Bloodraven Read Online Free PDF Page B

same, with eyes that were cold and intelligent and assessing.
    He was very large, the creature that held Yhalen’s hands above his head, a good two heads taller than Yhalen himself, and rippling with dense muscle—but his body, under the beaten metal armor and the creaking black leather that adorned it, wasn’t blocky, or stout like his larger brethren. Rather, it hinted at agile, supple strength and—one dared to hope—more human proportions. Granted, no human Yhalen had ever seen was so large, but it wasn’t out of the range of possibility that a man might be born of such stature. But compared to the other ogres, this one with his dangling trinkets and fine armor and long broadsword hanging from his belt was a dwarf. He stood an arm’s length shorter than the smallest of his brethren and was probably half their weight, and yet still they seemed to afford him great respect. Even the largest of them wouldn’t quite meet the eyes of this smaller creature.
    Yhalen’s former earringed captor did, though. There was something akin to malicious humor in his eyes when he spoke, inclining his head in an almost mocking manner as he indicated Yhalen himself. It seemed as if he were being presented as a token or a gift from one to the other. Why or for what purpose, Yhalen had no clue, but the smaller ogre spoke a few words to one of the large ones at his back, and that one swept Yhalen up under its arm and carted him out of the cluster of ogres, under the heavy flaps of the tent behind them and into shadowed darkness.
    He was dumped unceremoniously onto a low pallet covered with furs. It had been made to accommodate someone of an ogre’s stature and Yhalen was dwarfed upon it. He didn’t protest when the ogre dragged his hands over his head and fastened the rope to the wooden frame of the pallet. He left him soon after, retreating back outside the tent to join in the loud discussion between its fellows.
    Yhalen curled on his side and lay there, listening to the sound of his own hammering heart and the rumbling voices of the ogres outside that gradually retreated, leaving only the background noises of a large encampment. It was the most comfort and peace that he’d had for two days. A body could almost find itself lulled to sleep on soft, clean furs, if the prospect of what horror the future would bring didn’t keep him coiled and tense and frightened.
    Father would be so ashamed, he thought, pressing his face into the crook of his arm. Father who was the proud, fearless protector of the Ydregi—who expected nothing less from his only offspring. If Father
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    only knew how badly Yhalen had disgraced himself, how irrevocably his honor had been shredded, both by his own deeds and the actions of others. He didn’t know if he could face him again—didn’t know if he could stand beneath the censure of his father’s eyes and not shrivel in upon himself. He couldn’t even fathom meeting the eyes of Yherji’s father and Yhakinor’s bondmate.
    It must have been hours that he lay, immersed in his misery—for when the heavy flaps of the tent next shifted, there was the purple light of evening outside. Yhalen tensed, almost not wanting to see what entered, but to his vast relief it was only a human man. One of the collared, bearded slaves, with skin and hair so pale that Yhalen had never seen the like. The mostly naked man lugged a large pail of water, which he poured into a bronze basin.
    “Help me....”
    Was that Yhalen’s voice, so hoarse and shaky that it was almost unrecognizable as his own?
    Pale blue eyes flicked his way. The broad, lined face held no emotion, no empathy for Yhalen’s plight.
    “Please,” he whispered, as disheartened by that blank stare as by anything else he’d seen in this camp.
    The slave made no motion that he’d even heard. Maybe he didn’t understand Yhalen’s words at all.
    He left, taking his empty bucket with him and soon after the tent flap shifted again, this time under the hand of