Bloodraven (17 page)

It would be no less of a punishment, the only difference being that the slave would survive its distribution. He laid the first stroke across Yhalen’s back and the human stiffened, crying out in shock, pale golden skin reddening immediately from the strike. Another across the line of his shoulders and this time Yhalen tried to muffle the scream, pressing his forehead against the post. A third and a fourth and the boy’s resolve gave way as his cries rent the air to the vast approval of the watching ogres.

His screams had mutated into mindless whimpers by the time Bloodraven finished, and his body hung heavily from the cord attached to his collar. The lithe line of his shoulders and back was a latticework of angry welts and purpling bruises. Blood trailed down in thin rivulets where abused skin had been broken. Bloodraven shook out the whip, ridding it of clinging blood, then tossed it back to Bloodaxe.

“Ironbone,” he said sharply and the smithy, huge even among full-blooded ogres shambled forward with a glowing iron in one large hand. Bloodraven’s mark. The same mark that his dogs wore, that graced the flat of his great sword and was chiseled into the steel of his armor. The mark itself was small, no larger than the palm of a human female’s hand, but its pattern was intricate and appealing to 49

the eye—his own design. Whatever it adorned was clearly marked his, and possessions of his were not to be dallied with or damaged on threat of engendering his wrath.

He took the brand from the smithy and placed one hand flat against Yhalen’s trembling, bloody back to hold him immobile, then pressed the glowing brand firmly into the skin at the small of the human’s back, just above the swell of his buttocks. One more scream was wrenched from Yhalen’s throat, this one weak and hoarse. The body under Bloodraven’s hand spasmed, trying to wriggle away from the burning pain, to no avail. The halfling held fiery iron to flesh for a few seconds, letting the brand burn its way into malleable meat, then took it away, handing it without looking to the smithy.

His attention was fully focused on the sight of his personal mark engraved upon Yhalen’s flesh. It made him stiffen a little in his leathers, his brand and the soft, pitiable little whimpers issuing from Yhalen’s lips.

He cut the cord binding the human’s arms, then the one attached to his collar and the slight body listed against him, strengthless and reasonless as well, if the glazed look in his eyes were any indication.

“You’re soft.”

A low-voiced hiss reached him. But not so low that the whole of the gathered company didn’t hear.

Deathclaw grinned humorlessly at him, eyes narrowed slits of gold, expression taunting and careless.

“It’s not enough, this gentle little display you put on for us. A slave that tries to escape deserves death—one that takes four others with him doubly so. And yet you strike this one a few times and mark him, then bundle him back to your bunk to rut between his legs and expect us to be satisfied? You show such weakness and expect us to follow you? Is it your tainted human blood that makes you so soft towards them?”

“Is it the fact that your brother is your father that makes you so dense, Kragnor Deathclaw? For surely an ogre with a grain of sense would think twice before spewing such insult.”

It was no idle slur on Bloodraven’s part, for it wasn’t just wicked rumor that among Deathclaw’s mother’s offspring she’d grown more than fond of one, and even among ogres such a joining was frowned upon. Still, it was little remarked on, for Deathclaw’s father and much elder brother was a renowned warrior among the people.

Deathclaw’s face turned dark with rage. “You dare!” he roared. “You mock my lineage, you half-human cur?”

Bloodraven noted Deathclaw’s imminent charge before the ogre actually began to move. He saw it in the tensing of heavy muscle and the twitching of nerves under the thick layer of skin. He cast Yhalen aside into the arms of Werg Bloodaxe, drawing his sword even as Deathclaw drew his wicked, long dagger and charged.

Killing Deathclaw would have relieved Bloodraven of a great deal of frustration and animosity.

Unfortunately it would also have repercussions among Deathclaw’s advocates in his company as well as making a powerful enemy of Deathclaw’s father, who was backed by no small number of warriors back home in the north. Bloodraven’s own backing wasn’t so staunch, his supporters more wary and less likely to back him—a halfling—against the hostility of a true ogre warlord.

So as much as he’d have liked, Deathclaw’s demise at his hands in front of a dozen or more witnesses would benefit him little. Deathclaw held no such illusions about him. Deathclaw struck to kill, driving forward with all his impressive weight behind the blow. Bloodraven sidestepped, avoiding the killing blow and dancing out of range of Deathclaw’s massive arms. Strength for strength he was no match for his larger opponent. Deathclaw was a head taller and a hundred pounds heavier. In a wrestling match, Bloodraven would be overcome, no matter his speed or his agility. Those mattered only so much when pitted against a full-blooded ogre. Bloodraven had made it a point never to get that close to his various foes—and to always have a weapon at hand.

Deathclaw rushed him and he avoided the charge, swinging his sword in a wide arc and slamming the flat of it hard against the back of the larger ogre’s head. It made a resounding thump and the impact of the blow traveled all the way down his arms to pierce the puny wound that Yhalen had inflicted upon him. He winced both at that stab of pain and at the feel of warm blood trickling anew down his side.

Deathclaw cried out in pain and rage, bellowing incoherently at the chortles of amusement from the onlookers. He flung the dagger, not even pausing to watch as Bloodraven batted it aside with a flick of his sword before Deathclaw rushed to the post that Yhalen had been bound to and ripping it up and 50

out of the ground with a grunt, then swinging the twelve foot makeshift staff about in a threatening arc.

Ogres scattered, endangered by the reach, and Bloodraven curled his lip in a snarl, suddenly faced with a weapon longer by far than his sword. But even for an ogre, the length and girth of the thing was unwieldy, and Deathclaw’s aim not so precise as he swung it, trying to knock Bloodraven from his feet.

It wasn’t so easy a thing to do. Bloodraven leapt over one low aimed swipe and brought his foot down hard on the end of the post, slamming it to the ground and launching himself forward. Faced with the sudden fast approach of the tip of Bloodraven’s sword, Deathclaw had little choice but to drop his crude weapon and back away or be skewered.

“Do you want to die?” Bloodraven growled at him, the tip of the sword pressed hard against Deathclaw’s throat. “It would be no hardship for me to spill your blood.”

“You’ll die if you do,” Deathclaw spat. “My supporters outnumber yours in this camp now.”

Bloodraven didn’t flinch, didn’t look behind him, but he felt the shifting of great bodies, the not so subtle shifting forward of ogres. He’d paid little enough heed of who was here and who had gone into the woods after the fled slaves, more intent first on his own recaptured one, and then on saving face under the onslaught of Deathclaw’s insults. But now that he dwelled upon it, most of the faces he’d seen gathered around Yhalen’s whipping and this fight were ogres that had come to this company from the fires of Deathclaw’s father. Only Bloodaxe and a few others were loyal to him. He heard the rustle of leather and the shifting of weapons behind him and narrowed his eyes, pressing the blade harder against Deathclaw’s neck. To back down now would be his death knell, as surely as if he handed Deathclaw back his dagger and turned his back for the killing blow. He ought to kill him and take his chances.

He heard shouts and the sudden thud of heavy feet, yet didn’t turn to see, not daring to take his attention from the central threat. There were raised voices and one in particular that was both new and familiar, demanding to know what was happening.

His men returned from their no doubt fruitless search of the woods, and leading them was his second in command, Nagmor Icehand. A grizzled and gray-haired ogre, feared among even the younger, brasher warriors. Bloodraven also trusted him above all others here. The odds had turned in his favor again, and he let his lips curve in a grim smile. Deathclaw growled in frustration.

“What is this?” Icehand demanded, he and his shouldering through the gathered ogres and crowding closer than good judgment dictated to two combatants. But Icehand knew the way of things well enough and knew the killing of Deathclaw to be no wise thing.

“A dispute,” Deathclaw hissed.

“There is no dispute,” Icehand bellowed. “Not between you and him. Dagfari Wartooth named Bloodraven leader of this war party and none may dispute him. If you have grievances, hold them till we get home and take them to your father’s fire, but not here.”

Deathclaw glowered, but the truth of Icehand’s words was irrefutable and the double threat of Icehand’s bulk and his hand on his huge axe spoke eloquently enough that if Bloodraven chose leniency, that was fine and well, but he would not. And likely he could get away with it, being of pure blood and a respected warrior longer than most of these young ogres had been alive.

Deathclaw hissed and backed off a step, growling something uncomplimentary under his breath. It could have been about Bloodraven or Icehand, it was impossible to tell. They let it go, regardless, and the tension drained from the surrounding ogres.

Bloodraven took a few breaths, calming the violence that sang in his own blood. The damned wound was bleeding copiously now. He felt the warm wetness soaking his trousers. The cause of it was still in the hands of Bloodaxe, and when he beckoned, the young ogre ambled over, handing Yhalen over.

“Were any of you seen in the woods?” Bloodraven asked of Icehand.

The older ogre shook his head, frowning. “I don’t believe so. Foolish move of yours to go off by yourself after the slaves without rousing the camp.”

Bloodraven bristled, not the mood for censure. “And of you, to take half the camp into the forest after me when I’d made no demand for it.”

Icehand grunted.

“There are armed humans about. A troop of them,” Bloodraven said. “If they’ve wind of us, they’ll gather more forces and be at us. I’d just as well not be chased back north without anything to show for it. Break camp.”

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“And head where?”

“To the east. There’s a trail heading east that will lead to more villages. If we can keep these idiots from killing everything that moves, we might gather enough slaves to make this journey worthwhile.”

“Killing humans is sport in itself,” Bloodaxe said and Bloodraven gave him a look. He trusted his back to Werg Bloodaxe, but the young ogre didn’t always exhibit the degree of sense Bloodraven thought him capable of.

“Well,” Bloodaxe added, shrugging broad shoulders somewhat guiltily, “That’s what the war council always says.”

“That’s why the war council has sent bands of warriors south to gather new slaves, because they’ve made too much sport with the humans of the north,” Icehand said.

Bloodraven left them to the debate, carrying Yhalen back to the hall and depositing him upon the cot.

Vorjd crept forward, very wary and rightfully so. Bloodraven’s temper was up and his nerves tightly strung. He waved a hand at Yhalen.

“Put ointment on his back. I don’t wish scars if it can be helped. And see if his arm needs be reset.”

“Aye.”

Vorjd went about it, silent and efficient. Bloodraven lifted his own tunic to see the weeping wound in his side. He cleaned it himself, then wrapped cloth about his waist to quell the bleeding. He donned the rest of his armor when he was done and told Vorjd to see to the gathering of his gear and make sure there was room in one of the carts for Yhalen.

He stood at the end of the cot afterwards, staring down at his human slave, at the pattern of vivid marks on his back as well as his own newly branded mark. The damned boy had caused him more trouble than he was probably worth, for if the riders that had passed him didn’t discover signs of their none too subtle passing, then the women that Yhalen—and he himself—had allowed to escape, surely would raise the alarm once they reached the next settlement. His company would face real threat soon, and they were too few to deal with a concerted human effort.

When the company had been hastily gathered and made ready to abandon this ruined village, Bloodraven deposited Yhalen in the nook Vorjd had made for him at the back of one of the carts, then fastened a chain to the human’s collar and secured it about one of the cart’s thick supports. Though he doubted Yhalen was capable at the moment of independent walking, much less running, he’d rather the cautious path. He told Icehand to stay with the main party, wary that Deathclaw or his cronies might stir trouble. Then he went himself, along with the more stealthy of his company, to scout ahead in the forest.

It was well past midday when they happened upon a trail, newly imprinted with the hoof prints of many horses. Riders had passed this way not long ago. A fair many of them, heading the way Bloodraven’s band had come. He sent an ogre back to the main company with word that armed riders were likely about. The more he dwelt upon it, the more he almost hoped they might encounter some armed force of humans. It might serve the twin purposes of impressing upon the younger, more bloodthirsty of his company that armored and armed humans
en masse
were not a threat to be scoffed at—not like the helpless people of that village they’d taken such delight in sacking—and at the same time gain him a few hale and hearty slaves to take back to the north. He needed more than weak women and children if he were to impress the ogre warlords that had put their trust in him, a halfling.