by Regine Abel
RAVIK’S MERCY
Braxians – Book 2
Regine Abel
Copyright © 2019
Other books by Regine Abel
THE VEREDIAN CHRONICLES
Escaping Fate
Losing Amalia
Blind Fate
Raising Amalia
Twist of Fate
BRAXIANS
Anton’s Grace
Ravik’s Mercy
DARK TALES
Bluebeard’s Curse
The Mistwalker
VALOS OF SONHADRA
Unfrozen
Iced
XIAN WARRIORS
Legion
THE SHADOW REALMS
Dark Swan
OTHER
Alien Awakening
COVER DESIGN BY
Regine Abel
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal and punishable by law. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
This book uses mature language and explicit sexual content. It is not intended for anyone under the age of 18.
This book is a work of fiction freely inspired by the Ant and the Grasshopper fable. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
DEDICATION
To Nero. This book wouldn’t have seen the light of day without you. Thanks for always being there for me whenever my Muse kept flipping me the bird and took one of her countless leaves of absence. You’re not only an awesome friend and a great inspiration, you possess the best shoulder to cry on, and know just how to kick me out of my wallowing in self-pity.
To all the fans who clamored for Ravik’s and Mercy’s story. You lit the fire under me that kept me going. I hope this novel will live up to your expectations.
Much love.
PROLOGUE
Ravik
My fingers itched to crush Hagan Soluk’s skull. If he knew the depth of the hatred I still bore him and the seven survivors among the Fifteen, he wouldn’t be stoking my ire any further with his endless sniveling.
“Enough!” I shouted, slamming my fist on the arm of my throne while seething with anger. The slapping sound against the white stone and polished bones of my seat echoed through the large hall. “This isn’t open for debate. I have no patience for your whining and complaining.”
My gaze roamed over the Council; twelve men, four of whom I would kill in the worst possible way at the first opportunity. Each one of them, leaders of their respective clans, would appear intimidatingly powerful to a non-Braxian. To me, most of them were no more than worms I would gladly crush underfoot. They shifted in their white stone seats laid out in a half circle before. Behind them, their firstborn sons and respective Clan Elders sat in attendance. My own two sons, Keran and Ganek, sat on each side of my throne.
“You’ve had three years for the transition. Why the fuck are you not ready?” I demanded.
“Demand has been steadily declining for most of our exports,” Hagan argued, “and the prices of imports have soared. With slave labor, we could still manage. But since the abolition, we’ve been drowning.”
Four of the twelve councilmen nodded with mumbled words of approval.
“You’re drowning because you didn’t adapt,” said Krygor Aldriss, dismissively. “My son gave you and the others plenty of advice on how to diversify your business and provided you with potential fields to grow into. You chose to ignore his recommendations. Now, you pay the price.”
Hagan’s dark-brown eyes burned with anger and resentment as they turned towards Krygor. “I will not have my clan beholden to your half-breed!” Hagan said, spitefully. “All of his so-called suggestions would put us and our fates under his thumb. I would see my clan starve rather than bow before one such as him.”
Krygor leaned back against his chair, a lock of his long, salt-and-pepper hair dropping in front of his pitch-black eye. “Well then, it looks like you’re in the process of getting your wish.”
Smug bastard…
I fought to repress a smirk. Krygor, leader of Clan Aldriss, was one of only three men I fully trusted on my Council—with my life.
“Half-breed or not, Anton Aldriss has brought great prosperity to all of us who followed his advice or entered into business agreements with him,” intervened Elder Pattel Veelan, another trusted friend. “Times aren’t changing, Hagan. They have already changed, and Braxia is being left behind.”
“Then Braxia needs to retake its leadership role rather than kneel to off-worlder rules,” Hagan snapped, earning himself more nods and whispers of approval.
“And how will we do that, you fool?” I asked, fed up with having the same, pointless arguments for months. “Every civilized planet in the Eastern Quadrant has joined the Galactic Council. Their rules for membership are clear. Why are we still talking about this? The Great Wars have ended. Non-contractual slavery is over. Science and trade are the future. I will not have you further waste my time rehashing these tired, old complaints. Braxia will evolve into modern times, even if I have to beat it into our people.”
“Not all planets have joined the Galactic Council,” Clan Leader Raylor Caldes said in a measured tone. “The Sarenians refused.”
“Pariahs,” I countered, waving a dismissive hand. “Their predatory nature violates countless edicts of the Galactic Council.”
“Maybe so, but they would make powerful allies. Between them and the few rogue planets in our Quadrant, we would have a formidable alliance,” Caldes continued. “The Western Quadrant also has a number of planets that haven’t joined the Council. Among them, one that is quite keen to form an alliance with us.”
“Oh?” asked Hagan, his eyes sparkling with interest.
Raylor Caldes nodded. “Yes. The Guldans are also seeking allies to oppose the Galactic Council’s tyranny. They are extremely wealthy, highly technologically advanced, and possess an impressive network of mercenaries.”
“And have made enemies of the Tuureans,” said Elder Fenton, my best friend. “The Guldans are almost completely isolated in the Western Quadrant. They are under more embargos and retaliatory measures than you have hair on your head. Whatever benefits we might reap from such an alliance would pale in comparison to the massive losses we would sustain in a war against the Galactic Council.”
“If we are to make alliances,” Krygor said, “the Tuureans are the ones we should pursue. In fact, my son Anton happens to be friends with their leader, Admiral Lee.”
“Again with that fucking half-breed,” Hagan muttered so low I barely heard him.
“Is there something you would like to share with the rest of us, Clan Leader Soluk?” Krygor asked Hagan. “If you wish to issue a challenge, I will eagerly accept.”
Krygor waved at the empty, circular space between their seats and my throne, where innumerable duels had taken place over the years. The stone tiles covering the floor of my Hall had taken an even darker tone over the years from the countless times blood had been spilled over them.
Hagan stirred uncomfortably in his chair and rolled his broad shoulders. His flat nose twitched as he shook his head. Like all Braxians, he was massive and muscular, a giant by galactic standards. Yet, he looked scrawny in comparison to Krygor, who was only slightly smaller than me. Unlike Krygor, Pattel, and myself, Hagan didn’t come from a warrior clan. All of those in his bloodline were smaller than ours. Unless he appointed a champion to fight
in his stead, Hagan would get crushed by someone like Krygor. As much as I would enjoy my friend breaking a few of his limbs, Hagan would die by my hand.
Raylor cleared his throat, stirring the attention away from Hagan who failed to hide his relief.
“The Tuureans do not share any of our interests,” Raylor said with disdain. “Quite the opposite. They’ve destroyed one of the Guldans’ largest slave breeding empires, and they make it nearly impossible for anyone to pursue any type of flesh trade in the Western Quadrant. The Guldans are looking to establish a new network here, in the Eastern Quadrant, to trade both slaves and technology. Magnar Ravik, they could be the perfect partners to take us into that new era you speak of, while allowing us to maintain our way of life.”
“The topic of slavery is closed and will not be reopened,” I said in a tone that brooked no argument. “Indentured servants are the only type of slaves that will be allowed on Braxia, and their contracts of servitude will be registered in the Hall of Records with a start date, end date, and detailed terms. Remember that this rule becomes effective next week. You are all responsible for ensuring they are enforced within your own clans, or you’ll be fined along with the offenders.”
From the bitter and resentful looks aimed at me, I already knew which clans would be paying heavy fines.
“Will you not at least speak with the Guldans?” Raylor insisted.
I sighed in irritation. “I will speak with them about potential technology trade agreements, but that is all.”
Raylor pursed his lips in displeasure but gave me a sharp nod.
“Change is hard, but the sooner you stop fighting the inevitable, the better off we will all be,” I said in a conciliatory tone. “You are the leaders of the Elder Clans and those who must set the example. However painful this process may be for all of you, personally and otherwise, remember what dark times we’ve emerged from. Braxia was on the verge of bankruptcy. Without these changes, and yes, Hagan,” I said, staring at him, “without the help of a half-breed, it is far more than our slaves we would lose. Now, I will hear no more of this. You have your marching orders.”
I rose from my seat, indicating the meeting was at an end. The clan leaders and their clansmen rose as well. After striking their chests with a fist and bowing their heads in a reluctant show of respect from some of them, they walked out of my hall. Krygor, Pattel, and Fenton lingered. My sons, Keran and Ganek, eyed me questioningly. I gestured with my head that they were free to leave.
“If that son of a krillik won’t challenge me, I will,” Krygor muttered, eyeing Hagan as he exited my Hall.
“You will do no such thing, Krygor Aldriss. That worm’s blood is mine to spill,” I said.
“Careful, Ravik, my friend. The walls have ears,” Fenton said, a reproving expression on his face.
Despite his prominent Braxian forehead, strong brow, broad, flat nose, and square, jutting jaw, Fenton’s face held an odd softness that testified to his naturally gentle nature. Although one would be foolish to interpret his kind disposition was a sign of weakness.
“Eavesdroppers are the least of the Magnar’s concerns,” Krygor said, with a grim look. “I fear a rebellion is brewing.”
Pattel recoiled. “Hagan wouldn’t dare!”
“He wouldn’t lead or organize it unless he felt confident he could get away with it,” I said, running my fingers through my long, black hair. “He’s a coward, but overly proud and greedy. He would join a rebellion, but I’d expect Clan Caldes or Clan Zotan to lead it.”
“You really think we’re on the verge of civil war?” Pattel asked, his brow creasing.
I shook my head. “No. Not a war, but definitely a coup or an assassination attempt.”
My gaze roamed over the light beige walls of my Hearing Hall, covered with the banners of the various clans populating Braxia—the Elder Clans’ banners at the top with their vassal clans beneath them. A few of them would fall before everything was said and done. The question was whose banners would fall, my enemies’ or mine?
“My clan has ruled Braxia for seven generations,” I said, my eyes boring into Pattel’s. “My father and his sire almost ran this planet into the ground, but I will mend it. Braxia will change. The clan leaders can plot all they want. I do not intend to fall. But should that happen, my sons will rise and see me avenged.”
“And so will we,” Krygor said.
“And so will we,” Pattel and Fenton echoed.
CHAPTER 1
Mercy
The heavy stares of the Guldans weighed on me. Ignoring them, I forced myself to walk at a casual pace through the busy streets of the financial district of Kenzenia, Guldar’s Capital City. High-tech prosthetics camouflaged the cheetah-like spots that graced my neck, arms, and legs in an elegant line. And yet, I felt as if the passersby could see right through them. If those markings—my Veredian heritage—became exposed, they would descend on me like vultures. Those who didn’t seek to sell me outright for insane profits would try to breed me to produce more like me.
To my knowledge, only two Veredian-Guldan hybrids existed throughout the known universe: my youngest sister’s adopted daughter Lenora and myself. Collectors would pay obscene amounts of credits for a rare being such as I. Should they further discover that, like all Veredians, I also possessed a unique psi ability, they would be even more rabid in their desire to possess me.
But they couldn’t see through my prosthetics. It was the absence of a male by my side to claim ownership over me that drew their stares. My collarless neck stated that I wasn’t a house-slave. As a Free Woman, I should have either been escorted by my father, brother, or a male relative if I wanted to go out on a stroll, or by a slave to carry whatever goods I was off to purchase, usually groceries.
While still very backwards in their ways, Guldans had started to evolve with some slight overtures towards female emancipation. Free Women could now legally walk the streets without a chaperon, but it still drew the unwanted type of attention. I had foolishly thought that, with Kenzenia being the most international sector of the planet, mentalities would have been more evolved.
Wrong.
I should have taken a hovercab instead of yielding to the sentimental urge to tread through the streets of my second home world; my father’s birth planet. He’d taken me to Guldar only three times, forced to hide me because of my mixed blood. This planet was as beautiful as its social values were ugly. Despite the many hostile male stares aimed at me, I reveled in the warmth of the sun on my face, the golden sky overhead shimmering while wispy clouds hung almost still around the fat, ghostly shape of our giant moon, Khora.
Tall, cigar-like buildings lined the eerily spotless streets of Kenzenia. Beige, black, and gold in color, their metal and glass surfaces reflected the dancing lights of the sky, giving the entire city the impression of heaving under shallow breaths.
A wealthy-looking male, maybe in his late thirties, placed himself directly in my path and tried to make eye-contact. Under different circumstances, I’d hold his gaze and give him a proper tongue-lashing. It took all of my willpower to cast my eyes down demurely and circle around him, giving him a wide-berth. Staring him down would have been deemed a challenge and opened the door for him to make further inquiries about my identity and whereabouts, or even to demand reparation for that disrespect. But being a Free Woman, he couldn’t accost me without cause or be accused of harassing another man’s property.
Property… Fuck that shit. No man would ever own me.
The silhouette of Master Belduk’s office building loomed ahead. Realizing that my steps had accelerated as I neared my destination, I forced myself to slow down. The notary had been charged with handling my father’s succession. After his death and, more recently, my half-brother Varrek’s demise, I had become his only remaining child and sole heiress.
The tall, glass doors of the fifty-story high building parted upon my approach. Straight ahead, in the center of the room, an imposing security guard manned the recep
tion desk. The trickling sound of water from the elaborate water-fountain behind him filled the room. Its long basin ran from the left side of the wall almost to the center of the room. A few females sat on long, cushioned benches before the basin. Their mates—or guardians—stood nearby, engaged in hushed conversations with other males.
On the right side of the reception, a giant statue of the god Menuk, the Hand of Justice, watched over the path to the elevators. As soon as I headed for them, the guard hailed me. Repressing a sigh of annoyance, I schooled my feature to the proper level of demureness.
“You’ve called me, Sen?” I asked, clasping my hands before me and looking at his nose.
Tilting his head to the side, his green eyes slowly undressed me.
I’d made sure to wear the traditional Free Woman outfit. The flowy, white dress had a plunging neckline that hinted at the curve of my breasts, cinched at the waist by a golden cord. Sleeveless, bare back, and split on both sides up to my thighs, it was designed to flaunt a woman’s assets with each step while hiding the naughty bits. I’d tied my knee-length, black hair into a heavy bun. Normally, it would have covered my back, but its unusual length—although traditional for a Veredian Warrior—would have drawn too much attention. Guldan females usually kept theirs to the middle of their backs.
“Are you lost, Sana?” he asked.
My heart seized in my chest, realizing how much he had in common with my late brother Varrek. The same silvery white hair parted by black horns recurving over his head, their tips pointing back up. The main differences lay in the color of his skin, a creamy brown a few shades darker than mine, where my brother’s had been silvery grey—a gift from his Xelixian mother. Like most Guldan males, tribal tattoos adorned the right half of his cleanly-shaven face. Their burnished gold color complemented his complexion.
