Malice Reflected in Black and Blood (Vos Draemar Book 2) - H.G. Sansostri

Malice Reflected in Black and Blood (Vos Draemar Book 2) by H.G. Sansostri

Book excerpt

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.