Bloodraven (7 page)

“
Gersha ne kurat
,” Bloodraven said once more and spun Yhalen, taking the wet rag and swiping between his legs. Yhalen shivered, jerking away.

“Don’t—don’t!” he cried, mortified. To be raped by the creature was torment enough, much less be cleaned of the evidence afterwards by him. “I can do it.”

He snatched at the wet rag, hardly able to see straight from the tears and the shame and the hurt.

Bloodraven lifted a brow, repeated the phrase that Yhalen assumed meant to clean himself once more, before taking up his sheathed sword and dagger and fastening them about his waist and leaving the tent.

Yhalen’s knees gave way and he crumpled, sobbing and furious with himself for the weakness. He sat for a long while, wet rag clutched to his chest, before his knees began to ache from the angle they were bent and his body began to tremble from the cool of the evening—or perhaps the advent of shock.

Shakily he rose, wringing out the bloody rag in the basin and bending to wash the blood off his thighs and more cautiously dab between his buttocks to clean away the mess there. More warm tears traced a path down his face as he did. With chattering teeth he gingerly put the rag back in the basin and crept back to the pallet, easing his aching body down and pulling soft furs around him as he curled in upon himself.

He’d not cried much before this, save for the reflexive reaction to the pain. He couldn’t stop it now.

Alone, with the hurt slowly fading, he couldn’t make the tears stop, couldn’t hold back the sobs as it hit him—truly hit him that this might be what the rest of his hopefully brief life would be made up of,

being used in the basest manner at the whim of creatures that he couldn’t overcome. Treated like a dog—worse than a dog, because men didn’t rape their dogs.

Men. These weren’t men and didn’t play by the rules of men. What their motives were, other than to swoop down on the lands of the south to pillage, murder and rape, he didn’t know. Grandfather had gone to the gathering at Nakhanor to discuss those possible motives and human men’s actions in regard to them. The thought of what his grandfather would think, to see him crying like a woman—made him stifle his sobs and try and pull his shattered nerves together.

He was in somewhat less embarrassing a state when Bloodraven returned, damp and clean from what had probably been a stop by the brook. On his heels came Vorjd, who had in his arms a great stone bowl that smelled of roasted meat. The slave put it down with a word and left, returning in short order with a wineskin. He left this time not to return, and Bloodraven sat down on the stool by his armor rack and stabbed at the chunks of meat and what might have been roasted root vegetables with his knife.

Yhalen’s stomach growled rebelliously, assaulted by the smells and so empty that it made his eyes water from the prospect of food. He wouldn’t beg for it. He’d starve first. So best not to look at all.

Best to turn his back and sit there, knees drawn up to his chest and think of unappetizing things, like rotting flesh riddled with maggots and stinking with decay.

The pallet creaked with weight and Yhalen flinched, caught unawares and cursing the ogre who could rise and move so quietly despite his size.

“
Fajkur
,” Bloodraven said and stabbed a piece of seared meat with the point of his dagger and extended it to Yhalen.

Yhalen stared, wide-eyed, hunger warring with pride.

“
Fajkur
,” Bloodraven repeated, irritation creeping into his voice. It seemed ridiculous to go hungry and be punished for it when the meat was right under his nose, unasked for. He hadn’t groveled for it.

So what harm taking it?

He snatched it, somewhat more desperate than he’d have liked. It was warm on the outside, but still rare within and blood and juices ran down his chin. But it was unbelievably good. He felt lightheaded from the taste—from the sheer wonder of it inside his mouth. He finished his chunk and licked his fingers, staring under his lashes at the rest of Bloodraven’s supper still within the bowl. The ogre picked a few more choice hunks for himself, then sat the bowl down with its few remaining scraps and waved at Yhalen, repeating the word Yhalen assumed meant ‘eat’. He didn’t hesitate this time.

And when he’d finished, Bloodraven caught his arm and pulled him almost into his lap, this time with the intent of tipping up the large wineskin and allowing the strong bitter ogre brew to stream into Yhalen’s mouth. He’d probably have had a hard time handling the great skin himself, but it was embarrassing to be fed from it so. Still, with his back to Bloodraven’s chest and his naked rear pressed against his groin, he supposed wriggling about in indignant struggle ought to be avoided He swallowed more than he’d have chosen for himself and choked and coughed from the bitterness of it. The ogre laughed and pushed him away, sitting both empty bowl and wineskin aside, while he pulled off his boots and ran long, strong fingers up and down the arch of his feet. Bloodraven produced a short, thick pipe and stuffed it with strong smelling dried herbs, then lit it and took a long, slow drag of scented smoke. He lay back finally with his trousers loosened, his feet and chest bare, and one hand behind his black haired head as he rested on the piled mass of his pillows, sucking at the pipe. Lashes fluttered over gold eyes, and the angular face relaxed into lines of contentment. The sounds of other ogres encroached the walls of the tent from outside, loud and raucous with the occasional cry of pain drawn from victims Yhalen preferred not to put faces to, but here it was quiet and calm and still.

Huddled against the far end of the pallet, Yhalen thought Bloodraven might have drowsed off.

Hoped it to be so, for the ogre might well sleep the entire night away and not bother him further. But it was not to be. Without quite opening his eyes, Bloodraven murmured a few soft words.

Yhalen, of course, had no inkling what the ogre said. Perhaps it wasn’t even directed at him.

Perhaps whatever narcotic was in the pipe had plunged Bloodraven into a half waking dream.

But the golden eyes slitted open and the phrase was repeated. One large hand slid to the chain resting on the furs and gently tugged Yhalen towards him. Yhalen reluctantly complied, crossing the distance over the furs on hands and knees until he knelt between the ogre’s legs, trembling with horrified expectation.

Once more the phrase was repeated and Bloodraven’s hand slid down to the loosened opening at

his crotch, pulling lazily at the laces until the flaccid length of him slipped free.

“No,” Yhalen said softly, understanding, finally, what the ogre wished and refusing to willingly participate in his ravishment.

Bloodraven’s hand tightened on the chain, forcing Yhalen’s head down until his face was close enough to the ogre’s crotch to feel the heat emanating from the organ there.

“I won’t,” he spat, teeth clenched. “Rape me if you will—I can’t stop you—but I won’t cooperate in it, monster.”

He crouched there, face pressed to Bloodraven’s lower belly, hands braced on Bloodraven’s hard thighs and thought, that if the ogre really wished, he could be forced in this as well as the other. The hand moved to his hair, fingers tightening around his neck, applying pressure. If the ogre snapped his neck, he thought dismally, at least it might be the last indignity he suffered at their hands.

But after a moment of painful tightness, he was jerked backwards, flung to the end of the pallet as the ogre rose, fastening the laces of his leather trousers, then pulling on his boots. Bloodraven grabbed the chain again, this time at the far end and with a jerk of his arm, yanked the spike out of the earth.

He wound the loose end around his fist and jerked Yhalen to his feet, dragging the young man behind him, out of the tent and into the darkness of night. Yhalen staggered, trying to keep up with Bloodraven’s long, purposeful strides. He went to his knees once, in the trampled grass between a row of tents, and the ogre paused to jerk him up, finally flinging Yhalen before him and back onto the grass at the edge of a bonfire around which gathered a great many full-sized ogres.

Bloodraven barked something, loud enough to be heard over the racket of a dozen ogre voices. The clamor died, numerous gold eyes darting towards them. Bloodraven said something else, seething and disdainful from the sound of his voice.

A large body shifted from the gathering of large bodies, gold glinting in the light of the fire, eyes narrowed and face tight with controlled anger. There was no mistaking him this time. It was most certainly the ogre that had led the party that had captured Yhalen. The one that had come very close to killing him. Kragnor Deathclaw, according to Vorjd.

Yhalen froze, like a rabbit surrounded by wolves, nails digging into the hard earth, eyes glued in horror at the approaching ogre. Kragnor Deathclaw didn’t look at him, his eyes instead fixed on Bloodraven, his huge hand—a hand so much larger than Bloodraven’s—caressing the scarred hilt of his dagger. He said something crass and amused, and the ogres behind him laughed. But there was nervousness in the laughter—for even Yhalen saw that there was animosity between these two. And it was an animosity that the others were wary of.

Bloodraven spoke, calm and cool, as he tossed the end of Yhalen’s chain to the ground between Yhalen and Kragnor Deathclaw.

Goddess. He was giving him back to Deathclaw. Returning the gift. Because of Yhalen’s disobedience? Because he’d refused an order? A quick, clean death was one thing—what Kragnor Deathclaw would do to him was quite another.

“No, no, no, no, nononono.”

Was that his voice? Soft and breathless and beyond terror? Kragnor Deathclaw bent to pick up the end of the chain, frowning and Yhalen couldn’t make himself move. If he could have, he’d have crawled to Bloodraven’s feet and begged forgiveness. He’d have promised anything not to be handed over to the beast that was Kragnor Deathclaw.

Kragnor Deathclaw said something over his shoulder and the ogres behind him chortled, looking to Yhalen in amused expectation. The ogre yanked the chain and the collar jerked hard under Yhalen’s jaw, making him bite his tongue. The pain of that shook him out of the frozen state of fright. He turned desperate eyes back to Bloodraven, trying to make his way back towards him with the small amount of slack Kragnor Deathclaw allowed him.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever you say. I swear. Please, please don’t give me back to him. I’ll be obedient. I’ll be so good, I promise, you won’t be sorry—“

He was crying and they laughed at his attempts to crawl like a dog on its belly to an impassive Bloodraven. Pride might hold its own against fear, but against stark terror—it shriveled and hid and Yhalen despaired that Bloodraven could even understand that he was desperately trying to capitulate.

Kragnor Deathclaw jerked him backwards with enough force to land him on his back at the ogre’s feet, the air knocked out of his body. One big boot came down on his hair when he tried to twist away and he stared up and up and up at the muscled torso of his tormentor.

Kragnor Deathclaw crouched and spread one hand out on Yhalen’s belly, the blunt fingernails biting into the soft flesh of hips, belly and groin despite Yhalen’s efforts to pry them off.

Kragnor Deathclaw spoke a word that made the others let out a raucous cheer, then he raked his hand up Yhalen’s body to his neck, hauling him up and off his feet, kicking and struggling to display to the others. He was going to die, he thought in growing hysteria. It was going to be like before, only this time there were more of them and they had all the leisure time in the world to torture him and Goddess, Goddess, Goddess, he didn’t want to die like that—when he’d escaped it so narrowly the first time—and he thought just maybe, he didn’t want to die at all—and why, why, why, hadn’t he just done what Bloodraven wanted and thrown away the tattered remains of his pride when he’d had the choice, instead of having it stripped from him in the form of one bloody section of flesh at a time?

Bloodraven laid a hand on Kragnor Deathclaw’s arm and the crowd of delighted ogres froze. Went silent and watchful even as Deathclaw slowly turned his narrowed eyes downward to look at an ogre almost two heads shorter than him.

Bloodraven spoke, baring just a bit of fang as he did. His face, narrow and elegant in comparison to Kragnor Deathclaw’s, displayed not one bit of emotion other than that. He didn’t remove his hand from Deathclaw’s arm. Deathclaw didn’t lower Yhalen.

Bloodraven spoke again and with a low snarl, Deathclaw flung Yhalen to the ground, rounding on the smaller ogre with one hand on the hilt of the dagger at his belt. Bloodraven was unarmed. He’d stalked out here, in his fit of irritation, without a weapon other than the strength of his body, which, against a full-sized ogre, seemed lacking.

But even with Deathclaw’s obvious threat, even with the hand on the weapon, Bloodraven stood unmoved. His eyes never wavered from the larger ogre’s face. His body betrayed nothing. And very much like a big dog backed down by a smaller, more stubborn and intelligent one, Deathclaw flexed his fingers and took a reflexive step backwards. It was enough.

Bloodraven broke his stare and moved past the larger ogre as if he’d ceased to exist, bending to snatch up the end of Yhalen’s lead and pulling him up and after him. Yhalen made every effort to keep up, staying close enough to Bloodraven’s heels that he had to take up the slack in the chain to keep from tripping over it.

Back to the tent then, with the camp again separated by a thin veneer of canvas. Bloodraven paused to drive the spike back into the earth, before going to his armor rack, and sitting on the stool before it, taking a piece of metal-studded leather down and proceeding to buff it free of dirt.