“Perhaps the spirits looked upon you with disfavor,” Bloodraven suggested.
“Silence,” Wrathbone snapped. “You know not what the spirits think, halfling. Let us look upon this accused human witch.”
“Yes,” Wartooth agreed. “Bring him here.”
Bloodraven drew breath, heart pounding in his chest. If Yhalen could be trusted to follow his every direction, to act the broken slave, then they might yet survive this. “I’ll get him.”
“No,” Wrathbone said. “If he does have dark influence, then he needs be prevented from the use of it. I will go and bind his magic with spirit runes before he is brought amongst us.”
“If you wish.”
Bloodraven settled, seemingly relaxed. His stomach churned with anxiety all the while, though. He feared very much that Yhalen might not be as compliant as Bloodraven had promised the council his slave was.
The hide covering over the mouth of the den was pulled back, and Yhalen reflexively reached for a knife that wasn’t there. It was a human hand that moved the hide and with the light of day behind the intruder, he thought for a moment it was Vorjd returning. As his eyes adjusted, though, he saw that it wasn’t. It was a younger man, with another behind him—both of them slim and beardless, their gaunt faces scarred with what seemed ritual markings. Their hair, like Vorjd’s, was a pale blonde, and they wore thin, much-patched leathers that barely covered their arms and legs from the cold mountain weather. They moved into the den without hesitation, and behind them a much larger figure bent to enter.
Yhalen’s eyes widened and he scrambled backwards as what seemed a very old full-blooded ogre entered. He dropped down to a crouch before the door, blocking the way out as he stared at Yhalen with small, intense golden eyes. The humans wasted no time approaching Yhalen and grabbing his arms. They forced him down upon the bedding, wrestling to hold him down while they tore at the lacings of his tunic. When they had stripped it off, they bound his wrists before him with twine the old ogre provided them. It was rough, seemingly woven through with bits of bristle and thorn, and it cut into his wrists as they tightened it.
He gasped, wanting very much to scream at them, to demand what they were doing, what they wanted—but Bloodraven had warned him against speaking. Warned him against doing what he was doing now, which was struggling against the unknown.
Don’t speak. Don’t fight. Submit. That had been Bloodraven’s uncompromising order. So he forced his limbs to go limp, to lay there under the weight of the two men as he shivered with the cold air on his bare skin. The old ogre, whose visible flesh was covered with tattoos, crawled forward and sat down beside him. One long-nailed hand passed over his belly, the nails leaving faint welts in their wake and Yhalen flinched, stomach quivering.
The ogre pushed back his tousled hair and studied his face, then dug into a pouch at his belt and plucked out a little earthen pellet. He grasped Yhalen’s cheeks in the fingers of one hand, forcing his mouth open, then plopped the pellet into his mouth with the other. Immediately, it began to dissolve on his tongue with a bitter, herby flavor that he could not place. He shuddered a little in fear of what it was, knowing of a few herbs that were lethal to men. In all honesty, it seemed ridiculous for them to poison him that way when, from what he knew of ogres, they’d get far more pleasure from ripping him apart bodily.
The human men continued to hold him, one pressing his wrists above his head and the other sitting on his lower legs, while the old ogre began taking things out of his pouch. Yhalen began to have a hard time focusing on the objects. He saw a small clay jar and pouches of herbs, a feather and a bundle of thorny branches, some small polished stones, a candle—his vision began to tunnel as his attention flittered away, caught by the shadows at the top of the den. The hands on him were distant touches and the cold that made his nipples hard little nubs became less distressing.
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He heard the old ogre began to speak—no, to chant—in rhythmic, guttural tones. A little pile of herbs was placed in a small clay dish no bigger than the palm of Yhalen’s hand and placed on his belly, then set to burn. The smoke drifted up, white and bitter. The feather passed through it, creating patterns. One long-nailed finger dipped into the clay pot and came out dripping with dark liquid. He touched it to Yhalen’s chest and began to draw patterns. Yhalen shut his eyes and let his head roll to the side, in no particular pain and mentally drifting.
They lifted his bound hands and the ogre took his palm. Then suddenly, he jabbed something sharply into the fleshy part of it. Yhalen cried out, his eyes snapping open at the sudden jolt of pain.
He tried to jerk his hands away, but the grip of the old ogre was too powerful. With his free hand, the old ogre picked up a small black thorn that he had taken from the bundle of branches and dipped it into the jar of liquid he’d used to paint Yhalen’s chest and stomach. He pressed the second thorn into the palm of Yhalen’s other hand, driving deep into flesh with the sharpened tip of his thumbnail.
Yhalen whimpered, palms beginning to throb as if the thorns held some sort of poison or venom. The puncture points began to swell almost immediately, closing the wound and preventing little more than a trickle of blood to seep out. He curled his hands against his chest when they were released, holding palms that seemed to burn against the chilled skin.
The ogre said a word and pushed himself up stiffly, then bent and departed the den. The two human slaves hauled Yhalen up, hooking their arms under his shoulders, and dragged him out of the den when he couldn’t quite get his feet to work. The cold was the focus that kept him from drifting out entirely. It was a frigid breath on skin that had been marked with unfathomable runes. It only occurred to him to wonder, as they approached a large, decorated cave mouth, exactly where it was he was being taken.
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Wrathbone returned to the council den with the smell of herbs still clinging to his leathers. His two skinny eunuch slaves, who were supporting Bloodraven’s own human between them, followed him.
Yhalen was staggering, trying to keep his feet between them, but being dragged more paces than he managed to walk. His coat and shirt were gone, and rune symbols that only shamans knew the meaning of—if they had meaning at all—had been painted onto the pale skin of his chest and belly. His wrists were bound before him, and little smears of blood colored the flesh around the bonds.
“That’s him. That’s the witch who did this to me!” Deathclaw screeched, struggling to his feet.
Wartooth lifted a hand and the hale warrior beside Deathclaw restrained him. Deathclaw settled unwillingly, his hate-filled eyes fixed on Yhalen.
Two of the warriors in the circle shifted aside a little so that Wrathbone’s slaves could shove Yhalen into the circle, where he stumbled drunkenly before going down to his knees in the crater at its center.
Wrathbone’s two slaves hurried from the den, leaving Yhalen kneeling there, hunched over. A great many strands of loose hair escaped from his braid, pooling on the floor at his knees and hiding his face.
His shoulders trembled, whether from the cold, or fear, or whatever the shaman had done to him, Bloodraven didn’t know.
His nails bit into his palms, knuckles popping. He forced himself to relax his hands, to stare impassively past his shivering human to Wartooth and Wrathbone, who had settled back at his side.
He could use what they’d done. Yhalen, weak and frightened human that he seemed, could be no threat to a true ogre warrior.
“Frightening, isn’t he?” Bloodraven sneered, and got growling glares from the ogres around him, most especially from Deathclaw—who had to again be restrained from lunging up.
“Warlord?” Bloodraven inquired respectfully, and got Wartooth’s nod of assent before he rose, stalking to the center of the circle and yanking Yhalen up to his knees by the root of his braid. He held him against his leg for a moment, waiting for some sign of struggle. When Yhalen remained passive in his grip, he dragged him by the same handhold of hair out of the crater and before Wartooth.
“Bow to your betters, slave,” he growled and shoved Yhalen down. And Yhalen went, trembling, barely getting his hands down in time to save his face from hitting stone and remained there, his forehead pressed to the stone at Wartooth’s feet. Bloodraven stepped on his braid even so, a gesture of contempt that any ogre master would show a broken human slave, even as he quashed the hint of worry at Yhalen’s uncharacteristic lack of spirit. Wartooth stared down thoughtfully at the creature cowering on the floor before him, his brow furrowed in consideration.
There was uncertainty, but not enough. Not enough disdain for Yhalen for them to dismiss him as threat. He crouched down, grasped Yhalen by the back of his neck and bodily dragged him the small distance to Wartooth’s extended boot.
“I’ve had dogs I held in higher regard than such human scum. Clean the warlord’s boots.”
It was a common amusement among some ogres, this abasement of their slaves in such a manner, and there was a whisper of laughter as Bloodraven shoved Yhalen’s face down to Wartooth’s large boot, hissing the single human word “lick” low enough for both Yhalen’s ears and those ogres close to Wartooth. He feared resistance, and he’d regret having to resort to more physical punishment, but was prepared to deliver it if need be.
But after only a moment’s hesitation, Yhalen’s pink little tongue flicked out and lapped at the toe of Wartooth’s boot. Then, with practically the whole of his body quivering with cold, shame and fear, he began licking the big boot clean of half dried mud. Wartooth’s mouth twitched in cruel amusement, and he waved Bloodraven back to his place. Bloodraven reluctantly returned, leaving Yhalen to Wartooth’s mercy. His human gagged now and then at what he was swallowing, and Wartooth obligingly turned his foot so the sole of his boot could be reached.
“Would a human with power such as Deathclaw accuses tolerate such?” Icehand asked, while Bloodraven sat silent, his jaw grinding in an anger he couldn’t show.
There were mumblings of uncertainty, no ogre warrior able to comprehend the notion of a powerful 227
being of any breed willingly submitting to humiliation. Wartooth pulled back a cleaned boot and extended the other foot for attention while the debate went on.
“He lies,” Deathclaw screamed. “They deceive you. The witch will strike from bended knee.”
Wartooth stared at Yhalen’s trembling shoulders doubtfully, at his head bobbing over his boot in abject servitude.
“Is there danger here?” he asked of Wrathbone. “What sorcerer would grovel so?”
The shaman pursed his wrinkled lips thoughtfully, fingers turning over one of his polished pebbles.
“The spirits haven’t spoken yet to me of his nature. Deathclaw came back to us shriveled and broken, yet none saw this human cast a curse.”
“None,” Icehand agreed. “We found Deathclaw alone, witless and babbling. He had taken issue with Bloodraven’s leniency with this human slave, and it was much on his mind. Perhaps....”
“You accuse me of lies?” Deathclaw cried. “Not just that once did I see—”
Abruptly, he stopped, realizing he was about to admit his own duplicity. The others waited for him to finish, and when he looked away, lips taut, they shrugged and turned back to Wartooth.
Tired of Yhalen’s service to his boots, Wartooth pushed him backwards with the sole of one clean boot and Yhalen sprawled, half in the crater, half out. He drew his legs up under him and curled there, eyes shut. Bloodraven kept his eyes on Wrathbone, forcing himself to ignore the trembling human.
“I need to meditate about this problem,” Wrathbone said finally. “To commune with the spirits and discover the hidden truths. I sense that there is no danger at present from this slave. But do not remove my runes or pluck forth the ritual thorns that ward evil spirits, do you hear, Bloodraven Half-blood?”
Bloodraven inclined his head as a great feeling of relief sweeping over him. He knew not what thorns the old shaman spoke of, but if it meant freedom from the clan’s distrust for him and his slave, then he would adhere.
Wartooth released the council, with a reminder that though this issue was not fully resolved, Bloodraven was free for the time being to enjoy the rights he had earned among the clan. Twenty heavy bodies rose. Deathclaw glared balefully at Bloodraven as he had to be helped to his feet, his withered body stiffer than that of the ancient shaman.
Bloodraven ignored him, going instead to Yhalen, whom he grasped by the arm and pulled up.
Yhalen’s legs seemed to have no strength, and he leaned weakly against Bloodraven. The ogr’ron simply plucked him up with an arm curled under his belly and carried him out of the chamber, out of the warren of the Warlord’s cave and back into the cold of the gorge, quick on the heels of several other of Wartooth’s council.
Word spread to the clansmen outside of what had transpired, and there were stares and growls of supposition, but no move to violence towards him or what he carried.
Yhalen didn’t stir until Bloodraven started up the narrow cliff trail that led to his own den, which he’d been surprised to discover had not been claimed by some other ogre when he failed to return with the remnants of his war party—thanks only, he thought, to Icehand’s influence.
When Yhalen started gagging, his stomach heaving upon his arm, Bloodraven paused, letting the human down to vomit up streams of whatever filth he had swallowed while cleaning Wartooth’s winter-stained boots. There were too many other dens along the path and above and below it to murmur words of the regret he felt for provoking that humiliation. But it had been necessary, and he felt some satisfaction that Yhalen had bowed to the need and perhaps saved them both in the process. He was a worm in Wartooth’s eyes now, as well as in the eyes of the council. Ogre warriors would not flinch in the face of a worm, even if Deathclaw cried of his witchery high and low. Their pride wouldn’t allow it.