Bloodraven by P. L. Nunn Page B

mouth, biting down on his knuckles to keep the hand from shaking, to keep the nausea that insisted on rising up his throat, down.
    Vorjd came back eventually, wary of the dog that had settled a few feet from Yhalen with its great head upon its front paws, eyes watchful and ears pricked forward. It had inched close enough almost to touch, curious about one who showed no fear of it and subdued in its aggression perhaps by the smell of its master upon him, for surely Bloodraven’s most intimate scents were scoured into Yhalen’s flesh.
    For Vorjd though, it lifted its head and snarled, hackles up and slowly rising to its feet. Vorjd did show fear, freezing in his tracks, eyes white rimmed and wide.
    “I told you,” Yhalen said softly. “He scents your fear. If you rule it, at the very least he might hesitate before he attacks. Have you come to release me?”
    Vorjd nodded, eyes never leaving the dog.
    “Then toss me the key, if you don’t wish to pass my guardian.”
    It seemed a reasonable suggestion and Vorjd did just that, carefully tossing the crude brass key that unlocked the chain at Yhalen’s collar. The weight of it gone from him was a relief, but the metal of the collar itself still lay upon him.
    “Come,” Vorjd said, backing away, and Yhalen did, having no choice. Still, he took some small satisfaction in the widening of Vorjd’s eyes as he purposefully brushed past the dog in his passage, running his hand along its short coat and feeling warmth and the pounding beat of its heart under bone and flesh and muscle. It growled a little, and he felt that too, under the thin flesh. It turned to watch them leave with its square head lowered. He turned his back on it, even if Vorjd would not.
    “Make it stay back,” the slave whispered, one hand on Yhalen’s arm.
    “It’s not my dog.”
    Vorjd’s finger’s tightened, nails biting into his flesh. “They’ve killed more men than I can recall—even an ogre or two—and you touch it without losing a hand.”
    “They’ve killed ogres? Good.” He found he detested the dogs a little less.
    “It’s following us,” Vorjd hissed.
    Yhalen turned his head to see. The big dog was padding slowly in their wake. “Yes. It is. Where is the other one?”
    “Killing men in the forest with its master. I don’t know. I don’t know why they aren’t together—they always hunt together.”
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    “What will they do with those women and children?” He ignored Vorjd’s worries over the dog and asked the question that he’d gotten no answer for before.
    The slave frowned, mouth going hard and thin. “North,” he finally said. “Those who survive will be sent north to the slave markets.”
    Yhalen bit his lip, shuddering a little at the notion of ogre cities in the cold northern mountains. Of humans in pens, waiting to be sold to towering, cruel masters—of what horrid fate awaited them.
    “Is that why they’ve come? To capture slaves? Have they run out of victims in the north?”
    Vorjd glared at him, actual pain and anger in his eyes. The first real emotion that Yhalen had seen from the man. “They’d hunt us to extinction, if they could—but my people—we’ve grown elusive—we hide in burrows like rabbits and they grow frustrated and seek easier game. Here. In here.”
    Vorjd stopped before the largest building in the small village. Most of the huts were too small for ogres to even enter, but this one was apparently the town meeting place, for it boasted a tall roof and a few charred emblems no doubt denoting the name of the town and the name of the lord under whose rule they lived. If that lord had known of this attack, or even known of the presence of this raiding party, he might have gathered armed and armored forces better able to deal with the invaders. A knight on a war-horse with a lance or a great sword, might have stood a better chance than a hunter with a bow and skinning knife.
    It made him think of Grandfather in Nakhanor City meeting with the