and jerked Yhalen to his feet, dragging the young man behind him, out of the tent and into the darkness of night. Yhalen staggered, trying to keep up with Bloodraven’s long, purposeful strides. He went to his knees once, in the trampled grass between a row of tents, and the ogre paused to jerk him up, finally flinging Yhalen before him and back onto the grass at the edge of a bonfire around which gathered a great many full-sized ogres.
Bloodraven barked something, loud enough to be heard over the racket of a dozen ogre voices. The clamor died, numerous gold eyes darting towards them. Bloodraven said something else, seething and disdainful from the sound of his voice.
A large body shifted from the gathering of large bodies, gold glinting in the light of the fire, eyes narrowed and face tight with controlled anger. There was no mistaking him this time. It was most certainly the ogre that had led the party that had captured Yhalen. The one that had come very close to killing him. Kragnor Deathclaw, according to Vorjd.
Yhalen froze, like a rabbit surrounded by wolves, nails digging into the hard earth, eyes glued in horror at the approaching ogre. Kragnor Deathclaw didn’t look at him, his eyes instead fixed on Bloodraven, his huge hand—a hand so much larger than Bloodraven’s—caressing the scarred hilt of his dagger. He said something crass and amused, and the ogres behind him laughed. But there was nervousness in the laughter—for even Yhalen saw that there was animosity between these two. And it was an animosity that the others were wary of.
Bloodraven spoke, calm and cool, as he tossed the end of Yhalen’s chain to the ground between Yhalen and Kragnor Deathclaw.
Goddess. He was giving him back to Deathclaw. Returning the gift. Because of Yhalen’s disobedience? Because he’d refused an order? A quick, clean death was one thing—what Kragnor Deathclaw would do to him was quite another.
“No, no, no, no, nononono.”
Was that his voice? Soft and breathless and beyond terror? Kragnor Deathclaw bent to pick up the end of the chain, frowning and Yhalen couldn’t make himself move. If he could have, he’d have crawled to Bloodraven’s feet and begged forgiveness. He’d have promised anything not to be handed over to the beast that was Kragnor Deathclaw.
Kragnor Deathclaw said something over his shoulder and the ogres behind him chortled, looking to Yhalen in amused expectation. The ogre yanked the chain and the collar jerked hard under Yhalen’s jaw, making him bite his tongue. The pain of that shook him out of the frozen state of fright. He turned desperate eyes back to Bloodraven, trying to make his way back towards him with the small amount of slack Kragnor Deathclaw allowed him.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever you say. I swear. Please, please don’t give me back to him. I’ll be obedient. I’ll be so good, I promise, you won’t be sorry—“
He was crying and they laughed at his attempts to crawl like a dog on its belly to an impassive Bloodraven. Pride might hold its own against fear, but against stark terror—it shriveled and hid and Yhalen despaired that Bloodraven could even understand that he was desperately trying to capitulate.
Kragnor Deathclaw jerked him backwards with enough force to land him on his back at the ogre’s feet, the air knocked out of his body. One big boot came down on his hair when he tried to twist away and he stared up and up and up at the muscled torso of his tormentor.
20
Kragnor Deathclaw crouched and spread one hand out on Yhalen’s belly, the blunt fingernails biting into the soft flesh of hips, belly and groin despite Yhalen’s efforts to pry them off.
Kragnor Deathclaw spoke a word that made the others let out a raucous cheer, then he raked his hand up Yhalen’s body to his neck, hauling him up and off his feet, kicking and struggling to display to the others. He was going to die, he thought in growing hysteria. It was
Bloodraven barked something, loud enough to be heard over the racket of a dozen ogre voices. The clamor died, numerous gold eyes darting towards them. Bloodraven said something else, seething and disdainful from the sound of his voice.
A large body shifted from the gathering of large bodies, gold glinting in the light of the fire, eyes narrowed and face tight with controlled anger. There was no mistaking him this time. It was most certainly the ogre that had led the party that had captured Yhalen. The one that had come very close to killing him. Kragnor Deathclaw, according to Vorjd.
Yhalen froze, like a rabbit surrounded by wolves, nails digging into the hard earth, eyes glued in horror at the approaching ogre. Kragnor Deathclaw didn’t look at him, his eyes instead fixed on Bloodraven, his huge hand—a hand so much larger than Bloodraven’s—caressing the scarred hilt of his dagger. He said something crass and amused, and the ogres behind him laughed. But there was nervousness in the laughter—for even Yhalen saw that there was animosity between these two. And it was an animosity that the others were wary of.
Bloodraven spoke, calm and cool, as he tossed the end of Yhalen’s chain to the ground between Yhalen and Kragnor Deathclaw.
Goddess. He was giving him back to Deathclaw. Returning the gift. Because of Yhalen’s disobedience? Because he’d refused an order? A quick, clean death was one thing—what Kragnor Deathclaw would do to him was quite another.
“No, no, no, no, nononono.”
Was that his voice? Soft and breathless and beyond terror? Kragnor Deathclaw bent to pick up the end of the chain, frowning and Yhalen couldn’t make himself move. If he could have, he’d have crawled to Bloodraven’s feet and begged forgiveness. He’d have promised anything not to be handed over to the beast that was Kragnor Deathclaw.
Kragnor Deathclaw said something over his shoulder and the ogres behind him chortled, looking to Yhalen in amused expectation. The ogre yanked the chain and the collar jerked hard under Yhalen’s jaw, making him bite his tongue. The pain of that shook him out of the frozen state of fright. He turned desperate eyes back to Bloodraven, trying to make his way back towards him with the small amount of slack Kragnor Deathclaw allowed him.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever you say. I swear. Please, please don’t give me back to him. I’ll be obedient. I’ll be so good, I promise, you won’t be sorry—“
He was crying and they laughed at his attempts to crawl like a dog on its belly to an impassive Bloodraven. Pride might hold its own against fear, but against stark terror—it shriveled and hid and Yhalen despaired that Bloodraven could even understand that he was desperately trying to capitulate.
Kragnor Deathclaw jerked him backwards with enough force to land him on his back at the ogre’s feet, the air knocked out of his body. One big boot came down on his hair when he tried to twist away and he stared up and up and up at the muscled torso of his tormentor.
20
Kragnor Deathclaw crouched and spread one hand out on Yhalen’s belly, the blunt fingernails biting into the soft flesh of hips, belly and groin despite Yhalen’s efforts to pry them off.
Kragnor Deathclaw spoke a word that made the others let out a raucous cheer, then he raked his hand up Yhalen’s body to his neck, hauling him up and off his feet, kicking and struggling to display to the others. He was going to die, he thought in growing hysteria. It was
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