It was dark outside yet, and the early morning was bitterly chill. Nonetheless, Yhalen picked out the faint sounds of stirring in the camp outside. He shut his eyes and concentrated, content at the moment to practice that easy magic that came to almost all Ydregi, the sense of other life sources within the great Goddess’ domain. With the development of his other dubious talents, this basic hunter’s skill had sharpened as well, and where a year before he might have only been aware of the faint throb of a dull-minded essence that could have been deer or boar or bear, now if he put his mind to it, he could almost put a mental image to the essence he sensed. Almost, with a greater effort, single out a spark and put an underlying purpose to it.
There were the lumbering life forces of the ogres, not quite so dull as that of a bear, or of Vorja, who had crept into the small hut during the night and stolen close to Bloodraven’s back for warmth and companionship. The majority of the ogres still slumbered, dreaming the dreams of most predators.
Food and den and the hunt.
The humans had slightly sharper essences. They were harder to read, as humans tended to be, with thoughts always chaotic and active. Even the ogres’ slaves, who had been beaten down to spiritless drudges, still possessed life sparks that flitted about like bugs in jars, hard to pin down.
It was that sense of activity that he felt outside, stirring in the camp. The slaves were probably used to rising first and stoking the camp fires and starting the preparations to break the fast of their ogre masters.
He felt somewhat less pity for them today, than he had yesterday. Perhaps his punishment at the urging of the ogre tribe and at the hands of Bloodraven had chipped away at the knot of compassion that struggled within his heart. Bitterness and anger were, after all, the enemy of compassion. He had, and still did, feel a great deal of that even after the pain was gone. He could well understand cowering to avoid the pain of punishment. He’d gladly humble himself if faced with the prospect of more ogre retaliation, but he could not understand why, when allowed the freedom to wander from the cruel eyes of their masters, these slaves didn’t simply flee. Whether they were tethered at night, he did not know.
But during the day, when they trekked to the stream or went to the forest to gather wood, why did they just not disappear into the mountains? They were mountain bred, so fear of the terrain or the harsh seasons couldn’t have been as much a hardship as what they endured under the leash of the ogres.
He’d have asked Bloodraven, having found the halfling considered most debates carefully from all sides before offering opinion. But that would have only raised the issue of why
he
did not run, when he’d had more than enough opportunity, and
that
he was not willing to ponder either aloud or within the turmoil of his own mind.
There was a shifting of the muscle and warmth that he lay against as Bloodraven stirred. He felt the awareness of consciousness come over him, a spark of awareness that had nothing to do with his hunter’s sense and everything to do with
knowing
Bloodraven.
“It’s not yet dawn,” Bloodraven murmured after a while. Even on the trail it was not their habit to rise so early.
“I couldn’t sleep, either,” Yhalen said softly, cheek against Bloodraven’s chest. “Vorja has no problem, so I think it safe to assume no danger lurks.”
Bloodraven looked down at the big, black shape pressed against his lower body on the opposite side. She was dead to the world, legs twitching occasionally as she dreamed some dog’s dream.
“Are you in pain?” Bloodraven asked.
“Not so much.”
Bloodraven frowned, shifting his arm out from between his body and Vorja’s to slide it under the furs and across Yhalen’s skin. He had seen very well last night the healing Yhalen had accomplished, 203
but it seemed he needed reassurance during the wan light of pre-dawn to convince himself of the truth of the matter.
He sighed finally, dropping his head so that his chin rested upon the top of Yhalen’s hair. “I never believed all the tales the old wise men told around the fires, not like some, but I listened. And now I find that there was indeed truth in their superstitions, I sleep blithely unconcerned with the reality.”
“What tales?” Yhalen asked.
“About demons in human form sent by the mountain Gods to take retribution upon the unworthy.
The sort of tale that the old tell to keep the young in line.”
Yhalen lay there, thinking of his own people’s wives’ tales, of the fear of the Goddess that Ydregi mothers and shaman put into the eager ears of the young. Odd, though, that the form of the ogre legends took the shape of humanity.
“What sort of demons?”
“There are many. There’s a tale of the snow wizard, who plagued a great clan for many months, preying upon lone warriors who would later be found frozen with thick ice surrounding their bodies.
Many of the clan reported seeing a lone human, white of hair, dressed in white furs during this time.”
“What happened? Did they catch him?”
Bloodraven shrugged. “This was many, many years past, before the oldest alive was born. The tales don’t say. There are many such stories. Of human warlocks bringing down the wrath of the mountain, causing the earth to shake and swallow hapless ogre clans. Of the maddening of the animals, large and small, and setting them upon wandering war parties. Of fire....”
He paused, dwelling on that last and Yhalen knew very well he was remembering each and every time Yhalen had called fire forth from nothing.
“Did you ever stop to think,” Yhalen asked carefully, “that throughout the years of your people slaughtering human tribes or taking humans as slaves that once in a great while they might just get unlucky enough to happen upon someone like...say Elvardo? Or even someone with the seed within them for a fraction of his power, who decided to strike back?”
Bloodraven’s fingers twined in his hair, a seemingly idle motion until he tugged gently, pulling Yhalen’s head back so that their eyes might meet.
“Like you?”
There was something in Bloodraven’s voice that belied lazy, pre-dawn chatter, a slight furrow between his brows that spoke of concerns not spoken.
The feeling of having some slight advantage crept up on Yhalen, and the idea of inspiring superstition and even fear in a man—
half-man
—who held complete physical dominance over him gave no small satisfaction. Elvardo must have felt much the same when he discovered his power, which thought made Yhalen flinch and push back those musings.
“I’m not like him,” he said. “I’m nothing like him.”
Bloodraven grunted, fingers returning to stroking his hair.
“Walk like an old man today,” he suggested. “Let them think you’re in great pain, and let none see your skin beneath your clothing. Take what abuse they offer humbly until we take our leave. I’ll set Vorja close to you and hope that she at least deters mischievous youngsters.”
Mischievous.
Yhalen snorted softly, wishing dire things upon flat-faced ogre children and the parents who egged their cruelties on.
Bloodraven didn’t choose to dally in the furs this morning, rising instead soon after the sun had peeked over the tree-line. He donned all his armor and weaponry, which Yhalen helped buckle upon his broad frame. Had it been a true human man decking himself out this way to meet his hosts, he’d have been alarmed and expected bloodshed soon to follow, but ogres wore their weaponry like women wore rings or crafted bracelets—things to be proud of and to impress their fellows as much for protection.
Yhalen followed him out not long after, remembering to walk stiffly. Vorja prowled behind him, head low and ears twitching. Bloodraven had set her to guard and she took her task seriously.
The camp was just stirring, the ogre women emerging first from the tents and caves to gather and check on the progress of the camp fire pit, and the slaves preparing breakfast there. It was stew this morning, made from the leftovers of the evenings feast. The girl and one of the young men squatted near 204
the fire pit and the crude iron pot that hung suspended across it, peeling root vegetables. Their shoulders hunched and their actions quickened as the female ogress ambled over and harsh, no doubt abusive words were barked at the slaves.
Yhalen veered away from that gathering, having no wish to gain the attention of the females. He headed for the slaves’ small area behind the camp and found the old man there, sitting on his threadbare blanket within the meager shelter of the lean-to. He was bent over his legs, wiry back trembling with pain. Yhalen could see the chords in his skinny calves distended, as well as toes arched out of shape. At first he thought they might have been broken, but then he recognized the signs of intense cramps.
He crouched beside the old man, and cast a warning look back at Vorja when she growled threateningly, causing the old man to cast a fearful look at her across Yhalen’s shoulder.
“Back. Get back,” Yhalen snapped at her, too distracted to remember the ogrish words of command that Bloodraven had taught him. She settled regardless, her ears perked forward as if she understood so clearly that it surprised her.
“Let me help,” Yhalen offered and the old man glared at him.
“Go away, before we both are punished.”
“Your legs?”
“I’m an old man. It’s an affliction of the old.”
“It’s an affliction of poor diet,” Yhalen snapped, frustrated. “My mother was a healer. I know.”
A rheumy eye, tightened in pain, canted up at him.
“Let me help.”
Suspiciously, the old man lay back, revealing legs corded with spasming muscle, his bony knees bulging and twisted with a more honest affliction of old age. Yhalen started with the calves, kneading tense flesh and rigid muscle. He felt, almost without actively trying, the core of the distress, deep within meat and muscle and vein. He moved his hands down to the twisted feet, and the old man cried out softly. Gently, exerting more control over his skill than he had yet tried to do, he eased the problem from within, drawing only the barest hint of power from himself in the doing. Certainly not enough to make the old man think anything but the skill of his hands was easing the pain.
It was hard, that control. Harder than blindly stealing life essence in a moment of panic or leeching off Bloodraven in the throes of sex to ease a minor discomfort.
Finally the old man sighed, body gone lax, the muscles in his legs softened now that the cramps had passed. He simply breathed for a few moments at the cessation of pain, and then looked up at Yhalen.
“Your hands have skill. No kindness has been offered to me in...longer than memory recalls. Thank you.”
Yhalen shook his head and offered a hand up when the old man made to rise.
“You’re new to slavery and don’t yet understand that they don’t allow kindnesses. You’ll learn.
Come.”
The old man handed Yhalen a shallow basket and limped towards the trail leading to the stream, then took an almost hidden trail that led up and over the ogre camp. It was rocky and steep, but the old man traversed it easily despite his twisted knees. They traveled for some distance east, high enough that the whole of the mountain valley spread out beneath them and the distant peaks of the mountains east of them were misty silhouettes against the pale morning sky. Finally, they reached a rock face pitted with holes and cracks, most of which had bits of leaves and small twigs sticking out of them.
The path they trod upon was dotted white with bird droppings.
Their goal became clear. The gathering of eggs. They disturbed no few nesting mothers in their theft, large, white and black feathered mountain scavengers. The eggs were as big as Yhalen’s fist, and the old man warned him to leave always at least one egg to each nest he robbed. Yhalen scaled the wall to reach the highest nests. When the basket was full, the old man signaled they head back.
Almost Yhalen turned to go, but something caught his attention. Something to the east. A spark of life energy that was slow and vast and angry. He canted his head, stretching his awareness and bypassing so many smaller beings in his search. What he sensed, he sensed at great distance and he might not have caught the essence of it at all, had not some sudden surprise shocked the being into sharp emotion. Even so, he was puzzled that he felt the thing, which he was certain was many miles away.
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He delved deeper, curious and became aware of sluggish, physical power. A vast pool of it that that dwelled within this creature. And crankiness at being woken from the depths of a slumber by....
He canted his head, eyes shut, hands curled loosely at his side...and sensed a great tumble of dirty snow, collapsed from the mountain above to waken a sleeping monster.
A troll. The mountain troll. The realization came upon him, that he and Bloodraven had passed days ago on the trail. It was angry now and like a petulant child looking to vent its ire. But it was also hungry, after weeks of slumber, its belly empty and growling.
Rational thought, moral standards went the way of dry paper to one of Elvardo’s tame tongues of flame. He acted upon whim and purpose without thought, caught by the possibilities of that great, lumbering presence in the distance. It was like drawing a deer when he was desperate for game, so easy to insinuate a vague notion into an inferior mind. To prey upon the hunger and the anger that were the main driving forces of a mountain troll’s existence.
This way for food to fill its belly. This way for retaliation against the rude awakening from what might have been weeks more of peaceful slumber.