Bloodraven

by Nunn, PL

  Vorjd sat down beside him and Yhalen noticed the long healed ring of scarring around his neck where he had worn a crude collar for years. His throat was bare now, the slave collar gone.

  “The collar?” Yhalen asked, fingers automatically rising to his own neck and the smooth metal that still encircled it. In all the days that he had been awake and aware in Elvardo’s keep, he’d never questioned it, much less contemplated its removal. Elvardo had never remarked upon it.

  Vorjd lifted his head, mouth tightening in some emotion that Yhalen couldn’t discern. “He removed it himself. Bloodraven. He gave me freedom, which I hadn’t tasted in a very long time.”

  “And yet—” Yhalen began.

  “And yet,” Vorjd continued for him. “Still I am here. Freedom is not so easy a thing in a foreign land with foreign ways. Flight not so alluring when there’s only uncertainty ahead. I’m needed. And these folk, they’re as much kin of mine as they are of the full-bloods in the mountains. More, I think, for the some of the full-bloods held more contempt for half-breeds than they did for human slaves. Why do you still wear the collar?”

  The question was blunt and seemed to knock the breath out of Yhalen. He hooked his fingers in the smooth, warm metal and tried to think of a reason, but his mind kept circling, devoid of rational response.

  “Perhaps it’s just as well,” Vorjd said. “If you remove it, it won’t hold the meaning it will if he does it. Let him take it from you, so you know and he knows that you’re a free man.”

  Yhalen took a long sip of the weak tea, mind still blank, his attention focused solely on the comfortable weight of the collar about his throat. How had he overlooked it? How could he have slept and eaten and dressed and bathed without realizing it was there?

  “Our hunters travel far for meat.” Vorjd had gone to another topic while Yhalen’s mind whirled around the collar. “The vale has game aplenty, but Bloodraven asked that we not deplete the woods here. He asked that while the weather permits, we hunt beyond the vale to the north and west.”

  “Wise,” Yhalen said numbly.

  “He spoke with the dark lord on many things about the vale.”

  Yhalen looked up. “Did he?”

  “Many times.”

  “Here?”

  “No. He who lives in the keep has never been here. Bloodraven goes to him.”

  “Oh.” Many times, but not since Yhalen had been himself again. Not if Bloodraven had already been gone most of a moon.

  He forced himself to finish the tea. Since they had offered what little they had to him, it was only polite.

  “Thank you,” he murmured again, inclining his head to Vorjd and then to the large halfling women who conspicuously made busywork outside the huts around the clearing. They watched him with wary eyes, as did the males and he shivered to think what memories they had of him.

  Weary or not, he had to leave. Elvardo’s keep held little in the way of warmth for him, but at least he was not mistrusted there. Or feared.

  Vorjd walked with him down the slope past the houses snuggled in beneath the rocks, then stopped and wordlessly watched Yhalen’s retreat into the valley. He walked through the tall grass, conscious of the eyes on his back and wishing very much for trees and cover to hide his embarrassment. When he was a good distance, he glanced over his shoulder and saw that Vorjd had disappeared, but that a few other figures, smaller now with distance, still stood on the slopes, watching his retreat.

  Halfway across, he found rest sitting on flat granite rocks that broke through the fertile earth of the valley floor. After he’d caught his breath, he lifted his hands to the collar, which he had been acutely aware of since the halfling fire pit, and tried to pull it open. Even though this collar hadn’t been fused shut, he hadn’t the strength to pry it open.

  There might have been a way to utilize his magicks to rid himself of it, but he had no notion how.

  Nor did he truly even dare to contemplate willing it, in fear of doing himself some harm. Perhaps at the keep, he might ask the old man if he had a mundane way of removing it, for he would sooner hack off his own head to remove it than ask Elvardo for help. The dark lord had certainly not seen fit to remove it during the long days when Yhalen had fretted, mind-sick and under his care.

  It was late into the afternoon by the time he reached the steep path that led up into the keep bailey.

  He was tired and hungry and greatly put out. In no mood for Elvardo descending upon him once inside the keep proper with the air of a predator in his eyes.

  The dark lord seemed in a fine humor, his pale eyes sparkling and black cloak swirling around minimal clothing.

  “Did you have a pleasant outing?”

  Yhalen hesitated, considering simply walking around him and ignoring the question, since the tone suggested Elvardo had little enough interest in the answer. Elvardo, however, was persistent and could be unpredictably prickly at perceived slights. It was easier to stop and incline his head politely.

  “The valley’s longer than I remembered.”

  “Hmmm. I’ve a mood to play tutor. Come with me.”

  Yhalen drew a frustrated breath, wanting nothing more at the moment than a cool drink, a bite of supper and sleep.

  “I’m tired and hungry. Later.”

  He made to move past.

  “No.” Elvardo held up a hand, not quite touching Yhalen’s chest, but affecting him all the same, as a hundred tiny veins of power curled out and into Yhalen’s skin like little hands immobilizing him.

  Elvardo lifted a hand and lifted Yhalen’s braid over his shoulder, fingering the thick rope for a moment before letting it drop to hang down his back. “No. I think now. Hunger and exhaustion may work to some advantage. If you prove an adept student, perhaps I’ll see you fed, eh?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The axe hadn’t so much gotten past Bloodraven’s guard as smashed right through it, the sheer size and strength of the wielder more than Bloodraven could stave off. It had only been speed and reflex that had saved his arm being sheared off at the shoulder from the blow. It was Vorja’s great jaws, latching onto the wrist of the ogre warrior that kept it from following through with the blow after Bloodraven went down. The dog had only been a momentary distraction though, flung off like a minor irritation by a warrior almost twice Bloodraven’s size.

  Size offered only so much advantage though, when speed and a sharp blade were at hand. He’d rolled away from the axe blow that split the earth by his head and hamstrung the ogre from his vantage on the ground, then finished the big bastard off when he’d toppled. And that was only the first attack.

  Like ogres themselves, the pursuit was stubborn and persistent.

  Bloodraven supposed that some of the halflings who’d chosen to take a chance on him were regretting it now. Certainly the ones they’d lost on the trail could have had better luck back with their clans, even if they’d been treated little better than the human slaves that the deep mountain clans had little access to.

  He had forty ogr’rons with him from five different clans. Two clans he’d gone into without violence, talking his way past their suspicions and tempting his half-breed brethren into flight by the promise of a clan of their own. Of dignity and protection and a new life.

  The last few clans he’d come across had not been so trusting, and he and the halflings that he’d convinced to come with him had left with pursuers hot on their heels. And a party of forty plus was not adept at practicing stealth. Their trail was wide and easy to track, and the only thing that kept them from complete disaster was that they only stood their ground and fought when there was no other choice. It was not the ogre way, flight over fight, and full-blooded ogres had great stamina but little speed. Bloodraven outdistanced them, and when he couldn’t, he played at tactics no honorable ogre would have employed. Ambush and traps and trickery, like some furtive cave gnarsh or—well, humans.

  He had little choice. The females and the young were not up to fighting. There were ten ogr
’ron females, and seven younglings ranging from two winters up to ten, all of them scared and weary.

  They’d snatched those young out of the nurseries where they’d been abandoned by their full-blood mothers to the abuse from larger children, and fled without looking back, damned and determined to take a chance at what Bloodraven offered.

  He was damned and determined to see they got it. Even if he had to push them past their limits and then some.

  The snows, surprisingly enough, helped. Winter came down harsh and full-blown upon them halfway over Knifeback Ridge. The storm was devastating, dropping four feet of snow in a day, but it obliterated their trail. And they had supplies, Bloodraven’s pack animals having survived this trip—thanks, he thought, to no mundane breeding. Where Elvardo procured his stock, Bloodraven did not like to dwell upon, but there was no doubt they were uniquely suited for harsh travel. Each one could carry obscene amounts of weight without complaint, endure weather that would hinder the stoutest mountain goat, and go long periods without rest.

  Still, if it had been a human party caught on the trail in that storm, they might have perished one and all. Those of ogrish blood were made of tougher stuff. Bloodraven had the fleeting thought that he’d been lucky on his first trip to the heights that no such storm had hit, or he’d have lost Yhalen to the bitter cold.

  But it was only a brief thought. He had neither the time nor the energy to dwell on anything but survival, and thinking about Yhalen drew too much attention—brought to the surface—too many odd feelings that he hadn’t the luxury to turn over in his head. Easier not to think of him at all, since dwelling on a thing that was far removed from his capacity to affect was wasted effort. He had not the effort to waste, struggling to get the halflings through the mountains and to the vale.

  He took the long way round the territory of his own clan, absolutely wanting no conflict between the ogres who’d survived Yhalen’s mage-fueled madness. He had no wish to look upon the shattered remains of his former home, and he dreaded the thought of confronting Icehand. Nothing he could ever say—no excuse that he had not meant for things to happen as they had—could repair the wounds between them now. Icehand was just to hold the grudge, having been betrayed in the worst way—by a halfling he’d considered a son.

  They saw no sign of the clan, though, and were not hindered until they were well on their way to the boundaries of Elvardo’s valley.

  It was an unexpected attack that took down two of the halfling stragglers at the rear of the party.

  Bloodraven had been ranging to the east of the party with Vorja, looking for the telltale signs of the pass that would take them into the vale. Vorja heard the disturbance first, and took off barking through the snow. Bloodraven pelted after, cursing himself for the complacency of thinking them safe so close to shelter.

  He passed the front of the party, where the females and the young walked, bellowing for them to run. He gathered the best of the males—the ones who’d shown themselves adept at war craft during the long flight here—and ran back toward the sounds of conflict.

  The white snow was sullied with blood. There were two full bloods, savagely hacking at the smaller halfling males who strove to hold them off, like scavenger dogs mindlessly destroying a nest of new born kaklins, killing beyond what they could consume in their frenzy. And they were only two, no doubt scouts set to find the path of their quarry. The conflict would bring others that ranged behind.

  Vorja leapt into the fray first, jaws tearing into the unprotected back of an ogre knee. The warrior howled and slashed at her with his axe even as Bloodraven swept in, blocking the arc of the blow with his sword. Driving his shoulder into the warrior’s side and letting the force of his momentum throw the larger ogre off his balance. Vorja tore away, taking flesh in her jaws, and leapt for the throat that was now within her reach.

  The ogre roared in rage, lifting an arm to block her—and leaving his mid-section open to Bloodraven’s blade. He gutted him and moved on before his opponent realized he was dead. He heard distant cries through the snow-draped wood and cursed.

  “Go. Go!” He took quick account of the injury to his people in the eight steps it took to reach the other full-blood scout. Three gone and two more wounded. The blood would leave a trail.

  One of the halflings he’d brought with him reached the scout and engaged—not a bad fighter, and still young enough to learn if he lived so long.

  “Take the wounded and go. Bind their wounds as you travel if you can.”

  He didn’t take the time to see if they obeyed, jumping instead into the fray to save a young halfling out of his depths.

  Parry. Slash. Take a blow out of necessity to deliver one of his own. His armor dented from it, pressing into his flesh—but the scout went down, Bloodraven’s aim being better. Taking the chance to catch lost breath was not an option. He could see the dark forms of ogres far down the wooded slopes, could hear the sound of their war cries as they realized their prey was within reach. He grabbed the young halfling by the shoulder and shoved him upslope.

  “Run. As fast as you can. Follow this trail. We’re close. Just follow the trail.”

  “What will you—”

  “Just go!” Bloodraven pushed him hard.

  He stared down the slope, trying to estimate from the small figures how many there were. Dozens.

  Huge and well-armed. Merciless. Were these the same warriors who’d followed them from the far ranges, or had they picked up pursuit of a more local nature? Either way he was outnumbered.

  Confronting them head on would only slow them momentarily. They’d cut him down and then be onto the rest of the halflings. But what other way to slow them down?

  He glanced behind him at the obvious trail of retreat, spattered with drops of bright red. He grimaced, then whistled softly for Vorja. She padded up to him, bloodstained foam around her jaw, her ears back and fur still on end.

  There needed to be a distraction, and he would provide it. He shifted his grip on sword and dagger and stood his ground, watching them struggle up the snowy slope, scattered and undisciplined. When they were close enough to matter, he roared out a challenge, wordless and universal. He plummeted down the slope, foolhardy and reckless and sure to give them pause as to his sanity.

  A big notch-eared youngster with piecemeal armor and a crudely forged weapon rushed him, swinging wildly. Bloodraven ducked, coming in under the longer reach and slicing open his belly below the edge of his leather armor. He sidestepped, ripping the dagger across the throat of the ogre on the heels of the first, then avoiding the broad sweep of an axe and planting a boot in the groin of the wielder—sending the big body flailing backwards on the snowy slope, and toppling the warriors behind him.

  It was enough of an opening to run. He certainly had their attention, and with luck they might follow him instead of taking time to realize the tracks of his party lead in another direction. He pelted up the slope, and called sharply for Vorja to follow. He lost footing here and there in the snow, but he was fleeter by far than his larger brethren. His size made him more agile over roots and through close growing trees, as well. Vorja loped ahead of him, silent and in hunting mode, but in the flash he’d seen of her in flight, there had been blood on her coat and the deep scores of wounds. There was blood on him, too, more than that of his enemies. He felt it running warm and steady down the side of his face, but could not feel the sting of the wound that had to be leaking it.

  It was the rush of adrenalin that came with battle and pushed back awareness of minor pains. There were probably quite a few hurts that he didn’t notice. They’d make themselves known later—if there was a later.

  “They come.”

  Yhalen looked up at Elvardo’s words. The dark lord had paused, his hand frozen in some gesture, his eyes unfocused and faraway.

  They were in a small, rear courtyard of the castle, a secluded silent place, where the only plant life was vines twining up the walls—and even those were stripped bare by the season
. The rest was bare stone ground of the stuff the cliffs were made of, with a somber fountain in the center that trickled sedate streams of mountain-cold water. There was new ornamentation sprouting up from the hard ground. Slim fingers of rock, that had been cajoled up and out of the earth like they were stalks of corn instead of unforgiving stone. Yhalen had called them—a slow, arduous task of summoning earth magicks and putting them to use in altering the rock.

  He’d been at it for hours, following Elvardo’s instruction instead of his own more fanciful impulses.

  Though he didn’t recall most of what had occurred at the village of Bloodraven’s clan, there was a residual memory of the wild power he’d summoned and the mad use he’d put it to. It had been so easy then, to move mountains—yet now, when he attempted a tiny, particular task, it was more arduous than any chore he could recall attempting.

  Elvardo said there was a great deal of difference in flinging power about with no purpose—the results of which might be anyone’s guess and most often more destructive than one might wish—and using it with craft and skill, creating the exact results one wanted without wasted effort or collateral damage.

  “Who comes?” Yhalen asked, happy for the distraction.

  Elvardo was silent for a moment, staring at blank walls. Then, “Halflings. They approach the wards, but—”

  “What wards?” Yhalen wished to know, more than the need for distraction from lessons fueling his interest.

  “Follow me,” Elvardo murmured, and Yhalen knew it was no physical trail he meant.

  It was easy to follow Elvardo’s consciousness when the dark lord had no shields up to prevent it.

  Out to the boundaries of the mountains that protected the vale, on over the western ridge that sat between the lands of men and the wild territories beyond, and Elvardo’s attention paused at a source of magic. No, not a source—but a weaving that held magic within itself, intricate levels of spell work woven like a web, with strands snaking out into the earth and the forest and the sky. All of them drawing subtle amounts of power to fuel the core of the ward. And that was only one subtle point of power. There were dozens, strung out along the borders of the surrounding mountains—amazing, intricate constructs of warning and defense.