would take offense? But soon enough, one of the ogr’ron males departed, hurrying off through the woods as if he had purpose. Bloodraven gestured at Yhalen without glancing at him and sharply said an ogre word that Yhalen did understand. Come.
Reluctantly, Yhalen shifted the weight of the packs and moved to follow Bloodraven, passing the curious golden stares of the other two ogr’rons. It was hard going, burdened as he was, but thankfully the way led down slope. They heard a rustling in the leaves once, and Bloodraven calmly turned that way with a hand on the hilt of his sword. It was only the dog, though, returned from her ranging to assure herself that they were still well. Bloodraven called for her, a short sharp word, and she came padding up, burrs in her coat and specks of blood on her muzzle from some small animal she’d no doubt had to ferret out in a nest of briars.