Free Bloodraven by P. L. Nunn Page B

ogre war party. Soon after, Bloodraven burst into the tent, flinging the flaps wide, followed by the larger forms of two of his full-blooded brethren. The lot of them were agitated, voices raised in what might have been debate. Arms were flung and fingers and fists jerked in agitation as they spoke. Yhalen pressed back against the tent wall, flinching at the bellowing, at the overwhelming presence of three large bodies so close by and himself trapped in their midst. But they spared no notice for him, more interested in whatever it was they debated. With a final bout of conversation, some conclusion was reached, for the two ogres retreated with a creaking of leather and a jangling of metal, leaving Bloodraven standing in the center of his tent, eyes narrow and angry, chest rising and falling rapidly in what Yhalen assumed to be agitation.
    With a snarl, the ogr’ron finally spat a word that was most certainly some blasphemy and flung his helm against the empty armor rack. The whole of it tumbled backwards. He divested himself in much the same manner of the rest of his armor, tossing it with a carelessness that Yhalen had yet to see from him, into the corner with the rest. When the half-breed was finally down to nothing but his cloth undergarments, he snatched the full wineskin that Vorjd had left on the camp table and took a long swig.
    Yhalen hoped the silence and stillness of a forest mouse might allow him to escape notice, but the Goddess afforded him no such luck. Bloodraven’s golden eyes turned his way. Another long swig of wine and the ogr’ron corked the skin and laid it down, wiping the back of one large hand across his lips.
    He said a word that wasn’t in Yhalen’s small vocabulary. When Yhalen sat blinking and unmoving the ogr’ron bellowed it again, face twisted in anger, reaching out and snatching Yhalen by the hair and tumbling him to the center of the furs.
    Yhalen scrambled to his knees, startled and possessed by a sudden wash of anger. He jammed his arms out, palms flat against the much larger Bloodraven’s chest, surprising the ogr’ron just enough to set him off his balance and make him reel backwards.
    “Don’t take it out on me!” Yhalen cried. “Whatever they did—whatever happened to put you in such a temper—it wasn’t my doing!”
    Bloodraven stared, the furrow of rage in his brow smoothed momentarily from what might have been shock at Yhalen’s presumption. He most certainly had been taken off his guard by the physical rebellion, even if he hadn’t understood the words.
    Yhalen expected to be punished for it. He expected to be pummeled into the ground. He didn’t expect the sudden laughter. It was short and abrupt, rumbling out of Bloodraven’s chest—but it was laughter. Bloodraven’s lips pulled back in a grin, exposing white teeth with sharp, overhanging canines.
    A frightening smile—but unnervingly enough, not a hideous one.
    “ Krav’nok gruag kre ,” repeated Bloodraven in a more normal tone of voice, accompanying the request with a demonstration of what he wished as he caught hold of Yhalen’s hips and pulled him towards him, turning him over onto his stomach and hauling him up onto his hands and knees, then patting the small of his back approvingly when Yhalen kept the position. No use fighting it. He was tethered and at Bloodraven’s mercy no matter what he did, and he’d found that his master tended much more towards gentleness when he complied with his whims.
    So he crouched there, on all fours, loose hair spilling down about his arms and pooling on the furs, arms and legs shaking just a little, waiting for the ogr’ron to get it over with. The big body bent over his, and he felt the heat of Bloodraven’s skin on his back, felt the warmth of his breath between his shoulders as the ogr’ron brushed the hair to either side, baring the column of Yhalen’s neck. A wetness touched his skin, rough and velvety at the same time. The stroke of Bloodraven’s tongue.