It was enough of a reaction to satisfy Bloodraven, for he turned back to the others, barking orders that the ogres scrambled to follow and dispersing the crowd while setting his small army to order. He
gestured for Vorjd and the man slunk out hurriedly from the shadows of the carts, nodding as he was given instructions, then calling for the other northern slaves to begin making camp here. Vorjd went to the women, speaking with them, gathering them and the children together and with two of the other human slaves getting them on their feet and moving towards one of the huts.
“Vorjd. Vorjd, what will they do with them?” Yhalen called, desperate to know that they weren’t to be saved now only to be tortured and killed later that night.
The blonde slave paused to look at Yhalen over his shoulder. He didn’t answer, but he frowned, making a sign for silence, as if he feared they’d bring trouble down upon themselves for exchanging conversation.
“Damn you,” Yhalen whispered, wet-eyed, almost as angry at Vorjd as he was at the ogres. He yanked at his chain, frustrated and sorely tired of being leashed like a dog. There was a growl and a dog that wasn’t leashed, but surely ought to have been, padded over. Its ears flicked and its gums pulled back just a little, as if it didn’t know whether to break into a full snarl or not.
“You get away, you ugly beast,” Yhalen spat, waving a fist at it. It lowered its head and growled deep in this throat.
“Go find your master, then, and have him unfasten this cursed chain from my neck.”
He rattled the chain in question and the dog’s ears pricked forward, head cocking. It settled down onto its haunches, watching him. Yhalen stood there, on the verge of embarrassing tears, sickened by the slaughter, by the casual brutality—by the fear for those helpless women and children—and holding a conversation with a dog. He sank down into a crouch, eye to eye with it, trying not to focus on the corpses in the street, trying not to dwell on what would happen when night fell and he had to endure the darkness in the company of the ogres yet one more time. Trying not to think about hearing the screams of women and children under the cover of darkness. He pressed a fist against his mouth, biting down on his knuckles to keep the hand from shaking, to keep the nausea that insisted on rising up his throat, down.
Vorjd came back eventually, wary of the dog that had settled a few feet from Yhalen with its great head upon its front paws, eyes watchful and ears pricked forward. It had inched close enough almost to touch, curious about one who showed no fear of it and subdued in its aggression perhaps by the smell of its master upon him, for surely Bloodraven’s most intimate scents were scoured into Yhalen’s flesh.
For Vorjd though, it lifted its head and snarled, hackles up and slowly rising to its feet. Vorjd did show fear, freezing in his tracks, eyes white rimmed and wide.
“I told you,” Yhalen said softly. “He scents your fear. If you rule it, at the very least he might hesitate before he attacks. Have you come to release me?”
Vorjd nodded, eyes never leaving the dog.
“Then toss me the key, if you don’t wish to pass my guardian.”
It seemed a reasonable suggestion and Vorjd did just that, carefully tossing the crude brass key that unlocked the chain at Yhalen’s collar. The weight of it gone from him was a relief, but the metal of the collar itself still lay upon him.
“Come,” Vorjd said, backing away, and Yhalen did, having no choice. Still, he took some small satisfaction in the widening of Vorjd’s eyes as he purposefully brushed past the dog in his passage, running his hand along its short coat and feeling warmth and the pounding beat of its heart under bone and flesh and muscle. It growled a little, and he felt that too, under the thin flesh. It turned to watch them leave with its square head lowered. He turned his back on it, even if Vorjd would not.
“Make it stay back,” the slave whispered, one hand on Yhalen’s arm.
“It’s not my dog.”
Vorjd’s finger’s tightened, nails biting into his flesh. “They’ve killed more men than I can recall—even an ogre or two—and you touch it without losing a hand.”
“They’ve killed ogres? Good.” He found he detested the dogs a little less.
“It’s following us,” Vorjd hissed.
Yhalen turned his head to see. The big dog was padding slowly in their wake. “Yes. It is. Where is the other one?”
“Killing men in the forest with its master. I don’t know. I don’t know why they aren’t together—they always hunt together.”
“What will they do with those women and children?” He ignored Vorjd’s worries over the dog and asked the question that he’d gotten no answer for before.
The slave frowned, mouth going hard and thin. “North,” he finally said. “Those who survive will be sent north to the slave markets.”
Yhalen bit his lip, shuddering a little at the notion of ogre cities in the cold northern mountains. Of humans in pens, waiting to be sold to towering, cruel masters—of what horrid fate awaited them.
“Is that why they’ve come? To capture slaves? Have they run out of victims in the north?”
Vorjd glared at him, actual pain and anger in his eyes. The first real emotion that Yhalen had seen from the man. “They’d hunt us to extinction, if they could—but my people—we’ve grown elusive—we hide in burrows like rabbits and they grow frustrated and seek easier game. Here. In here.”
Vorjd stopped before the largest building in the small village. Most of the huts were too small for ogres to even enter, but this one was apparently the town meeting place, for it boasted a tall roof and a few charred emblems no doubt denoting the name of the town and the name of the lord under whose rule they lived. If that lord had known of this attack, or even known of the presence of this raiding party, he might have gathered armed and armored forces better able to deal with the invaders. A knight on a war-horse with a lance or a great sword, might have stood a better chance than a hunter with a bow and skinning knife.
It made him think of Grandfather in Nakhanor City meeting with the lords of the realm. How many men were there that Bloodraven’s forces had escaped the notice of? If only word could be gotten to them. But he supposed word would filter through sooner or later, when the ruins of the villages the ogres passed were eventually discovered.
The door had been ripped off its hinges, and lay on the floor inside. There was a central hearth, the embers of which were scattered, and a long table with benches, which had also been swept aside. There was a spatter of blood on the wall, but no bodies. Yes, very certainly this had been the hall of meeting, where these folk had gathered to socialize and celebrate, or to decide local law. It was all plunder now.
It would house Bloodraven this night and Bloodraven’s possessions. They brought in his pallet, since there were none here that could accommodate his height, and a few of the things that had graced his tent. The dog lay outside the door, growling at passersby, but not attacking. Yhalen sat on the stone ledge before the hearth, refusing to play the part of docile slave and help with the organization of his master’s quarters. He wouldn’t admit that he was that conquered. At least not now, out of Bloodraven’s presence. He supposed he’d grovel if the ogr’ron made him, but not willingly.
They cast him dark looks, those tame northern slaves, and he glanced away from them, not sure enough of himself to blithely accept their censure, though he scorned them for their lack of resistance.
But Vorjd repaid him for his petulance by approaching with a length of chain and latch and raising a fist in threat when Yhalen glared, wet-eyed and angry, as he rose to avoid the indignity.
“Shall I call one of
them
to come and do it, then?” Vorjd spat, angry at him for more than his unwillingness to be leashed, Yhalen thought.
“No,” Yhalen said quickly enough. “No.”
And he turned his head to allow human hands to fasten the latch to the ring in his collar, then the other end of the chain to one of the thick support beams. It was close enough to where they’d placed the ogr’ron’s pallet that Bloodraven need not even release him to take his pleasure, if he so wished.
Vorjd was ever practical.
It began to rain soon after. The sound of it became a rhythmic patter on the roof. The human slaves rushed out to help in the setting up of the canvas tents that would shelter the majority of Bloodraven’s company. Which left Yhalen alone with the great dog, who lay just outside the door, not seeming to mind the rain at all, save for the occasional twitching of one ear or the other as a particularly large droplet hit.
Yhalen sat finally on the edge of the pallet, knees giving way suddenly, a preamble to the wash of weakness that ran through his entire body. He leaned over his knees, shaking, as he tried to chase away all the death he’d seen today. Tried not to see blood and hear screams and feel mind-numbing terror all over again.
The dog’s excitement tingled in the air. Yhalen looked up, even as the dog rose, ears pricked, tail wagging and a moment later a large shape appeared out of the rain, stooping to enter through the door and pausing to bark some order over his shoulder into the storm heavy dusk, before stepping inside.
Bloodraven shed water with a twitch of his shoulders and ran one hand through his hair, sweeping
wet tendrils from his face. It rolled off his armor and puddled on the floor. He unfastened his sword belt and tossed it past Yhalen and onto the bed. Easily within Yhalen’s reach if he’d been capable of wielding a weapon that was more than likely over half his weight. He stared down the length of it regardless, wondering how much innocent blood it had tasted today. Wondering how many human lives Bloodraven had taken. More than he’d saved, Yhalen was sure of that. He looked up under his lashes, letting the fall of his hair hide the hatred in his glare. Cowardly not to cry it out, how much he hated them—
him
—but with the bloodlust in the air this night—perhaps it was prudence that kept him silent and still.
“Yhalen.”
He blinked at his name and at Bloodraven’s golden eyes fixed on him, as if the ogr’ron could sense his hatred. He looked up and Bloodraven beckoned with the crooking of one finger. The ogr’ron said a word that Yhalen was almost certain meant,
now
or
hurry
. So he rose, trailing his chain and approached warily. But Bloodraven only indicated a buckle at his back and Yhalen bit his lip, having no desire to be reduced to what Vorjd and his fellows were—willing and docile slaves that ran to do their masters every bidding. One thing to be a captive against his will and quite another to bend to all his enemies’ whims.
“I’m not a manservant,” he ground out, safe in his complaint by the distance of language. “Call Vorjd, if you want your armor cleaned.”
“Yhalen
—Kravznar!”
Bloodraven twisted his head to look down at him, eyes narrow and impatient. There was some bit of anger there, but Yhalen wasn’t certain if it were for him, or for something else. Regardless, it would shift to him soon enough if he continued in his refusal. He frowned and reached up to work at the buckle of one shoulder guard. The leather was wet from more than rain. His fingers came away stained red. Not the ogr’ron’s blood, surely. Not past the armor and the chain mail. More than likely the blood of some innocent child that had been slaughtered. Or of a father desperate to protect his village.
A large hand suddenly caught his arm and he found himself half lifted off his feet, shaken with enough force to rattle his teeth—had he spoken out loud? Had he stood there for long enough with the bloody leather in his hands to draw Bloodraven’s anger down upon him? The ogr’ron tore the shoulder guard off and tossed it down, not waiting for Yhalen’s help with the other one, but yanking it over his head, along with the chain mail it was attached to. Underneath there was blood on the linen shirt that protected skin from the harsh bite of chain mail. The shirt was stained red, as was the front of Bloodraven’s neck where a rivulet of red ran down from behind his ear, the source of the blood hidden by thick hair. He’d taken a wound then, between the protection of armor and helm. The ogr’ron slid his fingers under his hair and brought them out red. He swore in disgust and shook the blood off.
Yhalen stared at the blood. As dark and red as his own. He felt a little tingle of retribution. A little tingle of vengefulness.
“I wish it had been mortal,” he whispered and meant it with all his heart. He wished it on all of them and this one mostly, who had charge of his body. Mother would have frowned at that ill wish, but then Mother only knew of healing hurts. Mother didn’t even eat the meat of animals, the vein of preserving life ran so deep within her soul. She’d tried to teach him, tried to steer him down the path of the healer, hoping he’d inherited her gifts—but he’d been too swayed by the life of a hunter, as were most young men of the people. Well, he had the gift, he’d discovered that profoundly enough—but even if he found freedom tomorrow, he thought he might never have the heart of a healer. Healers didn’t hate. They didn’t wish death and destruction—not even in their dying breath.
Bloodraven shed the rest of his armor and in a fit of irritation shoved Yhalen towards his bunk.
Yhalen stumbled and caught the edge of it, crouching there, awaiting whatever molestation would follow. But none did. Not then. With a low growl, the ogr’ron stalked to the door of the hall and bellowed something out into the rain. His lieutenants soon came in, bending low to enter, shaking the rain off massive shoulders. With the rain, with this roof available, perhaps Bloodraven had bid his closest companions to share in the plundered shelter.