Bloodraven

by Nunn, PL

  Years and years spent on nothing but survival among them. Years and years learning the way of the proud, ruthless ogre warrior and then learning how to turn that strength against them.

  So much fighting. So much struggle. He was tired of it. The peace he drifted in now was a welcome alternative. So let the wolves circle. He no longer cared.

  The Goddess didn’t hear Yhalen, having turned a deaf ear his way long ago. She had no care that his demise descended in a cloud of dark, fluttering wings.

  The crows came first, flapping down to perch on the bar that his legs were bound to, croaking and cawing raucously as their fellows alighted on the ground under him, waddling and pecking at the blood that spotted the earth. A beak pecked at one of the slices on his foot, jabbing into the wound and twisting out a fleshy prize. Others joined in, crowding the pole, flapping onto his legs to pick at the open wounds on his thighs and calves, the slits behind his knees and his buttocks, each of them wrenching free chunks of flesh.

  He hung there, shuddering in shock and pain, and terror, dizzy from the drugs and the blood filling his head, and the shock of so many tiny agonizing impacts as beaks broke through the open cuts on his body and took away parts of him not heeding the inhuman shrieking sounds that escaped his lips.

  Bigger birds came, vultures that landed with a powerful flapping of wings. They had the height that the crows did not, and could feed on him from the ground, strong beaks tearing into the tattered flesh of nipples, wrenching and tearing chunks away, swallowing them whole and plunging back in for more.

  His bloody navel was plucked out, the rune thorn with it, and another bird tore into the muscle of his stomach. He felt his right nipple ripped free and a bird pick at the raw flesh beneath it. His left followed suit, a thin strip of skin tearing off along with the nipple, leaving a naked layer of flayed muscle from the place his nipple had been to his armpit.

  A few of the vultures displaced some of the crows on the bar between his legs and their more powerful beaks broke into the pits the crows had made in flesh, tearing through soft, scored skin and pulling out the contents in a few victorious chunks. He began vomiting in his mouth, the pain eating away at the reasoning human thing behind his eyes. Agony that never stopped, that hit in a hundred different places, that didn’t diminish with the loss of pieces of him, or the draining of blood from too many wounds on his body to count, but grew and grew and grew until he gibbered inside his head, blind and deaf to anything but the cries of the birds and the struggles of his own heart to keep pumping blood into a body and a mind that wanted to die.

  And still he lived, clinging to distorted life. He laughed through the vomit that clogged his throat and filled his nasal passage, suffocating him. He laughed and laughed and felt the overpowering omnipotence of the mountains of the very earth beneath him. He felt the charge in the air of the elemental power that always hovered, that he’d always been peripherally aware of but never so in touch with as he was now, on the verge of death. Just like before, when he’d lain bleeding to death, ripped asunder by Deathclaw in some unnamed southern wood, and power that he’d never known he possessed came to him in flood of omnipotence. Like before, when he had pulled the heady, sweet life-force from the forest and taken it into himself. Only here, it was thick and ominous, a brittle crust of heavy, sluggish force that lay above a raging stream of hot power.

  Fire essence, that he did know—mixed with the stubborn forces of the earth, which wasn’t so familiar. He plunged his awareness into that primal power, felt it sweep over him, and any but a pain-mad mind would have tumbled and flailed at the utter immenseness of it. He drew it in, and it scorched his body and mind with the intensity of its power.

  He screamed in euphoria, blood beginning to dribble from his nose, overflowing from a body cavity beginning to fill with it. The birds squawked in fright, animal senses registering calamity before it fell.

  They scattered as a group, dozens of them flapping up from around his body and fleeing into the air.

  The last of them, a vulture heavy and slow from gorging itself upon his blood and his flesh, waddled under him, its beak trailing a scrap of intestine. It faltered and collapsed in a cloud of dried feathers and flesh and bone gone to dust. The grass withered and died, the earth that had sprouted it cracking as if it were the driest of desert grounds instead of a rain fed mountain vale.

  Twenty miles away, a natural fissure that fed a tiny pool of warm spring water burst, sending massive chunks of rock hurtling into the air, followed by a geyser of steaming water. Along the same fissure other eruptions occurred.

  Pressures deep beneath the rock stirred to agitation as they had not in ten thousand years. The ground began to tremble, faint little reverberations miles out along the snaking ridgelines of the lower Graktooth range, echoing out from the growing rumble at the epicenter.

  Awareness came back like a fist in the face. Hard, implacable, chasing away the dreamlike state of euphoria where he’d been drifting, jarring him to wakefulness in the most offensive of manners Bloodraven spat blood along with a back tooth and shook his head slowly, trying to steady his wavering vision. The fist hit him again, and his head slammed against rock, leaving a trail of blood as he slid sideways, coughing red.

  Thagnail loomed over him, broad face twisted with rage, ham-sized fists clenched and bloody.

  Bloodraven blinked up, uncomprehending. His body felt as if they had pummeled him all night, bone-deep aches and excruciating twinges of pain that flared in the softer depths of his bruised carcass. He didn’t recall the beating—at least not the beginnings of it. He couldn’t connect the here and now, with himself sprawled in an unfamiliar place, weak and disoriented.

  Thagnail had brought him around, that was clear enough. Thagnail, with Raxfur Nobear standing behind him, who despite his birth defect of a shrunken ear, had the size and the ferocity to serve as Wartooth’s chief thug. Thagnail roared incomprehensible things and came at him again, smashing his body with his massive fists, and Bloodraven, half again smaller with half again less muscle and bone mass to protect him when he hadn’t the option of avoidance, crumbled beneath the punishment.

  His bearings were gone, his thoughts awash in confusion. It was a nightmare, he thought, half-submerged in senselessness. One of the heart-thumping, exhausting night visions that seemed so real while the mind wallowed in its terror. And as with any nightmare, it changed abruptly, beyond his control. There was a murmur of harsh voices before a less violent touch roused him from stupor.

  He forced his eyes open, blinking up at the frowning face of Icehand. If it was a dream, then it hardly mattered so far as pride went, that he make an effort to rise. He had found a modicum of comfort sprawled on the floor against the wall.

  “Bloodraven.”

  Icehand slapped him. A gentle blow to stir his sluggish mind. It stung the already lacerated flesh inside his cheek. A fresh flow of blood started inside his mouth. Thick and salty and too real by far to be a delusion. He made a sound of disgust and tried to push himself up. Icehand helped, a big hand gripping Bloodraven’s arm as he pulled him into a sitting position against the wall. Bloodraven groaned, his body complaining. He ached. Deep aches that seemed to bite at the core of him.

  “What…happened?”

  He hadn’t the slightest idea. The lack of total recall still left the bitter taste of nightmare in his mind.

  Icehand squatted, his wide face grim and disappointed. “You shouldn’t have done it, Bloodraven. Whatever your reasons, you shouldn’t have brought your witch here.”

  The ache in Bloodraven’s gut turned cold. His eyes flicked around the dark cave he occupied and found it bare of anything beyond himself and Icehand. He himself was naked. As naked as he had been when he had delved into the pleasures of Yhalen’s body during the night. His heart began to pound, each rapid beat reminding him of an echo of ghost pain, the source of which he could not quite remember.

  “What happened?” he repeated, fists clenched.

  I
cehand canted his head. “You don’t know?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Deathclaw came to your den in the night. Thagnail claims for truce talk—but his knife was found in his hand with blood upon it, and your own body was covered with blood—and your wounds curiously sealed. Deathclaw—I saw his body myself—a dried husk, shrunken and withered when only hours before he had been….” Icehand trailed off, remembering, then shook his head. “It was the blackest of magicks that did it, and no shaman need proclaim it so for the people to understand.”

  “Ahhh, Yhalen—no.” Bloodraven shut his eyes, not caring if the depth of his fear for his human showed clearly in his tone. “What of him?”

  “The shaman prevented his outright death. There are rituals and precautions that must be taken to ensure the clan isn’t cursed by the witch’s escaping spirit.”

  Icehand gripped Bloodraven’s shoulder hard enough to hurt when Bloodraven tried to rise. He pushed Bloodraven down, leaning over to fix him with an almost desperate stare. “But it might be argued that you had no hand in it, since you were found insensible and clearly wounds of some sort had been practiced upon your body.”

  Bloodraven hardly heard Icehand’s words, his thoughts so thoroughly snared by fear for Yhalen. The thought of Wrathbone practicing his cruelties upon Yhalen’s body made Bloodraven’s stomach churn with nausea.

  “How long?” he whispered. “Is he still alive?”

  Icehand shook his head. “It’s too late, Kavarr. His death’s in motion.”

  “And a long death it will be,” Thagnail snarled from the low entrance to the cave.

  He bent his head to step in, the torch from the tunnel outside backlighting his broad body.

  Bloodraven could just make out the malicious sneer of his smile and wanted to lunge up past Icehand to strangle the smug bastard. Only he doubted he could gather the strength to move, much less throttle an ogre half again his size.

  Thagnail crouched behind Icehand, his bloody-knuckled hands resting on his knees as he spoke, gloating. “Wrathbone inflicted pain upon pain on his fragile human body. I saw the damage he did as they dragged him out for the scavenger birds to feed upon his living flesh. His agonies will be legendary among our clan—a tale to put all other human maggots in their places when they think of trying the patience of ogres.”

  Bloodraven growled, his strength buffered by blind fury, and lunged past Icehand to Thagnail. It was stupid, of course. He had learned his lesson long ago to always come at his larger brethren with a weapon in hand to counter their size, or at the very least a coherent plan. He had neither and he fell short of his goal, his body weakened. Thagnail’s fist caught him on the side of the head, and might have landed another blow if Icehand hadn’t risen with a growl of his own to shove the other ogre back.

  Thagnail drew a dagger, as happy to deal with Icehand as he’d dealt with Bloodraven. A rumbling word from Nobear at the den entrance and Thagnail hesitated.

  “We’re to bring him to see. Wartooth’s order.”

  Thagnail glanced over his shoulder with a scowl, but sheathed his blade.

  “You can watch the final breaths of your human witch,” he spat and grasped Bloodraven’s arm, even as Nobear moved in to latch on to him from the other side.

  “Wait,” Icehand said. “You won’t drag him naked through the clan like a slave. Council hasn’t condemned him.”

  “Not yet,” Thagnail snarled.

  Icehand stood his ground and Nobear shrugged. Deathclaw hadn’t been of his blood, so he cared little about Bloodraven’s humiliation one way or another personally, only for the will of his warlord.

  Icehand tossed Bloodraven a pair of trousers and with the old warrior’s help he shrugged them on, but neither he nor Thagnail had the patience to wait for more. For entirely different reasons, they both wanted to reach the execution site as rapidly as possible.

  With Thagnail and Nobear’s hands gripping his arms, Bloodraven was escorted outside. It was past dawn and the wan light of morning stained the sullen colors of the village nestled within the protective walls of the crevice. He’d been in a cave not far from the dwelling of Wrathbone. He didn’t recall how he’d gotten there. He didn’t recall anything beyond the taste and the feel of Yhalen’s body under him, the spiraling pleasure, the pain of culmination—and then nothing.

  He hurt. Beyond Thagnail’s blunt attentions, his body ached. Skin twitched in irritation on his back.

  Curiously sealed wounds, Icehand had said, and Deathclaw with a knife in hand.

  The village was oddly deserted as they passed through, with mostly human slaves scurrying about their morning chores. The few ogres present followed Bloodraven’s passage with narrowed eyes and unpleasant muttering. It wasn’t until they reached the mouth of the crevice that he saw where the majority of the clan had gathered.

  The looks passed his way here were more hostile, the condemnations blunter. He was spat upon and he snarled, lunging towards the offender. His guards hauled him back, keeping him moving through an unwelcoming crowd. They were jostled along the way, elbows and feet and large bodies impeding progress with malicious intent. Thagnail and Nobear growled and returned with shoves of their own as they fought to get him through the antagonistic crowd.

  They reached the edge of the gathering, at the grassy stretch of land between cliffs and forest, and Wartooth loomed to block Bloodraven’s passage, his broad face twisted with much the same bloodlust that infused the rest of the horde. His hand shot out, fist smashing into the side of Bloodraven’s head and rocking him backwards in his captor’s grip. Salty blood seeped into his mouth from a shredded cheek.

  The warlord stepped aside and through wavering vision, Bloodraven saw what held the clan’s attention so raptly. A rack, much like one used for drying animal skins in the middle of the field. Only this one held a small, pale body stretched between the poles. Already the carrion birds flocked around it, their raucous cries audible over the distance as they fought for position and choice bits of flesh. It wasn’t a common punishment, being a crueler fate than most who offended the clan deserved. He did recall once, as a child, seeing another human slave strung up just so, bleeding and torn and left to attract the scavengers. It had been a slow death, and he remembered the soft keening sound of his cries as the birds picked him to death piece by piece.

  No sound of pain could be heard from the body enduring the assault of the birds this time. No movement other than the flapping of wings and the sharp jutting motion of beaks tearing into open flesh. He felt nauseous and weak. Pain welled in his chest so strongly it stole his breath.

  The crowd cried out in appreciation as a vulture tore a large hunk of raw meat from between the victim’s spread legs. Cried out more as the body jerked, spasming helplessly at the theft.

  Alive. He was alive still, and in torment beyond imagining. Bloodraven roared, twisting in the grip of his captors, not caring if he was outsized and outnumbered and weaponless—only needing to get out there and rip Yhalen down from the feeding rack, to protect him if life was viable, and end him quickly and painlessly if it was not. He deserved that much. He deserved more.

  A thick arm came around his neck, and Icehand pulled him tight against him as Thagnail and Nobear secured their hold on his arms.

  “He’s dead already,” Icehand hissed softly, for his ears alone. “Understand, young fool? You have a chance to survive. Do not destroy it.”

  Bloodraven stared through tunneling, watery vision at the atrocity in the field. Held fast by the hands of friend and foe alike. He would die here, he thought, because he didn’t have the capacity to play politics with Wartooth and his council after this. He’d cry his blood feud to the heavens and they would kill him and all of his plottings would be for naught. He found he didn’t care.

  He heard the howling of the clan dogs, a wheedling drone past the sounds of the crowd and the distant cawing of the crows. Perhaps they had been howling for some time, a chorus of discordant canine woe.

&n
bsp; The faintest of trembling began to tickle his bare feet as if the earth shared his fury and grief. The flapping of wings rent the air, the birds launching into air as a whole, as if some predator stalked among them. The clan cried out, disappointed at the retreat, too intent on their entertainment to feel the subtle trembling of the earth, or to feel the indefinable ripple that passed across them.

  He felt it. He saw the grass around the feeding rack turn grey as ash, saw the area expand, a spreading stigma that fed off the earth. He didn’t see the splitting of the ground until the fissure loomed under his feet and the subtle trembling became an earsplitting roar as the earth splintered.

  A roar like the battle cry of a thousand warriors rent the air, a deafening grating of sound as the earth buckled. The shriller cries of ogres could barely be heard above the screams of the land as it shifted and split. A hundred ragged wounds that split rock and earth, racing like living things towards the forests on the one side and the cliffs on the other, spiraling out like ragged spokes on a wheel from the plan between the two.

  Bloodraven found himself free. Staggered as if struck by a hand, while the air reverberated with heat and force as a fissure tore open scant feet from where he stood. An ogre child sprawled and slid into the opening, abandoned by the panicked hysteria of the clan, his blunt fingers scrambling for purchase.

  Bloodraven grabbed him by the hair in passing and yanked him out of the crevice, dropping him afterwards without a backward glance as he fought his way through the crowd.

  He heard Wrathbone screaming something, saw the old shaman break free of the tangle of ogres and hurry as fast as his bent legs could carry him towards the field where Yhalen was, long curved knife in his hand. He guessed then, what Bloodraven knew—the cause of this—and he rushed to put an end to it. Bloodraven shoved a body out of his path, wrenching a knife from a sheath on someone’s belt as he fought through. He was two steps free of the press and Wrathbone was almost to the abandoned feeding rack. The old shaman staggered, legs giving out unexpectedly, dropping the knife as he clutched at his chest. Bloodraven hesitated, as the old ogre seemed to curl in upon himself. When he collapsed, a cloud of grey dust sprayed up like ash from a long dead fire.