There was a knife in Yhalen’s saddle gear as well. A human-sized one that could be easily concealed. He drew it, tested his thumb against a razor-sharp edge and glanced askance at Bloodraven, waiting for some frown of disapproval at his arming. There was none. He let out a breath and attached the sheath to his belt, feeling suddenly lighter with the procurement of even so small a blade. He was not likely to win battles against a well-armed man with it, and would only serve to agitate an ogre, but going armed was a breath of independence that he hadn’t felt for too long a time.
Elvardo didn’t come out to see them off. But Sir Alasdair had low words with Bloodraven, the frustration gone from his face now that the departure was at hand and beyond his control. Alasdair was a king’s man, but he wasn’t inflexible, nor was he stubbornly resistant to accepting and working around a situation that had slipped out of his hands. Bloodraven listened silently, showing neither sign of agreement or discord, then pulled himself up onto the broad back of his mount and sat with clear impatience to be on his way.
There was nothing for Yhalen to do but follow suit. The two pack mules were tied to the back of Yhalen’s saddle, and they milled behind his horse with twitching ears and baleful eyes. Alasdair stopped him before he could mount with a light touch on his arm.
“Sending you with him against your full will is a cruel thing, I know,” the knight admitted with a furrow between his brows. “But this fool’s mission may benefit all the people of the southern lands, yours and mine. Aid him in it, if you can. Look for betrayal, if that is the case, and strive to let us know. You are resourceful enough to survive this, Yhalen of the Ydregi.”
Yhalen stared at him, hiding the derision he couldn’t help but feel. It was not Alasdair’s choices that had given him back to Bloodraven when he’d only just managed to escape, a token gift to placate a possible collaborator. Higher mortal powers than him had seen to that, and though Yhalen could find little space in his heart to aid their political maneuverings, he well recalled the devastated villages of innocent peasants and farmers and woodsmen that had suffered at the hands of Bloodraven’s invading kinsfolk. He remembered Yherji’s shocked, bloodied death mask after he had run afoul of
Deathclaw’s splinter group. Those poor folk and others like them, he had a care for.
Bloodraven hadn’t pressed the issue of the collar, so Yhalen’s neck was yet free from it, which was some small relief to his dignity as they rode out of the dark lord’s courtyard and down the sloping trail that led to the valley below. He doubted it would be long overlooked once they’d breached the depths of the mountains and chanced encounters with any ogre clansmen.
The weight of some heavy and unseen regard made the hairs at the back of Yhalen’s neck stand on end, so he guessed that Elvardo watched from some hidden vantage. He looked over his shoulder to see, but couldn’t discern if the dark lord stood at any of the high windows or balconies.
As they traveled down the steep path from the keep, and into the valley proper, the feeling faded and Yhalen found that he could breathe easier. An odd feeling, that relief, since he was riding into a situation that, without doubt, would be far worse. He’d discovered, over the last few weeks, that his fear of Bloodraven had diminished. But Bloodraven was not an ogre full and the thought of the towering, thick-bodied, full-blooded ogres still made his heart pound frantically in his chest, still caused his skin to break out in sweat if he thought too long and hard upon them.
He questioned his sanity as he rode behind Bloodraven out of the vale to the south and then northwest into the mountainous foothills beyond it. His woodcraft was adept enough that he could have easily slipped away and hidden himself in the thick pines and brush they traveled through.
Bloodraven had no dogs to track him by scent, and he doubted Bloodraven’s own woodcraft was equal to a child of the great forest.
Run. Run
, some part of him kept whispering. And some other part ignored the suggestion, which left him torn and miserable through much of the day’s ride.
Though two travelers ahorse made better time than a large group, their late start had them barely past the foothills west of Elvardo’s vale before darkness began to hinder their way. Bloodraven plunged on relentlessly as long as he could, but eventually the uneven ground they traveled became dangerous even for mountain-bred horses, and they were forced to stop.
Silently Yhalen dismounted, scanning the shadowy shapes of trees surrounding them. The clearing was barely large enough to tether the animals and build a small fire.
Wood was plentiful enough, though, and he lent himself to the task of gathering enough tinder to start a flame. Bloodraven grunted as he assigned himself that task and went to scavenge in the packs they had divested the mules of. He considered drawing upon the resources of his own magic to entice the fire to life. It was a frightening temptation, to utilize what Elvardo had shown him, and he struggled with it a moment while Bloodraven’s attention was elsewhere.
Then he ground his teeth and set about it the mundane way, striking flint viciously to stone until a spark caught at the dry tinder and a tiny flame was born. He had started a thousand fires in his time in the very same way, and yet this one he was inordinately proud of. He fed it small sticks, watching it grow with odd fascination, until Bloodraven dropped a leather-wrapped pack beside him and sat down on the other side of the fire with the sword and hatchet Elvardo had given him, accompanied by a whetstone, oil and cloth.
So Yhalen was relegated to cook as well as fire starter. The cooking this night was limited to the heating of water for strong tea, for Elvardo’s women had provided them with a good deal of trail rations and a separate pack of perishable food for the first day’s meal. There was roasted chicken and a slab of dark, yellow cheese. The bread had, no doubt, come from the ovens that morning and was still fresh and soft in the middle. There were dried beans and fruit, and a small sack of root vegetables that would roast nicely around the coals of a fire. Packets of spices that would serve well for campfire stews, and meal for pan bread.
They consumed the chicken entirely, for that wouldn’t last another day’s ride and still be fit to eat, but the bread and the cheese would keep a while longer. Yhalen saved half of that for another day.
Besides, he was adept at setting snares for fresh meat, and he doubted there’d be a shortage until they traveled high into the snowy reaches. Bloodraven was content with that, silently wolfing down his meal before turning his attention back to the honing of his blades.
Eventually the blade was as sharp and as clean as it could be made to be, and Bloodraven slid it back into its broad sheath and sat with it across his knees, silently staring into the small fire. It was a brooding stare and the intensity of the silence made Yhalen uneasy.
“Tomorrow,” he finally said, “we’ll make good time. A dawn start will see us well into the lower mountains before nightfall. It’ll be two, perhaps three days’ hard ride before we come to a passage that
will allow us easy access to the heights.”
Yhalen sat there, wrapping and unwrapping the end of his braid around his fingers, trying to fight back the apprehension. “How long before we reach your people?”
Bloodraven showed him teeth in a humorless grin. “We could see them tonight, for all I know. The clans are restless, and young warriors eager to make a name for themselves roam far afield, looking for prey.”
That wasn’t what he wished to hear. He had even less of a desire to see the bronze ring that Bloodraven pulled from the sack on the ground beside him.
“There’s a need for this, human. Come here.”
Yhalen set his chin stubbornly and refused to move. “If you want it on me so badly, then you get up and do it. I won’t crawl to you for the chance to be collared like one of your dogs again.”
Bloodraven lifted a brow and his mouth quirked. He found amusement where Yhalen felt nothing but dread. Bloodraven shifted his new sword aside and rose. Yhalen shut his eyes and hunched forward, close to his knees in unhappiness. He heard the creak of leather and the rustling of pine twigs and leaves as Bloodraven knelt behind him. Shivered when Bloodraven’s big hands brushed across his shoulders and the back of his neck, shifting his braid aside. He felt the edges of the collar that Bloodraven had pulled apart just enough to slip around his neck, then felt the backs of his knuckles as he forced the metal back together.
He fastened it less permanently than the smithy in the ogre camp had done. A simple iron ring fit through holes on each of end of the bronze collar—small enough that Bloodraven could only use two fingers to grip it, yet thick enough that he grunted once in the effort to bend it open enough to fit through the collar holes, and then force it back into shape with barely a discernible gap. Yhalen might have overcome the more malleable bronze of the collar, but the iron ring that served to connect it would be beyond him without the aid of tools.
He fought the urge to touch it, to give it that acknowledgment, but lost in the end and reached up to run his fingers along the smooth surface. It was plain, but well crafted and light, sitting easily about his neck. It was by far more comfortable than the first Bloodraven had fitted him with.
Bloodraven’s hands lingered on his shoulders, thumbs on the skin above his collar. They had spoken very little during the day, both their thoughts on other things. It had been, strangely enough, a companionable ride, for Yhalen didn’t mind the silence and Bloodraven was prone to keeping thoughts close to his sleeve. Bloodraven’s callused thumbs on his neck spoke volumes and Yhalen shivered, too sullen and angry at the moment to submit to any urges Bloodraven might have without a fight.
He shifted forward, moving to the other side of the fire and glaring balefully from under the fall of his hair. Bloodraven shrugged and rose, dusting his hands on the front of his pants. He unrolled the bedding, settling first his and then the smaller bundle that was Yhalen’s, overlapping.
Yhalen crouched, frowning at the grouped bedding. Bloodraven ignored him in favor of retrieving his sword and laying it next to the spot he’d chosen to sleep. He removed very little of his clothing. Only the heavy belt with its rings and buckles, and his boots, before he settled down.
“We start early tomorrow. Sleep while you can.”
“I can sleep across the fire easily enough,” Yhalen said.
“No. You can sleep here.”
Yhalen pursed his lips in frustration, contemplating curling up in the leaves next to the fire without benefit of bedroll. He’d slept in worse places under harsher conditions. But Bloodraven was raised on an elbow, waiting, and Yhalen had little desire to be fetched by an irate ogr’ron, so he let out a breath of chagrin and moved to Bloodraven’s side.
He lay down on his side with his back to Bloodraven at the very edge of the bedroll, but as Bloodraven settled, he snaked out a thick arm and drew Yhalen close against him. He did no more than that though, and there was no sign of arousal pressed against Yhalen’s back, so it seemed likely that Bloodraven indeed had no intentions past sleep.
“Do you think I might flee?” Yhalen asked, caught snugly in the curve of Bloodraven’s arm.
“Tonight. Yes.” The answer was low, on the verge of slumber.
“Just tonight?” His curiosity was piqued.
“Tomorrow your anger over the collar will have faded.”
“So tomorrow, I won’t have to sleep with you?”
“No. You will. Quiet. I seek my sleep, even if you prefer to waste the night away.”
They cut sharply north during the next day’s travel, following no discernible trail, but letting the horses find their own path to a certain degree. The mules followed doggedly along, snapping at leaves or green brush whenever the chance arose, and often dragging on the lead ropes and slowing the stride of Yhalen’s horse. Late afternoon forced them to turn dead west, for the northern ascent was too steep for man or beast or ogr’ron.
They followed a rocky gully trail for hours, always on the lookout for a promising path north. Come dark, however, none had presented itself. They camped well after nightfall and ate the last of the prepared food. Exhaustion had Yhalen asleep before Bloodraven had fully settled in behind him, and he was dead to the world until the stirring of the next dawn when Bloodraven nudged him awake.
Breakfast was tea and pan bread, though Yhalen put two handfuls of dried beans in one of the canteens to soak so they might be quickly cooked that night.
The woods here weren’t as thick as those of the great forest, but the going was treacherous and tiresome, and these weren’t even the heights of the mountains proper. He could well understand how harsh a life it must be for the peoples that dwelled here. Why humans chose to live in the reaches, prey for the likes of ogres and worse things, when they could just as well migrate down to the flatlands of the south, was beyond him.
He asked Bloodraven just that, after they had ridden in silence for hours on end.
“They’re not of your people. Or the peoples on the other side of the northern range,” Bloodraven said simply. “They prefer not to live under the rule of your king and his lords, I suppose. I never asked.”
“They prefer to be hunted by your people and enslaved?”
Bloodraven turned a toothy grin his way. “They’re not scared rabbits, the human clans that live in the reaches. Only the unlucky ones. They’re wily and they have teeth. Much as you do.”