little trickle of warm blood down his back, then Deathclaw let him go, striding towards Bloodraven, brushing past him so close that the smaller half-ogre was forced a half step to the side. Both dogs were now growling, hackles up, staring at Deathclaw as if they wanted to chase him down and tear out his throat. Yhalen wished they would. But Bloodraven spoke a sharp word and they subsided, more readily obedient now that they’d exorcised the demons that called for blood.
Yhalen stood there, trembling, waiting for Goddess knew what. But Bloodraven didn’t spare him a glance, striding off instead with the dogs at his heels to survey the damage and the dead. Yhalen’s knees gave out and he collapsed down into a squat, leaving one hand on the cart to support himself and bracing the other on the ground. The mangled body of the slave was to his left, glassy eyes staring up at the foliage-obscured sky. It could have been him. If Deathclaw had had his way, he’d be lying there too, beyond care, beyond pain and humiliation.
A few days’ past, it’d have been welcome. Now, he found he’d regained his taste for life. He didn’t want to die. He wanted freedom and he wanted vengeance. But, as things were going, there seemed little hope for either in the foreseeable future. Not without help, at any rate, and today had proved that humans were very little match against the strength and ferocity of mountain ogres.
29
CHAPTER FOUR
The men had come from a small village—a tiny little hamlet nestled in the forest that likely survived on trading furs and mushrooms gleaned from the woods. They’d likely been hunters who’d discovered the band of invaders heading inadvertently towards their home and attacked out of desperation, hoping to drive the ogres away.
Yhalen, tethered to his cart, came to the village only after the ogres had already overrun it. There was smoke in the air and the bitter smell of blood and urine and death. Small favor that he’d not had to witness the slaughter of the innocents there. Bile still rose in his throat, filling his mouth with its vile taste and cramping his stomach so badly that he crumbled to his knees as soon as the cart rolled to a stop to retch up what small breakfast he’d been given.
There were dead in the street. Butchered and left to lie while the ogres pilfered what little there was to steal. The healthy men had tried to stop them outside of the village, the old and the infirm and the young had tried within the boundary of this small settlement. And all of them had failed.
There was a scream that was high-pitched and feminine, and it occurred to Yhalen that the women and the youngest children might have been hidden somewhere while the men tried to defend their homes. He scrambled to his feet, straining to the end of his leash to see beyond the cart and the shifting bodies of the ogres that milled in the blood-soaked street between the rows of cottages.
There. A flash of small, huddled forms through the bodies of ogres. The soft crying of a child, followed by the whimper of a woman. Oh, Goddess, Goddess, not more fodder for the ogre’s malicious humor.
An ogre shifted and stepped back against Yhalen, turned and snarled down at him like a fractious wolf. Yhalen cringed back against the cart, grasping one wooden rail—momentarily forgetting the plight of the women and children of this hamlet in the face of his own. But the ogre, other than growling something incomprehensible at him and showing his sharp-yellowed teeth, didn’t raise a hand towards him.
There were perhaps seven of them. Three women and four children, ranging in age from one or two to about ten. The only survivors. And they were herded into the midst of the milling ogre warriors and poked and shoved and harassed, much like Yhalen had been when he’d first encountered the ogres in the forest—before they’d taken him back to their camp to do worse. These terrified women and children were not so resilient and huddled
Yhalen stood there, trembling, waiting for Goddess knew what. But Bloodraven didn’t spare him a glance, striding off instead with the dogs at his heels to survey the damage and the dead. Yhalen’s knees gave out and he collapsed down into a squat, leaving one hand on the cart to support himself and bracing the other on the ground. The mangled body of the slave was to his left, glassy eyes staring up at the foliage-obscured sky. It could have been him. If Deathclaw had had his way, he’d be lying there too, beyond care, beyond pain and humiliation.
A few days’ past, it’d have been welcome. Now, he found he’d regained his taste for life. He didn’t want to die. He wanted freedom and he wanted vengeance. But, as things were going, there seemed little hope for either in the foreseeable future. Not without help, at any rate, and today had proved that humans were very little match against the strength and ferocity of mountain ogres.
29
CHAPTER FOUR
The men had come from a small village—a tiny little hamlet nestled in the forest that likely survived on trading furs and mushrooms gleaned from the woods. They’d likely been hunters who’d discovered the band of invaders heading inadvertently towards their home and attacked out of desperation, hoping to drive the ogres away.
Yhalen, tethered to his cart, came to the village only after the ogres had already overrun it. There was smoke in the air and the bitter smell of blood and urine and death. Small favor that he’d not had to witness the slaughter of the innocents there. Bile still rose in his throat, filling his mouth with its vile taste and cramping his stomach so badly that he crumbled to his knees as soon as the cart rolled to a stop to retch up what small breakfast he’d been given.
There were dead in the street. Butchered and left to lie while the ogres pilfered what little there was to steal. The healthy men had tried to stop them outside of the village, the old and the infirm and the young had tried within the boundary of this small settlement. And all of them had failed.
There was a scream that was high-pitched and feminine, and it occurred to Yhalen that the women and the youngest children might have been hidden somewhere while the men tried to defend their homes. He scrambled to his feet, straining to the end of his leash to see beyond the cart and the shifting bodies of the ogres that milled in the blood-soaked street between the rows of cottages.
There. A flash of small, huddled forms through the bodies of ogres. The soft crying of a child, followed by the whimper of a woman. Oh, Goddess, Goddess, not more fodder for the ogre’s malicious humor.
An ogre shifted and stepped back against Yhalen, turned and snarled down at him like a fractious wolf. Yhalen cringed back against the cart, grasping one wooden rail—momentarily forgetting the plight of the women and children of this hamlet in the face of his own. But the ogre, other than growling something incomprehensible at him and showing his sharp-yellowed teeth, didn’t raise a hand towards him.
There were perhaps seven of them. Three women and four children, ranging in age from one or two to about ten. The only survivors. And they were herded into the midst of the milling ogre warriors and poked and shoved and harassed, much like Yhalen had been when he’d first encountered the ogres in the forest—before they’d taken him back to their camp to do worse. These terrified women and children were not so resilient and huddled
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