Malice Reflected in Black and Blood

Chapter 5

“Someone! Somebody!”

omeoneSomebodyRagnar 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!”

HelpI need helpRagnar 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.

Deuvick Feldanas 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!”

HelpA 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?

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.

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.

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!”

It’s in meSomeoneAnybodyRagnar 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.

Deuvick Feldanas’ 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?

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.

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?

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.