Bloodraven by P. L. Nunn Read Free Book Online Page A

doesn’t matter if I smell or not.”
    Yhalen blanched, stomach doing odd little flip-flops of dismay, mind going blank with dread. “Oh, Goddess—you can’t just—I can’t...turn your back. Let me slip away. Please, help me.”
    It would be so easy. There was forest beyond this brook that he could lose himself in and with his wits about him, he could evade these clumsy invaders with ease.
    “No. You make a move towards escape and I’ll have this camp down upon your head.”
    “Why? We’re both human—they’re monsters—please....”
    “No. I lose you—I die.”
    There was utter cold fact in that statement. Utter truth. Perhaps that was why the humans in this camp were unfettered save for the collars of servitude about their necks. To rebel was to die. He wouldn’t ask this man again for help. But he wouldn’t be able to resist escape if the chance offered, on threat of a life or not.
    He kept his silence on the matter, instead untwining the leather that held the end of his long braid and combing it free with his fingers, pausing and then working at the smaller braid that hung down from his temple—the braid that signified his passage through the first rite of manhood. A man would earn the right to wear three of the symbolic small braids throughout his life, if he were diligent and faithful to the ways of the people. It was a badge of pride and Yhalen hesitated to loose it in fear that he might not get the chance to properly rebraid it. But, he supposed it needed doing, what with the grime and blood—and other things—that had dried in his hair. He picked up handfuls of sand and scrubbed at his body and dunked his head, working at his hair and left the brook finally, twisting the length of it to squeeze out the water.
    “Come,” the blonde slave said gruffly, having waited with apparent patience while Yhalen cleaned himself.
    “Where?” Yhalen asked warily, not moving to follow, though he knew the man would force the issue should he balk too much.
    “There are things that need doing. You’d best learn not to ask when you’re told a thing, but do it.”
    A hand reached for his arm and Yhalen avoided it, glaring and walked on his own in the direction the slave indicated.
    “Do you have a name?” he asked finally, needing some point of reference to ground himself in this place. Anything to keep him from drifting in complete confusion.
    The man hesitated, frowning, apparently not willing to easily give up that thing that was still his and his alone. A name. But finally he shrugged and said, “Vorjd.”
    “I’m Yhalen,” he said, thinking that perhaps with the exchange some sort of alliance might be built upon. Vorjd shrugged, making no further comment. They had made their way back into the camp,
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    where the ogres remaining were beginning to stir. Yhalen shied from the brutes that they passed, memory still painfully vivid of the night in the forest. He saw one with a few gold rings in his ears and for a moment went numb with fear until he realized that it wasn’t the one who had led the party he was captured by. Vorjd’s hand was on his arm, pulling him along when he came back to himself enough to realize that his mind had blanked at the prospect of being in that particular ogre’s care again.
    “He’s not here,” Vorjd said simply, as if Yhalen had asked out loud. “Kragnor Deathclaw left with the others this morning.”
    The one with all the gold. Yhalen wanted to ask. Wanted to be sure of the monster’s name—but couldn’t make his mouth work.
    “He’s no friend of Kavarr Bloodraven—no small wonder that he gifted him with you.”
    Yhalen got no chance to inquire of the intricacies of ogre politics, for the sound of the hammer and anvil grew louder and Vorjd led him into the trampled domain of the blacksmith. Yhalen balked at the sight of the towering, thick-bodied ogre smith with his huge hammer. There was a piece of oversized armor on the anvil that was still red from the fire