Malice Reflected in Black and Blood E-Book

H.G. Sansostri

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

The empty wastes of the Deuvick Feldanas are host to nothing but endless snow, with decrepit ghost towns dotting the plains. Anyone foolhardy enough to brave the open will be met by a relentless blizzard; even wolves and other beasts value their life more than to venture into this desolate wasteland.

For a fugitive, however, crude survival is a luxury.

After a chance encounter, Corsair Sedrid and his companions recover from the aftermath of Grand Wolf Plains amidst familiar company. They know their next mission: track down and rescue the exiled Ragnar Sedrid. There is no cost too great.

But the expedition is not without its obstacles. Cutthroat fanatics seek dominion with sharpened sabre in paw, and zealous egomania lauds over underground slaves in search of forbidden antiques. Long-forgotten vestiges of abhorrent history lay hidden beneath the heartless rock.

An unfathomable evil stirs below snow and stone, ready to awaken... and bring destruction to their world.

Leseprobe

MALICE REFLECTED IN BLACK AND BLOOD

VOS DRAEMAR

BOOK TWO

H. G. SANSOSTRI

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

A Poisoned Vestige of a Bygone Era (1139, Auxiom)

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Relics of Some Bygone Mistake (1139, Auxiom)

The Infiltration of Bokgohorodiskar (1139, Auxiom)

A Den of Crumbling Stone (1139, Auxiom)

The Encircling of Bokgohorodiskar (1139, Auxiom)

Beneath Snow, Blood and History (1139, Auxiom)

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

A Tenuous Alliance’s End (1139, Auxiom)

Chapter 19

A Tour Through a Traitor’s Hard Work (1139, Auxiom)

A Rendezvous of Stout Carnage (1139, Auxiom)

Chapter 20

The Cornering of the Tseontaeg (1139, Auxiom)

The Festered Reinvigoration of Royal Blood (1139, Auxiom)

Chapter 21

The Unearthed Affairs of a Bygone Age (1139, Auxiom)

Epilogue

About the Author

Copyright (C) 2022 H.G. Sansostri

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Elizabeth N. Love

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Malice Reflected in Black and Blood has been a real fight to get finished. Just like The Sharpened Fangs of Lupine Spirit, I completed the first draft for this book back in 2017 by writing a chapter a day after my GCSE studies. It’s gone through so many iterations, had so much added and stripped away, kept me up to 3am across countless nights hunting for that surge of creative inspiration…until now. The second instalment in the Vos Draemar saga proudly emerges from the snowy wastes to share another segment of this story that’s been years in the making.

As always, I have many people to thank for their persisting support in all my creative endeavours. These people have all helped me get to where I am today and have never let up. Each one played such a critical part in getting this book out there – whether they read my early drafts, created the magnificent cover and maps, or retweeted important posts on the book account.

Thank you to Adam Pickering, my illustrator, who designed the jacket and maps for the book. I have a longstanding work relationship with Adam stemming all the way back to almost ten years ago now and his talent for creating such great pieces of work and being receptive to design instruction has never waned. He suffered through long COVID during the process of getting the designs done and I can only admire his dedication to his passion that helped him persist despite being sick. As always, I look forward to working with Adam again in the future.

Thank you to Next Chapter for taking me on and making the Vos Draemar series a reality. I remember getting their acceptance email back in September 2020 and how ecstatic I felt reading it. I appreciate the tremendous value of the opportunity they’ve given me and I am thankful.

Thank you to author Stewart Bint for all his assistance, guidance and support. Stewart has always lent me an ear when I’ve needed to consult him, has been kind enough to read early drafts of my work, and has mentored me since The Little Dudes Skool Survival Guide. As always, I am honoured to have your ongoing guidance.

Thank you to my family; my siblings Charlie and Christian, my parents Francesco and Deborah. The Sansostris have been the bedrock of all this from the moment I started writing stories in primary school. They’ve chauffeured me to readings, they’ve provided insight and opinion on the book covers, and they’ve regarded my work with an inexhaustible passion and love like no other.

And, finally, thank you to the reader. I’m happy to see you again after the first instalment, crossing paths at the very front of the book. Every word of praise and critique, every review and rating, could be measured in gold. The fact you are here again, that you are invested in this world of mine enough to venture into the breach once more, is a reward like no other. Thank you.

Grazie di tutto,

HG Sansostri

PROLOGUE

“Someone! Somebody!”

Ragnar jolted awake, ears upright and eyes wide. He fumbled for the crude knife he had scavenged from an abandoned homestead and raised it up, scanning left and right for any movement. His chest heaved under the duress of anticipation.

Nothing moved.

Three thuds at the door.

“Help! I need help!”

Ragnar turned. He sat atop a wad of old sheets in the back corner of the shack, comprised of nothing more than a kitchen, a dining table, and a collapsing bookshelf shoved into a small room. The flimsy walls trembled and shook with every pound of the stranger’s fist on the door, looking to Ragnar for guidance.

He eased himself onto his hind paws, exhausted, and stepped over his meagre pantry of allocated rations. Every morsel hardened with apathy towards Ragnar’s teeth and tongue, proving almost inedible to the extent that he could not envisage a starving ictharr stooping low enough to eat.

He could hardly complain while such a long way from the comfort of Peter’s mediocre culinary skills.

Creeping towards the window hazed by cracks and snow, he peered out.

The Deuvick Feldanas surrendered itself to the unforgiving blizzard that tore across its open plains. All that dared to challenge the unrelenting cold succumbed before long, driving those with any sense indoors or underground. The freezing winds nipped and bit at Ragnar as they blustered past, shoving their tiny fangs through the small gaps in the wooden boards. He winced.

For miles around, he saw nothing but a desolate wasteland.

Nothing survived out there.

He panned his gaze over to the door.

Even though the blizzard hindered his sight, a dread of familiar intensity crept onto his shoulders the moment he set eyes on the thing at the door.

“It’s in me! Help! Help!”

A figure, hunched over, attacked the door in a desperate fervour he had never seen. Maw wide in an eternal howl of pain, they continued their assault on the entrance. Ragnar noticed a cord-like shadow protruding from their back, masked by the blizzard.

What is wrong with them?

The figure screamed, crying. Ragnar’s ears folded down and his tail curled. He glanced back to the door on the opposite side of the room. Beyond it sat the remains of the bedroom, no more than rubble and snow, and the outside world.

I could run.

He steeled himself. The four walls of the structure, as flimsy as they were, kept him alive. Venturing out into the open plains in such turbulent weather would be suicide. He could not afford to concede his ground. His heart raced, every muscle in his body tensed, and he clutched the knife in his paw as hard as he could to reassure himself that he was not defenceless.

If they come in, I won’t hesitate. If they come in, I won’t hesitate.

The figure slammed their shoulder against the door twice, each collision making Ragnar wince in anticipation before they stepped back. The figure shrieked and screamed, clawing at its front as if to fend off some invisible force.

Ragnar’s gaze shifted to its back as he saw a shadow scuttle over its shoulder and out of view. The sight pushed him a step from the window, his gaze still focused on the wailing figure as it turned and stumbled off into the blizzard with cord trailing through the snow.

“It’s in me! Someone! Anybody!”

Ragnar remained absolutely still, chest heaving. He strained his ears to ensure he could not hear any trace of the figure’s deranged screaming, not daring to leave his vantage point, until he let out a sigh of relief. He slid the knife back into his belt.

A week had passed since he had been forced over the border at the Deuvick Feldanas’ Approach, given nothing but some measly supplies to last a couple of days and a cloak. He had wandered through abandoned villages and homesteads, ransacking what little remained of the crumbling structures, and continued east in the hopes of crossing the north-eastern clan border and returning home to reunite with his family.

Yet he had been forced to hunker down for the past day, left with nothing but his guilt. The storm refused to yield, surging through the empty plains, and he knew attempting to travel through it whilst completely exposed would seal his fate.

Amidst his guilt, he found fear; feeble and pup-like, stumbling around on weak legs, yet nonetheless growing stronger with every morsel of thought he fed it.

All these buildings…all these villages…abandoned. Why? What happened? Why isn’t anyone out here?

A floorboard creaked meters behind him.

A voice snarled in a foreign language. Ragnar failed to understand the command, set on turning to confront whoever had crept up behind him, before the far more familiar tone of a blade being drawn from its scabbard emanated.

“I surrender,” Ragnar blurted out, paws up. “Don’t hurt me. I surrender.”

His submission summoned hesitant murmurings. His captors conspired in hushed voices as they leered at his back, debating what to do with him. The stalled encounter gave Ragnar time to think, to calm his thundering heart and to ponder a plan of action.

All he could think of was the knife; desperate, inefficient, and incapable of warding off a strong blade.

I’ll be dead before I even take one swing.

“You want food?” he said, composing himself. “I don’t have much but you can take some. I’m sure you need it, right?”

“Sedrid,” a voice spoke. “No move.”

Ragnar tensed.

They know my name?

Approaching steps traversing creaking boards, all of which groaned out warnings of the impending danger, brought him back to more urgent matters. Someone stopped behind him and pulled the dagger out, tossing it aside.

“I’m a friend,” Ragnar said. “I promise you. Just—"

One sharp tug at his throat interrupted his plea, yanking him back as the bent elbow of his captor dug in. Ragnar’s paws flew up to mount resistance, grasping his captor’s arm, but his efforts were soon thwarted by the dark rag that was forced over his mouth and nose. Ragnar gagged as his senses were assaulted by the potent smell of whatever concoction the rag had been doused in, a sweet taste upon his tongue to soften the blow of the stench. In seconds, the little he had inhaled took effect. Heavy blocks of ice attached to his arms by chains, dragging them towards the floor, and snow weighed down his eyelids. His grunts and snarls descended in volume until they were no more than struggled pleas and pathetic whimpers. He became inebriated by his own concoction of terror and confusion as the oblivion of unconsciousness forced itself upon him.

Without so much as a glimpse of his attackers, Ragnar Sedrid passed out.

CHAPTERONE

Stumbling through the dense foliage of the jungle, breath wild and haggard, came a young grey feline. Her white dress, a symbol of her affluence, had been torn at the hem by the thorny vines intent on bringing her to a halt. Blood oozed from the grievous gash across her left forearm, trickling across the red soil. Her rapier bled in solidarity from the tip, leaving behind droplets of crimson that once belonged to the adversary she had slain.

Agonised and exhausted, she wanted nothing more than to stop and rest.

The yells of her pursuers forbade such a luxury.

“She’s over here!”

“We’re going to gut you for what you did, rebel!”

“Run all you want, you’re as good as dead!”

“The hearth damns you, killer! You’re going to die, cold and scared!”

The young feline continued her desperate escape. She tore through the jungle, weaving between the mighty tree trunks and leaping over the gangly roots. Clouds of red soil kicked up from her hind paws, trodden vegetation left in her wake.

Her own mind proved to be an unnavigable labyrinth of trees and foliage; the terror of death, of plummeting into the scorching embrace of the hearth so young, spurred her on to keep running without regard for direction. There was no room for strategy or thinking; panic had complete dominion over the fearful cat and it compelled her to flee.

Hearth below, please do not forsake me. Hearth below, please do not let me perish now.

Persevering, she struggled through the shrubbery and stumbled out onto an open road. The stretch of red soil ran towards the horizon, flanked either side by walls of trees and vines. Her panic drove her two steps down the road, the nausea of exhaustion dizzying her.

Her panic relented for a moment and, during that brief clarity, she realised the stupidity of such a move.

They shall catch me out here. No cover. No place to cower.

With time scarce, she sought shelter in the mess of leaves and shrubbery opposite where she had stumbled out. She afforded herself a few seconds to wade in as far as she could before going prone on her side, tucking her knees into her stomach. She cradled her wounded arm against her chest. Her hopes of survival became vested in the green leaves that covered her, shielding the cowering cat from the violent reprisal her pursuers sought to deliver.

There, in the strained silence, she closed her eyes and prayed.

Please do not let them hurt me. Please, gracious hearth below, I beg of you. If there is ever a moment I desired your grace…it is now. Grant me a shred of mercy.

The raid had gone horribly wrong. She had known failure, bloody and gruesome, to be the plan’s fate the moment she had been forced into it. An attempted heist of a Silverclaw treasury reserve was suicide to anyone who boasted common sense. The moment the group had walked through the doors, brazen and proud, they had sworn themselves to brutal destiny.

Hearth below, I did not want this. I was forced into this horrid servitude. Please do not punish me. I beg of you – I truly, truly beg of you – please let me live.

She was but a young’un. She bared no cruel desire to thieve, to pluck from others for her own gluttonous gain, and neither did she bare the desire to maim and slaughter as her compatriots did. She wanted security. She wanted the familiarity of Vontarlov’s buildings and palaces. She wanted to doze in her bed.

She wanted home. Each tear she shed was a wish for her to be stolen away from all the horrors she had seen.

As she cleared her eyes, her pursuers arrived.

The Treasury Overseers stole out onto the road. First came three, Kabar sabres raised in anticipation of an ambush from their quarry, and then soon followed five as they stopped in the open. Another five hurried out, adhering to a spread line bringing up the rear.

“She’s not on the road,” one reported.

“She must have kept running,” their leader grunted.

“We’ve chased her a while,” another said. “We should get back to the treasury.”

“I’m not letting another rebel slip out of our grasp,” the leader said. “It’s one less militant we’ll have to deal with. Rear guard, hold perimeter! Middle rank, cordon off this road.”

She stifled a gasp as he looked over to the opposite bank of the road.

“Forward rank, search the grounds ahead. Don’t take any chances.”

“Hasna,” a subordinate said, replying with an affirmative. “We will move.”

The front rank of three marched in her direction, blades low. The closing distance compelled her to retreat, to give up on her hiding place and flee for dear life, but the crossbows gripped by the road cordon dissuaded such a strategy. She considered surrender, yet it proved equally fruitless, only replacing the tarnished dignity of being shot in the back with the tarnished dignity of being shot in the face.

She winced as one Treasury Overseer waded into the foliage off to her left and cleaved through the plants, kicking away the decapitated debris and searching the ground. A second later, a second Treasury Overseer did the same to the right. To her relief, neither were on a trajectory for her position.

Except the one in the middle.

He cut down the plants and kicked them away, scanning the red soil, before driving in deeper. She contemplated easing back yet knew the slightest tremble of a leaf could give her away at such proximity.

Hearth below…holy Jjandiet…whoever can hear my cries, please! Spare me! I am innocent! I am terrified, please!

“Got anything?” centre called.

“Nothing here!” left yelled.

“Clear here!” right yelled.

“Come on out already!” centre called. “We mean you no harm, sister! We can talk this through!”

The Treasury Observer stopped just before her. He raised his sabre to cut through the undergrowth, absentminded to his duties. She braced herself for carnage, gripping her rapier, all the while knowing her demise was soon to be delivered.

Not now. Please, I beg you, not now.

“Hey!” a voice yelled. “Hey, we’ve got a caravan coming!”

The centre one turned. The concealed cat peered right and, to her relief, saw a distraction. A convoy of five transports rumbled down the soil road, thin mists of red left in their wake, and it got the Treasury Overseers’ attention.

“Cordon, hold!” the leader ordered. “Everyone hold!”

The convoy came to a stop before the cordon, halting in front of the feline. Despite her situation, the fugitive marvelled at the new arrivals. The transports were formed from dark wood and metal, sheets of white fabric erected as tents over the passengers to shield them from the sun’s glare. Mighty beasts painted mixtures of jagged white and black and grey stood stoic as the convoy eased to a halt, huffing and puffing in the heat of Silverclaw with their armour and harnesses covering their short-trimmed coats. Sat in the loading bays, arranged besides the banners draped over the side, were many wolf soldiers dressed in the dark surcoats of their clan. The unwavering heat caused them to shift in their seats, garments removed to reveal the chainmail shirts and shoulder pauldrons beneath. Some dared to sit bare-chested, panting in the sweltering warmth.

On the tents arranged over the transports, painted proud over the canvas, was the head of a black wolf thrown back in a howl.

Lupine soldiers?

She regarded the convoy with both terror and intrigue. Her kithood had been permeated with many a tale of the fearsome wolf knight; a marauder mounted on brutal steed intent on killing any who stood in their way, a warrior of fang and steel. Yet, from the safety of her concealed position, she saw gallantry. Composure. Discipline. She observed soldiers, as true to the word they could be.

History, a tenuous link of events established three decades prior, reminded her of who she gazed upon.

Our subjugators.

“Hey!” the leader yelled in Sikkharan. “We have runaway rebels in the area! Dismount, now! One flaming bottle is all it will take if you’re packed together so close!”

“What the hell are you saying?” the driver said in Lanzig.

The leader sighed, gesturing to a subordinate. They relayed his urgent warning in Lanzig and the driver then relayed said message back along the convoy. As it was carried to the central transport, the hidden cat eased herself back along the dirt. It created little distance, easily covered in half a step, but it reassured her death was not so close.

Out of the middle transport, guarded by four wolves who had every strand of fur covered by plating, came a grey wolf. Fur silvering around his snout and shoulders, the senior lupine was followed by two smaller specimens; an adolescent wolf, blue-eyed and stroppy, and a bashful pup no older than ten. He clung to his brother as if for his life yet regarded the world around him with excited eyes, only held back from sprinting off into the jungle by the warnings his parents had given him. One of the heavily-armoured soldiers ruffled the top of the young wolf’s head.

“U-uh,” the leader stammered. “W-Winter Baron Sedrid, I wasn’t made aware that you would be—”

“We are returning home from a tournament,” the father said. “We have matters to be seen to in the Land of the Sun and Moon. What’s the meaning of this obstruction?”

The leader brought the subordinate forwards with him, stopping just in front of the bodyguards’ perimeter.

“Winter Baron, I need you to get back in your transport and return up the road to safety. There is still a rebel out here, armed, and if they know that a wolf leader is travelling down this road then an ambush is poss—”

“My love?” a female voice called.

“It’s all right, Ophelia!” the Winter Baron replied. “We’ll be moving shortly!”

The subordinate translated what the leader had said. Wolf soldiers began to disembark from the third and second transports, heaving shield and sword as they formed a defensive perimeter. The Treasury Overseers exchanged cold looks with them, muttering under their breath.

She watched the young wolf. An innocent curiosity directed his gaze in all directions, scrutinising the trees and the bugs and the plants. Nothing was spared from his adventurous desires and nothing could escape the keen sight of his green eyes. His older brother held his paw tight, watching his father talk to the team of Treasury Overseers.

The young wolf’s wandering gaze found her and came to an abrupt stop.

Through the tiniest of breaks in her cover, visible from only where he stood, he had found her.

She stared back, mouth open as if to plead yet holding herself to the silence that afforded her any chance of survival.

He is going to yell. He is going to cry out where I am.

In that eternal moment, filled with the potent dread of death, surrender seemed all the more tempting. If she stood and exclaimed her innocence, arms up high above her head, she would have to be spared. Not even a second of extra thought was needed to disparage that idea, knowing that she would be appealing to two parties that would both see her as nothing more than a bloodthirsty rebel.

All she could think to do was shake her head, pleading in silence.

Please. Please stay quiet.

The young wolf stared, uncertain, before he shifted his gaze to the Treasury Overseer standing over her. Another second of consideration passed, his tiny chest rising up and down as he prepared himself to yell. She could do nothing else but stare, waiting for her end.

The young wolf looked over his shoulder, pointed, and screamed.

All eyes focused on the convoy. The small wolf cowered behind his brother, hiding from the opposite bank of the road.

“Corsair!” the adolescent wolf yelled. “Wh—”

“There!” he cried, pointing into the jungle opposite. “Someone was there! They ran! They ran!”

The subordinate relayed the information to the leader. Without hesitation, they rallied the Treasury Overseers.

“She’s over here!” he yelled. “Converge! Get this convoy out of here now!”

The cohort hurried across the road and disappeared into the jungle, voices fading, and the small group left waved the wolves through. A maiden wolf hurried out the back of the transport and scooped up the youngest wolf, taking the adolescent by the arm and dragging them away. The four bodyguards hurried the Winter Baron back inside and the lupine troops rushed to their wagons, shields up and loud voices booming.

In the back, seated on his mother’s lap, Corsair Sedrid’s fear faded quickly. He peered over the shoulder of the soldier sat opposite, gaze focused on the depths of the jungle on the side of the road.

Corsair Sedrid stared at where she lay, acknowledging her terror in knowing silence, as the convoy whisked him away to safety. The remaining Treasury Overseers took off after their counterparts.

She lay there, alone and alive.

The pain of her wound was all that proved she still inhabited reality.

I am alive. I am alive!

An almost giddy sense of euphoria overcame her. She stood, dizzy with the ecstasy of survival, and offered herself a moment to thank the young wolf for his misdirection. Despite his youth, despite his innocent mind and lack of understanding, he had saved her. He had recognised her fear, had seen her terror, and spared her from a swift reunion with the hearth below.

Aadya Riskar, heaving from the exertion of near-death, turned and fled into the depths of the jungle.

* * *

Silence.

Lady Riskar stared at Corsair in bewilderment, as if to doubt he sat before her. The trembling wolf did not return the gaze. He knelt there, head hung and eyes closed.

The sight pained Rohesia.

He’s going to die if he doesn’t get warm.

Before she could even consider pleading for help, Lady Riskar spoke.

“Free them.”

The bandits looked up, confused, and questioned her in Sikkharan. Lady Riskar repeated her command, turning and gesturing to another bandit to surrender her cloak. Despite a moment of hesitation, she did as she asked. The troupe of brigands helped Corsair onto his hind paws and escorted him towards an ictharr, cloak hugging his shoulder. Quickpaw snarled and struggled against his restraints, making the bandits flinch.

“Where are you taking him?” Rohesia growled.

“We mean no harm to any of you,” Lady Riskar said. “We wish to escort Corsair back to our camp to facilitate his recovery.”

“Excuse me for not trusting you when I had touchy-feely holding a knife to my neck,” Axel said, shooting a look at Kilik.

“Don’t be a pup,” Kilik said.

“I promise you that all shall be explained in time,” Lady Riskar said. “We must make haste back to our camp. My captain will lead the way once you have finished whatever arrangements you must attend to.”

The bandits cut the ropes free from the ictharrs, stepping back with paws on the grips of their weapons. Quickpaw shot up and growled, pivoting where he stood. Arwenin rallied to his side immediately whilst Harangoth was slower, traipsing through the snow whilst snarling. The two other ictharrs hurried to them.

“It’s okay,” Rohesia said. “They’re going to help us.”

Quickpaw whimpered as Corsair was eased up onto the back of an ictharr.

“He’ll be okay, Quickpaw. I promise.”

Rohesia looked back to Corsair.

He better be.

The rider snapped at the reins and sped off into the woods, disappearing into the treeline. The infantry turned and marched off, sharing disappointed murmurs. Axel stared at Kilik as he walked around him and stopped beside Lady Riskar, arms down by his side.

“Before me and my companions venture ahead, I would like to ask as to the meaning of your journey out here,” Lady Riskar said. “Why is Corsair in such a wounded state? He is the prince of your clan, is he not?”

“Not anymore,” Axel said. “There’s been some sort of plot to throw out the Sedrids. They exiled his brother to the Deuvick Feldanas and then they tried to execute him.”

“What of Arthur Sedrid?”

“He’s dead,” Rohesia said. “And…so is his wife, Ophelia.”

Lady Riskar stared, blinking. The figures behind her shared confused looks.

“I have heard nothing of this,” she said. “There has been word of a war in the east but…this is completely unforeseen.”

“It’s the Opulusians,” Axel said. “Some sort of deal has been struck between the King of Opulus and Tiberius, the current Winter Baron. We broke Corsair out of his execution and we were going to venture north to look for Ragnar.”

“Dumb idea,” Kilik said. “Your friend would freeze to death before you could even find anywhere to take shelter.”

“As if you cared about his wellbeing a minute ago,” Axel scoffed.

“You really think we were going to kill you?”

“How about I hold a knife to your throat and see what you think of my intentions, buddy?”

Kilik stepped forwards but Lady Riskar put out an arm to stop him, defusing the situation in rapid Sikkharan. Kilik shook his head and backed off, walking around Lady Riskar and the behemoth to stop by the mysterious legionnaire’s side. The hound stood there, silent and brooding, with arbalest slung over his back.

“Perhaps it is best that we postpone our discussion for later,” Lady Riskar said. “Please see to your arrangements and follow my compatriots once you are ready. Come, Captain.”

Lady Riskar turned and walked into the treeline, the behemoth captain following her. All who remained comprised a small contingent of ten bandits, including Kilik and the mysterious hound.

An uncomfortable silence lingered between the two parties. Rohesia and Axel shifted their gaze from one bandit to the next, uncertain of their sudden generosity.

“We’ll be a moment,” the apothecary said, walking over to the two Krosguard soldiers and their steeds. Rohesia held her position for a moment longer, tense with distrust, before following Axel to the others. Quickpaw grumbled and trudged after them, leading Harangoth and Arwenin over to the convening.

Rohesia rounded on Axel.

“You could have gotten Corsair killed.”

Axel recoiled.

“What?”

“Why did you say his name? Why did you say his name when she asked?”

“What the hell are you talking about? I just got us out of that, didn’t I?”

“We didn’t know who they were. They could have ransomed us. They could have killed us and taken—"

“Did you forget that I had a knife to my throat? Did you forget that you were the one to blurt his name out in the first place? They already knew who he was. There’s not that many Corsairs running around the clan, is there?”

“That still—"

“Just leave it, Rohesia, God.”

Axel walked ahead to the Krosguard soldiers.

Arwenin followed behind, glaring at Rohesia as she passed. Quickpaw drew up next to the archer and looked back in the direction his master was taken, whimpering again.

“He’ll be fine. We’ll be right behind him.”

She saw her dagger tucked away into the snow, the grip poking out from beneath the white pillows. Snatching it up, she walked over to the meeting. Both Krosguard soldiers stood with helmets tucked under arms, swords picked up from the ground and back in their buckles.

“What’s your name?” Axel asked.

“Thomas Lerik,” he said.

“And you?”

“Dieter Fedellis.”

“Right, look, I’m gonna be straight with you. These people are offering to give us shelter to help Corsair get better. I don’t know where that is or where we’re going but…I don’t know if we’ll return to the clan for a while. There’s no turning back from this point. After what we did, we’re in it for the long haul. If you’ve got family to look after, now’s the time to bail.”

“I have no family,” Dieter said. “There’s nothing to go back for. I’m here.”

“I’m here too,” Thomas said. “I have family, but…I’ll see them again someday. I know it. I followed McVarn because I wanted to help. I’m not going back.”

Axel nodded.

“Thank you. I know it’s not an easy thing. Get your ictharrs ready, we’ll move out soon.”

The two Krosguard turned to make final adjustments to their ictharr’s saddles and prepare them for the journey ahead. Axel turned, meeting Rohesia’s gaze.

She stared.

“I get it. You don’t like me,” he said. “For whatever petty reason that is, I don’t care. Right now, we’re both wanted for breaking out a fugitive and we’re making friends with people who just sprung a trap on us. We’ve got bigger things to deal with so, at some point, you’re going to have to learn to get over whatever it is you hold against me.”

Rohesia didn’t answer. Axel muttered something under his breath, turning away and leading Arwenin towards the group of bandits. Harangoth and Quickpaw watched them walk away, the latter looking at Rohesia and mewling.

“Yeah, we’re going. Come on, you two.”

CHAPTERTWO

Corsair Sedrid, ten years old and with a wad of bandages pressed against the left side of his neck, lay in bed. Sheets swathed his tiny body, drawn up to his collarbone, and numerous pillows had been eased behind his back to let him sit up. Books and unused parchment lay strewn across the floor and his bed, a finished bowl of his mother’s food on his lap between his legs. Quickpaw, as small and frail as Corsair was, sat curled at his ankles. Sunlight beamed through the window and kept the loyal beast’s white coat warm, turning parts of it golden.

A knock at the door.

“Corsair?” a voice said, the comfort it brought harbouring a familiar warmth.

Corsair whimpered, fighting to turn his head left to face the door.

“Mummy?”

Corsair’s mummy eased the door open and peered inside, a smile on her face. She wore a red dress with white sleeves, her fur streaking in one smooth direction and her tail plaited.

“My brave little wolf.”

The lingering pain of the bite faded into nothing as he watched her enter, his little tail flicking beneath the bed covers. She padded over to his bedside and eased the bowl aside, easing down onto her knees and nuzzling the side of his head.

“You’ve eaten all your food, good,” she smiled, taking his paw. “The doctor said you were very well-behaved and didn’t complain when she changed your bandages.”

“Quickpaw helped me,” Corsair croaked.

“I’m sure he did,” Mummy said as she petted the sleeping ictharr, who proceeded to roll onto his back. “Such a good friend. You picked him well, my love.”

The comfort of his mummy’s visit, as enveloping as it was, trembled as a troubling question crossed the young wolf’s mind.

“Mummy?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Why…why did he…”

Mummy’s face faltered, her smile fading.

“Daddy is…he’s very sorry. Okay? He is very sorry and he’ll say that to you soon. Don’t worry about him, though, you just focus on getting better.”

“Why were…were you telling the doctor that Ragnee did…”

“Because you two were play fighting,” Mummy said, although the words came with far greater difficulty. “And you both got carried away and he bit too hard in the wrong place. Okay? Daddy is very sorry, and I’ll make sure he’s very sorry to you, but we can’t be telling friends about this. Okay?”

Corsair would have conceded. He would have hidden a thousand wrongdoings committed against him, stowed them away for the sake of her sanity, if he could have taken the chance. Whether it was right or wrong did not matter in that moment. He was safe, alive, and warm.

But the opportunity never came.

“You need to wake up.”

Corsair hesitated, confused. The sudden deadpan tone, the lack of warmth or love he associated with her, took him by surprise. She stared at him with a frozen face, body not moving.

“Mummy?”

The sound of hind paws creaking up the steps with purpose emanated from beyond the threshold. Corsair looked over at the ajar door, pushing himself back into the pillows as if to disappear.

“M-mummy, is that—”

Corsair looked back to his bedside.

All that remained was a shadow burned into where she had once knelt.

“Mummy?”

He looked over at where Quickpaw lay.

A shadow.

The sunlight withered.

The steps reached the landing and, as they approached, his mother spoke again. It emanated from the centre of his skull, reverberating through his being.

“You need to wake up.”

“Mummy!” Corsair tried to yell, his voice struggling. “Mummy, where are you?”

The steps reached the side of the door.

“You need to wake up.”

Corsair pulled the sheets up as the menacing figure arrived in the doorway, blood dripping from his maw. A silhouette of all he feared – of pain and isolation and death – loomed not three strides away. Wild eyes regarded the vulnerable pup with both rage and fear, encouraging the snarl that followed.

“You need to wake up.”

“Mummy!” Corsair screamed. “Ragnee!”

The figure hurried across the bedroom, kicking aside toys and furniture, with maw open wide. The fangs glistened with saliva and blood, the fateful bite that acted as father to his perpetual terror reflected in that hellish mouth.

“You need to wake up.”

Arthur Sedrid snatched his son from the bed and killed him in one bite.

“No, don’t!”

Corsair Sedrid shot up in his bed, eyes wide and chest heaving. His paw clutched that forbidden scar to hide it from the world, moving to serve its duty without much acknowledgement from the wolf. Panicked eyes swivelled in sockets, scanning the chamber for the monstrous form of his father.

A few seconds passed before he learned he was safe.

It wasn’t real.

A second after the thought crossed his mind, Corsair realised he had traded one harrowing event for a series of them.

That means—

“My friend?”

Corsair turned his head. Standing before him, clad in warm clothes and regarding him with a taken-aback look of concern, stood a deer. One brown eye stared back into his, the same shade as his fur coat that spilled over the collar of his green shawl, and a fringe of darker fur cascaded down over his left eye. His clothes were baggy, sleeves and trouser legs obscuring his form. He stood about as tall as Corsair did, too polite to overtake him by more than an inch in height.

Corsair stared, blinking.

“Friend? Are you okay?” the deer asked.

“W-who…”

Corsair groaned as his throat ached, stale from dehydration. It joined the chorus of bruised muscles that weakened his strength with their harmony, forcing him down onto the soft bed below.

“Easy. Don’t strain yourself. One moment.”

The deer hurried away.

Where am I?

Groaning, he turned onto his side. He found blue sheets to be clinging to his body, placed over him and the white mattress below. A plump pillow with an indent of his skull sat under his head. One glance around the room revealed numerous other beds like his pressed up against the grey walls of the corridor-like chamber, situated upon dark floorboards. A small aisle cut through the middle, flanked by ten untouched beds on either side. A desk laden with books and equipment, all meticulously organised, sat left of the door at the other end.

Where am I?

The deer hurried down the aisle, a pitcher of cold water in hand.

“Here. This will soothe your throat.”

Corsair struggled to sit up. The deer placed the pitcher on the floor and eased the wolf into a sitting position before passing him the water. Without hesitation, he poured the pitcher back into his mouth and winced as the icy tides soothed his pained throat.

“There you go,” the deer said. “Better?”

Corsair pulled the pitcher away and exhaled, wiping the beads of water from the fur around his maw. He passed it back to the deer, who placed it on the bedside table.

“Where am I?” Corsair said.

“Our infirmary. The Deuvick Feldanas.”

Corsair blinked. The deer frowned.

“Do…do you not remember anything?”

The wolf sat there, flummoxed. All except the chaos and carnage of the execution eluded him.

Painfully, he could not say the same for the events prior.

His mother’s death.

The blood on Valour’s sword.

The impenetrable silence that followed.

The look of pain on her face.

He felt the sting of tears.

“I-I…no. No, I don’t remember anything.”

“That’s okay.”

The deer offered a hand forward, smiling.

“I’m Ralwyndr, physician. I’ve been tending to you for the last day.”

Corsair hesitated, lost in his thoughts, before he shook it.

“Nice to meet you, Ralwyndr. I’m…”

He paused. Every passing second made the atmosphere more oppressive. Despite the sterile environment, it could not be cleaned of the misery that clung to the walls. The guilt permeated the air. Every waking moment stung as his eyes did.

“I’m sorry, I…”

“Don’t be sorry. What you’re experiencing must be hard.”

“You heard?”

“A little bit. Midamle was kind enough to fill me in when you arrived.”

“Who is mida…mida…?”

“Ah, sorry!” Ralwyndr chuckled. “I am still coming to grips with Lanzig. Midamle is Arstharsaan for milady. Arstharsaan is the language of my country.”

Corsair nodded. The encroaching dark proved difficult to fight in silence – every moment let the tragedy creep an inch closer from all sides, threatening to swallow him whole and leave him stranded as a hysteric mess – yet the lack of acquaintance with Ralwyndr forced him into silence. It didn’t feel right pouring his emotions out to someone who didn’t know he existed until a day prior.

But then, in that moment, an urgent question forced itself to the front.

Rohesia. Axel. Quickpaw.

“Where are they?”

Ralwyndr offered a warm smile.

“I assume you mean your friends and mounts? To ask of their wellbeing so quickly shows you truly care about them. They are doing well, my friend, and are stationed here with the house until your…your, uh…”

“Condition?”

“No…I think the one beginning with S?”

“Situation?”

“Yes, thank you. Until your situation is addressed.”

“How long do I wait for that to happen?”

Both Corsair and Ralwyndr turned their heads when a knock came from the door.

“Not nearly as long as I thought. One moment.”

Ralwyndr stood and walked down the aisle to the door, opening it slightly to peer out the crack. Corsair strained his ears to hear the conversation but found it to be drowned out by the blizzard raging beyond the four walls shielding him.

Even being left alone for a couple of seconds terrified the wolf.

Ralwyndr looked over his shoulder.

“Are you okay to speak?”

“I’m okay.”

Ralwyndr nodded and stepped back, holding the door open for the new visitor. The figure hurried in, burgundy coat moulded against their body by the wind on their back, before Ralwyndr shut the door and sealed the torrential wind outside. The grey cat was small in stature – she stood half a head from Ralwyndr’s height – yet Corsair did not make the mistake of assuming her to be meek. The feline moved with a confident gait, startingly elegant in even the most minute of movements, and she exuded a sense of lenient authority. Her fur protruded into a small spike at the cheek and her tail, end dipped in white paint, swished and flicked.

Lady Riskar made eye contact with Corsair.

“Good afternoon,” she said. “Do you possess a title I must refer to you as before speaking?”

“Uh, Corsair,” Corsair said. “That works fine.”

Lady Riskar nodded. Ralwyndr took her coat and hung it up on the solitary stand behind the door before picking up a broom and cleaning away the snow tracked in. A blue dress with white puffy sleeves adorned Lady Riskar. She walked down the aisle and sat on the bed opposite Corsair, tucking her dress beneath her before crossing one leg over the other.

“Do not feel as if you need to speak. I am here merely to make this rude awakening seem far more…tolerable, I suppose.”

Corsair said nothing.

“Your current situation is…difficult,” she began tentatively. “I am unable to even fathom such devastation brought upon you and your family over the last few days. My sincerest and ever-persisting condolences, Corsair.”

He didn’t say anything. He averted his gaze and remained silent. She continued.

“I am sure you have a plethora of questions. Ralwyndr, our talented doctor, informed me you recalled little prior to our meeting. I assume my face is beyond recollection, too?”

Corsair looked over at her. As he made eye contact again, holding it for a few seconds, a piece fell into place. He remembered those two eyes staring out at him from a bush, her mortified face pleading for mercy. He remembered how terrified she had looked and how, in that moment, his own terror had transitioned into sympathy.

“You’re…you’re from ten years ago. In Xyutar.”

Lady Riskar smiled and offered her paw.

“Aadya Riskar.”

Corsair, despite it all, scoffed and shook it.

“This is…wow, this is odd.”

“The feeling is mutual, I assure you,” she giggled, offering a laugh so polite Corsair almost expected it to introduce itself. “Yet it does not tarnish the bravery of what you did. You, Corsair, saved me from death at such a young age of innocence. I cannot boast such courage in my adulthood, nor such spontaneous thinking. What motivated your heroics?”

He saw that face of fear again – saw the look of someone so engulfed in the ceaselessness of confusion and pain at the precipice of a horrid end – and with it came a flash of his younger self lying in bed.

“I don’t know. I saw you were scared and…I guess I knew what that was like.”

“Aptly put,” Lady Riskar said. “Thank you for your introspection. I am not just here to merely satisfy my qualms of the past, however. I am here to acquaint you with what has transpired in the last day.”

She went on to explain the entire scenario – the ambush, the interrogation, the promise to elaborate on their circumstances at a later time – all accompanied by her elevated vernacular. The wolf remained silent throughout. Ralwyndr sat at his desk, working as if they were not there.

After a few minutes, she finished.

“Do you understand all I have said?”

Corsair nodded.

“You found us in the North of the clan, recognised me, and then brought me here to help me.”

“We suspected you would not last long—”

“After trying to rob us.”

Lady Riskar conceded in a pause, nodding.

“Difficult circumstances. I am truly sorry.”

“Did you hurt them? Quickpaw? Rohesia?”

“No one was harmed and that was always the intention. Merely a show of force.”

“You had a knife put to my friend’s neck.”

“I swear my soul upon the flame of the hearth below, Corsair. I do not do so lightly. Our decorum aside, I would never have allowed for harm to have come to your friends.”

Corsair’s mild hostility softened, the truth of her words evidenced by the manner in which he had been treated, yet he still regarded her with healthy suspicion.

“I believe you.”

“I am glad. I would never intend to deceive you. Not with foul motive, at least. All shall be explained to you and your cohort in time.”

Corsair nodded yet, as much as he tried to focus on the conversation, he could not repel the mounting anguish his awakening brought. The events of the past day struck him deep and summoned a whimper that he only partially suppressed, accompanied by the sting of tears. He hid his face in his paws and hunched over.

“Corsair?” Lady Riskar said.

He raised a paw to stop her, taking a moment to steel himself against the storm.

She’s dead because of you.

He yanked himself back from the edge, announcing his pyrrhic victory with a shaky exhale.

“The last day…it…it hurts. It just…it just hurts so much.”

“I am certain,” Aadya said. “A conspiracy to overthrow your family is not something easy to digest, let alone palatable. The Opulusians seem to be making a habit of putting their snouts where they don’t belong.”

“You’re right about that,” Corsair said, almost snarling.

“But I was informed of a sibling. An exiled brother?”

All thoughts of his tragic circumstances, in unison, turned and rallied around the memory of Ragnar Sedrid. Corsair sat more upright and his body stiffened ever so slightly with both tension and dread.

“Ragnar? Have you found him?”

“I wish I could say yes and quell all your troubles, Corsair, yet we do not even know how your sibling looks. Of similar appearance to you, no doubt, but…we are as befuddled to his location as yourself. You ventured out here to search for him?”

“Yes. That and then escape to another country but…then I was captured.”

“And almost executed.”

“Yes.”

“I see. Troubling.”

Corsair eased the sheets away from him, groaning, and planted his hind paws on the cold boards. Looking down at himself, he saw that is undergarments had been replaced with a grey dress-like thin gown cascading down to his ankles. Ralwyndr looked over his shoulder, a concerned look upon his face.

“Please don’t strain yourself. There’s no weakness in rest, my friend.”

“I’m fine,” Corsair said, turning his gaze to Aadya. “Thank you for helping us. By the sound of what you said, we were in a bad situation.”

“Indeed so.”

“But I need your help. I need to find Ragnee. He’s all I have left of my family. If he’s out here, waiting for me, I can’t just sit in bed and let him freeze to death.”

Aadya hesitated. He pushed.

“I know it’s a lot to ask but I need this. He needs it. He’ll die if I don’t find him.”

“Apologies, Corsair, I…it is a difficult situation. Conditions are not so hospitable out here. Search parties venturing out into the plains are not advisable.”

“Blizzards are far from a worry for me, Aadi. I’ve grown up in the freezing cold my whole life. If I need to walk miles across freezing snow and ice, I’ll—”

“I was not referring to the blizzard.”

Corsair frowned.

He noticed Ralwyndr had stopped working.

“Then…then what are you referring to?”

CHAPTERTHREE

A splitting headache greeted Ragnar as he awoke.

The wolf groaned in pain, clamping his eyes shut and grinding his teeth together. His head throbbed to the beat of a drum, slow and steady.

He couldn’t see anything. All that greeted him was beige, beams of light piercing the fog and causing him to wince.

A bag over his head, secured around the neck.

He felt cold air against his nose, far weaker than the blizzard he had endured prior, but that hole cut into the bag was the only liberty his captors had given him. The rest of his head had been sealed away underneath a sack of coarse material, string applying some pressure around his neck.

He reached up to remove it but his paws moved in unison, pressed against each other.

Bound at the wrist.

Panic crept in.

Where am I? What’s happening?

He focused on what was occurring beyond the obscurity of the bag. First, he noticed the sound of wheels turning and the crunching of snow.

A carriage.

Second, he noticed the light penetrating the holes in the bag. A yellow hue awaited him on the other side, the sun’s desperate attempt to communicate.

It’s daytime.

Third, he noticed the voices.

Murmurs of Sikkharan came from all sides, belonging to a variety of unknown individuals. The words proved alien to him – he couldn’t pull any meaning from a single syllable – but their tones were jovial. Abrupt laughter interrupted the peace, coming from his left and right at different intervals.

He didn’t want to know what they were so happy about.

Focusing again, he heard a new voice pierce the Sikkharan cacophony.

Someone speaking Lanzig.

“Hey! What the hell are you going to do with us? Let us go!”

A voice scolded the panicked outcry in Sikkharan, followed by brief scalding laughter, but Ragnar didn’t care for that. His ears stood to almost poke holes in the top of the bag, his head turning to the right.

Someone else is here. Wolves, they have to be. I’m not alone.

The sense of isolation evaporated with that hope – the possibility of being stranded in a bad situation with others – but it did not break through the lingering dread. He was still sitting in the back of a transport with a bag on his head, held captive by brigands taking him to a place under mysterious motives.

Fear bit at him.

Panicking will get me killed. I need to stay calm and wait for an opportunity.

As those words crossed his mind, a muffled yell of Sikkharan came from the front of the carriage and the transport eased to a stop. One captor delivered an order to their comrades before dropping down out the back.

Ragnar tensed as multiple steps creaked across the carriage floor. A scratchy voice yelled at them, battering the floor with the something hard. While Ragnar did not understand a word they were saying, the ferocity of which they struck the ground spurred him to stand up. A paw grabbed his arm and marched him towards the back of the carriage.

“Go,” a voice said.

Before Ragnar could say anything, the brigand shoved him off the back of the wagon. He stumbled out, barely keeping himself balanced, before another captor grabbed him and forced Ragnar upright. The soft winds breezed by, caressing his face as they went, but even its softer temperament made him tremble.

The captor let go of his arm. Ragnar did not dare move. He stood motionless; breath held in his lungs in anticipation. He could not stop himself from imagining numerous thugs with crossbows aimed at his head, waiting for the slightest hint that he would flee.

Or maybe we’re just target practice and I’m going to die if I don’t run.

He pushed that thought away. If they had wanted him dead, they would have killed him back in the cabin. There was a reason to his capture, even if he did not yet understand it.

A rumbling voice issued an order. A group of voices responded in unison before, a second later, Ragnar felt the string around his neck being unknotted.

With little to no ceremony, the despotic bag was removed from his head. He winced as the sunlight attacked his eyes, far too ferocious in its greeting, before they adjusted and surveyed the scene.

Crowded around a wagon, white sheets arcing over the loading bay, stood ten masked thugs. Each goon’s face was concealed by the glint of a steel mask strapped over black fabric encompassing the head, two jagged points coming down on either side of the face before reuniting as one just above the chin. All had been taken to by an artist’s brush, decorated in varying designs and murals all carrying the motif of a burning crimson orb of flame spilling out of a feline’s fanged maw. Two eyeholes proved to be the only lapses in their metal envisage, revealing cruel and uncaring eyes that regarded him with hatred. Padded white coats and dark trousers shielded the brutish cutthroats from the cold, thick collars buttoned around their necks and leather gloves covering their paws. Their thin tails were sheathed in the same thick padding of their coats, knotted at the base.

Ragnar looked left and right. He stood in a line of six wolves, all dressed in similar padded coats as he was. They all stood with tails curled behind them and ears flattened, nervous eyes shifting from one armed goon to the next.

While most of their names remained vague, his recognition of their faces was earmarked with a surge in guilt. It billowed in his stomach at the sight. It mixed with the dread already suffocating him, creating a potent concoction that pushed itself into every corner of his body. It proved almost nauseous standing so close to the elements of his own stupid mistake.

Looking away, he saw a graveyard of ruined stone structures standing around them. The decapitated pillars and crumbled paving leered at the newcomers from all sides, murmuring to the wind in disgust. Ornate patterns etched into the masonry were faded with time, as forgotten as the people who had left them there.

What is this?

The ruins’ evident decay from the passing years and decades bothered him no longer; instead, he was bothered by their purpose. All across the Deuvick Feldanas he had found abandoned villages: homes and town halls hollowed out of both people and history, lost to time and snow. Yet the ruins seemed purely decorative and ceremonial, proud in the open for none to see. It offered no shelter, it offered no warmth, and it offered no purpose beyond solitary servitude to the spot it occupied.

Like it’s marking this place.

A single pair of steps crunched through the snow towards the line, prompting Ragnar to turn his head with ears raised.

A lone thug stood between the crowd of goons behind him and the line of wolves, swathed in similar clothes. The individual cut an intimidating figure from beneath the padded fabric, a broad-shouldered goon that boasted an imposing presence capable of quelling any hearty tavern with so much as a breath. He stood half a head smaller than Ragnar but his prevailing sense of menace remained unmitigated.

An array of knives – a myriad of blades differing in size, length and cruel purpose – sat upon his belt beside a gruesome spiked flail curled up into its chain. A cobalt blue helmet sat upon his head, masking everything above the mouth while hiding the rest behind a chainmail veil that disappeared below the collar. Faded reds and oranges created the former resplendent glory of the flames painted across the mask, only leaving patches of cobalt exposed from beneath the aged artwork.

Two powerful eyes stared out at him from the helmet’s eye slit, wielding an overpowering gaze.

Ragnar resisted the urge to step back.

He felt even the goons tense in anticipation.

The lone thug reached up and removed the helmet, holding it in one gloved paw. Beneath the mask was the face of a tiger – a well-kept coat of white and orange with black lines cutting through it. Stark blue eyes punctuated his intimidating glare. What caught Ragnar’s attention most was not the clean coat of fur nor the startlingly powerful colour of his pupils; instead, it the look of unending apathy. He looked vacant – glacial – as if the worst tragedy in Vos Draemar could happen before his eyes and he would not so much as blink. It made the air seem colder.

A brute. Unyielding.

“You understand Lanzig?” he said, voice deep and unnervingly soothing.

His eyes shifted from one wolf to the other. All nodded as he scrutinised them.

“Then listen; you’re ours now. You do as we say. Understood?”

The line nodded again.

“Wolves in a line, nodding when told to. Real pride of the north.”

The tiger said nothing else, turning to the goons and jerking his head in the direction of the wolves. The group walked forwards and took the arms of the captives, marching them into the ruins. Ragnar tensed as one took his arm, expecting an attack.

He stared at the sheathed dagger on their belt.

By the time I grab it, I’m dead.

With every metre they covered, Ragnar felt his chances of escape grow weaker and weaker. The ruined walls closed in, sealing off possible escape routes, and at any moment he would be left without anywhere to go.

But he knew that one wrong move would end with a crossbow bolt in his head.