Bloodraven by P. L. Nunn Page B

monster. I’ll kill you if I can, you know.”
    The tears were leaking again. From hopelessness, from shame, from some bit of acceptance in his heart of this position he found himself in and that in itself made him want to die.
    “ Vras’ka, Yhalen,” Bloodraven said softly, breath slow and even. Shut up. He’d heard that phrase before.
    “Who told you that you could use my name?” he whispered, but so soft that he barely heard himself. Bloodraven pulled him closer, warm against his side in the cool of the night.
    The morning came too quickly and with it a flurry of activity as the camp made ready to move.
    Bloodraven’s other human slaves and his ogre subordinates pulled down his tent and bundled his personal belongings, loading them along with the other supplies onto small carts. Yhalen was staked to a tree by his leash not far from the snarling dog-things while this was about. In preparation of travel, he’d been given a pair of crude boots and a loin cloth to wear about his hips, dressing him very much in the fashion of the other human slaves, save for the fact that he was tanned and smooth of skin as opposed to the pale, hairy bodies of the Northmen. He stood out among them, lithe and supple and young and fair, as all of the Ydregi were.
    It gained him stares and what he was sure were lewd comments as the ogres passed. It made him cringe close to his tree in fear of what any one of them might do. It made him wish very badly for Bloodraven’s presence. It made him feel the coward, but how could he not fear, his enemy being what they were and he hopelessly in their grasp? But of Bloodraven he’d seen very little this morning.
    “Why do they stare at me like that?” he asked of Vorjd once, when the man gave him his scant clothing. “Are we not as hideous to them as they are to us?”
    The man had shrugged. “No. They’ve always wanted what we have. Our lands, our devices, our crafts, our art. As a whole, they’re not a race talented with much beyond the ability to fight. They envy us—humans. Over a great many things. As beastly as they are, they appreciate beauty.”
    Which had not made Yhalen feel better or safer, what with ogres stalking the camp around him and the snarling set of dogs just within snapping range of him. Of the two, he preferred the dogs. The animals he could understand. The animals he could contend with.
    He distracted himself doing just that. Sitting just out of reach of the slavering beasts, watching them, 26
    speaking to them softly and making himself known. It was a talent he had, the way with beasts that sprang from his esteemed bloodline. By the time the camp was uprooted and ready to move out, the two dog’s snarls had reduced to the occasional growl and they lay panting and drooling a body’s length away, watchful of Yhalen’s every move. They would rise with alacrity, though, each time a human slave or even an ogre ventured too near and lunge and bark threateningly. Even the ogres gave them wide berth. Only when Bloodraven approached did the threatening posture cease and tails began a frantic wagging. They crouched around his legs, desperate for a touch of his hand or a word.
    Armored and armed, in the full light of day, Bloodraven was imposing and dangerous. He spoke to the dogs, touching their great, flat heads. Vorjd and one other human slave had shadowed his wake, but hung far back, wary of the dogs. They held great leather muzzle guards in their hands. Bloodraven beckoned and they crept forward. Almost immediately, Bloodraven or no, the dogs broke into a fit of growls and lunged towards the human slaves. The one cried out and leapt backwards, dropping the muzzle guard, fear so strong that even Yhalen could scent it. Vorjd took a shaky step backwards, but held his ground, just out of reach, eyes white rimmed and breathing harsh. Yhalen wondered if they were simply naturally afraid of the animal’s size and ferocity, or if they’d more reason—if they’d seen these