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with night sounds breaking the stillness of the forest—Yhalen stood trembling on rubbery legs, head down and breathing harsh, like a beast driven too far, too long. His bladder
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    ached, full and hard from a day forced to hold it in, but the ogres had no care for tending him in such matters or releasing him to let him tend himself, so, able to contain it no more, his body forced release and the urine dribbled down his legs, hot and stinging the scratches on his skin.
    He hadn’t even the presence of mind to feel mortification. Just stood there and shook until the ogre into whose care he’d been given loomed over him and without warning knocked him from his feet.
    Yhalen hit the ground face first, an ungainly sprawl of legs that the brute squatted down and seized, catching both ankles in one hand and drawing them back towards Yhalen’s head, bowing his body painfully as the end of the leash around his neck was twined about his ankles. His thighs screamed protest at the awkward position, but there was no choice but to strain to inch his legs closer to keep the noose from choking him.
    He was abandoned like that, after a cruel chuckle from the ogre, to lay gasping for what air he could suck in through the tightening loop around his throat. Through spinning, wavery vision he watched them set up their crude camp. Listened to the gruff rumble of their voices as they spoke amongst each other. One of them came back with game and they sat about skinning it and spitting it and watching the meat sizzle over the flames. They looked his way a few times and he quaked in dread, but they made no move to come and torment him.
    Once after their meal had been consumed, their leader padded over and crouched over Yhalen. The ogre ran one speculative finger down the taut bowed line of Yhalen’s chest and tummy, lingered at his unprotected groin and nudged the limp flesh at the juncture of his legs. The ogre whispered something that might have been a question. Yhalen hardly knew. Yhalen hardly had the sense to rationalize anything, the terror so completely overwhelmed his mind and body. He hadn’t even the power to shut his eyes and block out the hated face with its yellow eyes and its gold nose ring and dangling ear hoops. The ogre spoke again, softly to himself, then rose and retreated back to the company of his fellows.
    Yhalen didn’t sleep. He couldn’t, with his muscles screaming in pain and strangulation imminent should he let his body relax. When they released him in the morning, ready to take up their march again, his legs were good for nothing, no matter how hard they yanked at his leash or shoved at him to make him walk. With blood in his mouth from their encouragement and his legs cramping so badly that tears streamed down his cheeks, he was tossed over an armored shoulder and carried. He did sleep then—plunged into blessed oblivion for some time until he was woken abruptly by the cold touch of water enveloping his body.
    His reflexive gasp for breath succeeded only in filling his lungs with water and it wasn’t until a large hand hauled him up by the hair that he was able to gag and choke and spew the water out. He was dunked again, in short order and held there, regardless of frantically kicking legs and twisting body, while sand was scrubbed over his skin, roughly washing away the grime and blood. He was allowed air once more, helped up by a grip on his upper arms, with his feet dragging the surface of the stream, while the ogre peered at him critically. Apparently satisfied, it flung him to the sandy beach where he landed on his knees. It splashed out of the water behind him and drew from its belt a large, wicked knife, every bit as long as Yhalen’s sword had been. Longer, and yet in the ogre’s hand it seemed short and stubby.
    Yhalen cringed, but it only grasped his arm and sliced through the ropes binding his hands behind his back. After two days bound, his arms fell numb and useless to his sides. His hands were red