on the ground where they fell, crying and whimpering. One screamed mindlessly until an ogre tired of the shrill sound and backhanded her hard enough to quiet her for good. A child wailed, scrambling to the still body and clutching at torn clothes desperately, bereft of a mother because she’d not been able to keep her silence. When the child’s wails did not cease, one of the ogres plucked it up by one small arm and shook it. One of the other women lunged forward in an act of desperate, mindless bravery, screaming at the beast to release the child, pounding on the stomach of a creature twice or thrice her size.
They laughed her tenacity and the one threw the child aside and raised a hand towards the girl.
A command was barked forth that made the ogre hesitate. The others shifted, parting warily as first one, then another of the great dogs padded through their number. Bloodraven himself followed, flanked by two of his lieutenants, the three of them adorned with bits of twigs and leaves and forest debris as if they’d been running through thickets. They might have been in pursuit of the last of the village hunters whilst the bulk of their party wrecked havoc in the village.
They spoke, as ogres were wont to speak, in loud voices with a great many hand gestures. Even among themselves, interaction seemed on the verge of violence. Deathclaw said something from the sidelines where he and a few of his followers had gathered to watch the entertainment. Even in an indiscernible tongue, the comment seemed laced with derision. Bloodraven stared hard across the circle of ogres, not flinching from Deathclaw’s stare, and said something softly. Whatever it was, it made the other ogre flinch, just a little.
It was enough of a reaction to satisfy Bloodraven, for he turned back to the others, barking orders that the ogres scrambled to follow and dispersing the crowd while setting his small army to order. He
30
gestured for Vorjd and the man slunk out hurriedly from the shadows of the carts, nodding as he was given instructions, then calling for the other northern slaves to begin making camp here. Vorjd went to the women, speaking with them, gathering them and the children together and with two of the other human slaves getting them on their feet and moving towards one of the huts.
“Vorjd. Vorjd, what will they do with them?” Yhalen called, desperate to know that they weren’t to be saved now only to be tortured and killed later that night.
The blonde slave paused to look at Yhalen over his shoulder. He didn’t answer, but he frowned, making a sign for silence, as if he feared they’d bring trouble down upon themselves for exchanging conversation.
“Damn you,” Yhalen whispered, wet-eyed, almost as angry at Vorjd as he was at the ogres. He yanked at his chain, frustrated and sorely tired of being leashed like a dog. There was a growl and a dog that wasn’t leashed, but surely ought to have been, padded over. Its ears flicked and its gums pulled back just a little, as if it didn’t know whether to break into a full snarl or not.
“You get away, you ugly beast,” Yhalen spat, waving a fist at it. It lowered its head and growled deep in this throat.
“Go find your master, then, and have him unfasten this cursed chain from my neck.”
He rattled the chain in question and the dog’s ears pricked forward, head cocking. It settled down onto its haunches, watching him. Yhalen stood there, on the verge of embarrassing tears, sickened by the slaughter, by the casual brutality—by the fear for those helpless women and children—and holding a conversation with a dog. He sank down into a crouch, eye to eye with it, trying not to focus on the corpses in the street, trying not to dwell on what would happen when night fell and he had to endure the darkness in the company of the ogres yet one more time. Trying not to think about hearing the screams of women and children under the cover of darkness. He pressed a fist against his
They laughed her tenacity and the one threw the child aside and raised a hand towards the girl.
A command was barked forth that made the ogre hesitate. The others shifted, parting warily as first one, then another of the great dogs padded through their number. Bloodraven himself followed, flanked by two of his lieutenants, the three of them adorned with bits of twigs and leaves and forest debris as if they’d been running through thickets. They might have been in pursuit of the last of the village hunters whilst the bulk of their party wrecked havoc in the village.
They spoke, as ogres were wont to speak, in loud voices with a great many hand gestures. Even among themselves, interaction seemed on the verge of violence. Deathclaw said something from the sidelines where he and a few of his followers had gathered to watch the entertainment. Even in an indiscernible tongue, the comment seemed laced with derision. Bloodraven stared hard across the circle of ogres, not flinching from Deathclaw’s stare, and said something softly. Whatever it was, it made the other ogre flinch, just a little.
It was enough of a reaction to satisfy Bloodraven, for he turned back to the others, barking orders that the ogres scrambled to follow and dispersing the crowd while setting his small army to order. He
30
gestured for Vorjd and the man slunk out hurriedly from the shadows of the carts, nodding as he was given instructions, then calling for the other northern slaves to begin making camp here. Vorjd went to the women, speaking with them, gathering them and the children together and with two of the other human slaves getting them on their feet and moving towards one of the huts.
“Vorjd. Vorjd, what will they do with them?” Yhalen called, desperate to know that they weren’t to be saved now only to be tortured and killed later that night.
The blonde slave paused to look at Yhalen over his shoulder. He didn’t answer, but he frowned, making a sign for silence, as if he feared they’d bring trouble down upon themselves for exchanging conversation.
“Damn you,” Yhalen whispered, wet-eyed, almost as angry at Vorjd as he was at the ogres. He yanked at his chain, frustrated and sorely tired of being leashed like a dog. There was a growl and a dog that wasn’t leashed, but surely ought to have been, padded over. Its ears flicked and its gums pulled back just a little, as if it didn’t know whether to break into a full snarl or not.
“You get away, you ugly beast,” Yhalen spat, waving a fist at it. It lowered its head and growled deep in this throat.
“Go find your master, then, and have him unfasten this cursed chain from my neck.”
He rattled the chain in question and the dog’s ears pricked forward, head cocking. It settled down onto its haunches, watching him. Yhalen stood there, on the verge of embarrassing tears, sickened by the slaughter, by the casual brutality—by the fear for those helpless women and children—and holding a conversation with a dog. He sank down into a crouch, eye to eye with it, trying not to focus on the corpses in the street, trying not to dwell on what would happen when night fell and he had to endure the darkness in the company of the ogres yet one more time. Trying not to think about hearing the screams of women and children under the cover of darkness. He pressed a fist against his
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