In Wilder Lands Read online

  Mother was still not moving and it was then that I would first notice the gash on her forehead and the bloodied club at the man’s side. I sniffed and could smell blood and not just mother’s and certainly not just inside our home. She was hurt, but many others were, too. I did not know what to do, or how to help. I was just a child…how could I know how to tend to an adults injuries?

  The sounds of fighting outside were getting closer and occasionally drew the attention of the human who was dragging mother behind him as he knocked over pots and decorations, pocketing anything that looked remotely saleable.

  The man shuffled towards another of the home’s shelves and the chain tugged at mother, thumping her shoulder against an overturned chair. She groaned and shifted, then choked softly and lay still again. The intruder never so much as glanced at her. She was of no more value than the trinkets he was stealing. She was not my mother to him…she was just another trinket to be taken and sold when it was convenient.

  Then, I finally understood that my mother was either dying, or may as well be if that man too her, and I became terrified.

  After all these years, this part of the dream invokes both fear and rage. Someday, I promise myself in my dream, I will drag that human around by his own leash. If my mother is to die, everyone else will, too.

  Estin woke abruptly from his nightmares to a sharp prod from Varra. She had grabbed his jaw and nose, holding his mouth shut to keep him from speaking even before he could have tried to do so. She looked genuinely worried and her veil was pulled up to hide her face again.

  The hallway was still somewhat dimly lit, but when Estin turned, the throne room was bright. He shifted further and saw that a great shade had been drawn from a large window at one end of the throne room, illuminating everything but the archers’ balcony. The design would ensure that no matter how bright the room was, the balcony remained dark enough that no one knew if there were archers or not…luckily, at the moment there were not.

  Varra motioned to indicate something in the throne room proper.

  Flipping over onto his knees, Estin eased himself upwards, peeking over the edge. He kept his ears as flat as he could, hoping that the white fur along their edges did not give him away, even in the dark. He had made that mistake many times in the past, sticking his head out just enough to see, then realizing that his ears were sticking several inches farther out.

  Below, the room had filled with well-dressed people of many races. Estin would have expected only to see humans, elves, and dwarves, but in this room were many others that he had not even known were allowed into the city proper.

  Among those standing in the tightly-packed room he saw a single man of fae blood—obvious with his hooved legs and pointed ears, but human otherwise. Estin had heard that the duke considered it fashionable to allow one of fae blood into court as some perceived blessing of the fae. This particular fae-kin looked bored and aware that he was out of place, but present at someone else’s command or request.

  Near the back wall, a black-skinned woman stood with an ornate parasol that she was using to shield her face from the sunlight entering the room. If Estin’s guess was right, she was likely a dark elf, come from one of the nearby underground cities of their people. Though the dark elves were entirely untrusted by Altis, the duke had recently signed a treaty with them that would have mandated that someone from their people be present. It was more a pretense than anything else.

  In a corner opposite the dark elf, he spotted a pair of heavily-robed Turessians, standing rigidly in the shadows. Had he not been looking for them, he might have assumed they were statues. Prior to Varra’s warning, he might have ignored them completely. Knowing who they were, he watched these people the longest. Occasionally, he would get a glimpse of human faces under the hoods, but what stood out to him were dark tattoos near the eyes and cheekbones of the men.

  Atop the throne’s platform, two hulking orcs stood guard, their dark eyes watching for any excuse to strike down those around them. Orcs were rarely allowed in Altisian lands, but in rare cases rich humans—such as the duke—would enlist their aid to intimidate peasants and enemies alike.

  These two Estin was sure were not just for show, as both had black battle scars marring their green skin and one had a broken tusk at the end of a disfiguring slash in his cheek. They had seen more than their share of battle at some point.

  The only race beside his own that he did not see were ogres. These were outlawed in Altis, despite their relatively peaceful behavior in the area. Many elves were terrified of the large grey-skinned beings, believing that ogres secretly ate elven children, largely due to their size and the dangerous-looking tusks and horns that all ogres grew. Estin had long believed this to be a tale told to elven children that had mistakenly gained acceptance among the older members of that race. Whether true or not, their paranoia had led to every ogre being driven from the nearby region.

  Estin scanned the crowd, noting that the style of clothing among the races was almost identical—aside from the dark elf and the two Turessians. This likely meant that they were all from Altis, as Estin had often seen the different cuts and colors the Lantonne people wore and those styles were the only ones in attendance.

  At the head of the room, Duke Harlin sat on his throne. Harlin was a roundish man, buried under a pile of expensively embroidered cloth. The man was old enough to have plenty of grey in his beard and long hair, but Estin could not guess his exact age. Fifty, maybe a little older, Estin thought, but he knew his opinion of human appearance was usually off. Without distinct patterns, all humans looked like similar to him.

  Varra leaned in uncomfortably close to Estin, whispering so softly in his ear that even he barely heard her.

  “I heard the call to court. They are expecting an ambassador after a few more trials.”

  “So?” he asked in reply, sitting back down. “Human affairs hardly concern me, as long as we’re safe up here. You woke me up for this?”

  Varra gave him a glare, but sat down beside him, saying nothing.

  “Ronald of the eastern farms,” called out the herald. As he did, Estin could hear the doors of the great hall opening and footsteps that echoed, despite the crowd.

  “My lord,” began a man’s voice, though Estin closed his eyes and barely paid attention. “There have been raids on my farm by…”

  “Why was this man let in here?” demanded Harlin to the laughter of many in the chamber. “Does he hold rank that I do not know of?”

  As the laughter calmed somewhat, the sheepish-sounding human continued, “If you would just listen, my lord…”

  “Get this man out of my sight. I am far too busy to be bothered by commoners who barely pay taxes.”

  Estin smirked as he heard a brief commotion down below, the human being dragged off without his grievance being heard. Not terribly surprising, he thought, deep-down amused by the humans’ mistreatment of their own. He had heard that the duke had little pity for those who did not hold title within his lands, but this just served to confirm that.

  Once the laughter at the expense of the farmer had died down, Estin distantly heard the call of the herald again, just as he was starting to drift back to sleep.

  “Lady Feanne of the wilder animalfolk,” announced the herald in a dull monotone.

  This woke Estin instantly and he sat back up, looking down into the room. He stared in wonder at the idea of one of his people being in the duke’s chambers and not hiding. Though he was awestruck by the idea, rude snickers filled the chamber as the woman marched in. Apparently, Estin was the only one who was impressed by the idea.

  The female was nearly Estin’s height, no more than about five feet tall, by his guess. She was thin, though her form was muted by the heavy oiled leather she wore. A long sheet of leather—a shin-length loin-cloth, as best Estin could name it—covered her lower body, leaving her legs free to move. Like the others of his kind he had met, she wore nothing on her paw-like feet. A vest of thick leather covered her to
p, forming to her body.

  Bright golden and silver chains were draped over the female’s clothing, with rings of the same metals along the leather’s edges and fitted to her wrists and ankles. A necklace of gleaming gold hung around her neck and earrings of silver hung from her pointed ears. Several of her fingers and toes even had similarly valuable jewelry, though all of it appeared to be out of place on her, as though she were not accustomed to wearing it. She bore no weapons—an even more striking detail, given that she was standing in the house of what Estin would have considered her adversary.

  Estin was immediately struck by the scents that entered the room with her, which were distinct enough to stand out with nearly a hundred humans, elves, and dwarves already stinking up the room. She brought with her a smell of the woods…the trees, flowers, and rain. Mixed with that, there was the aroma of the oils that coated her leather clothing, making it resistant to water. What he could not pick out was her specific scent, which surprised him, after so many years of being able to identify humans from nearly a block away.

  Standing in stark contrast to the chocolate brown of the leather the Lady Feanne wore and the dark ruddy fur covering most of her, the female’s tail tip and lower jaw stood out in snow white, drawing Estin’s eye. He almost failed to notice her black-furred hands and feet, with their sharpened claws. She kept her hands at her sides and while not looking overtly threatening, Estin guessed she was more than prepared to defend herself in this place. As he watched, she kept flexing her fingers, as though preparing herself to claw at someone.

  The lady stopped after entering, surveying those around her who sneered at her presence. Her reddish-brown muzzle and wet black nose twitched as she sniffed at the room, her ears turning, as if she were looking for more beyond those who glared at her within the hall.

  Estin found himself studying her far more than he cared to. She was, after all, the first wildling that he had seen since his childhood who was neither a slave nor on the auction block to become one…or was Nyess, he added. The regal demeanor of this female captivated him, after coming to believe that his people were as low as one could be on the social ladder of Altis. She was another breed—which his father had taught him meant they were no more kin than he was with the humans—but as a wildling, she was still somewhat more like a relative than he had known in a long time. Even a fox wildling was more kin than the humans, elves, and dwarves.

  At last, the fox marched towards the throne, her paws clicking with each step as her claws tapped against the floor. She strode as though she and the duke were the only ones in the room, watching him intently the whole time she was walking. With a visible sense of purpose that Estin could only wish he could muster in his life, she walked right up the first step to the foot of the throne and bowed slightly, retaining a majestic stance that seemed somehow out of place even in a throne room.

  “Your Grace,” Faenne offered, though she somehow managed to make it sound like a greeting of equals, despite the derision around her. “My pack has asked me to come and seek a truce between our peoples.”

  “You see!” Varra whispered right in his ear. “Your people are not all slaves! This one understands what it is to be free. We need to get you to her people so you understand what we gypsies have always known about living free of the badly-dressed humans. Maybe she can teach you to dress better and have fun in life, too.”

  “A truce?” bellowed the duke, drawing a room full of laughter. “When did you last pay a copper in taxes, beast? Give me one reason that you should be allowed to stand before me without a leash.”

  The Lady Feanne glared at the duke, and Estin thought for a second that she might try to attack him. Instead, she smiled coyly, smoothing over the hostility easily.

  “Your Grace, I have come here to pay any debts you believe that my people owe,” she explained, motioning towards her necklace. “We only ask for the same respect that you show the other races. I would gladly turn over all this wealth in exchange for recognition as citizens of your lands, equal to the others.”

  Estin watched nervously as the duke studied the fox-woman, his eyes roaming over the valuable jewelry she wore, while the rest of the room was quite silent.

  “Your people, like many of the peasants, have no right to own anything,” the duke finally answered. “By law, you are to be placed under our protection so that you do not harm yourself or others.”

  “Enslaved, you mean,” Feanne answered, her face neutral.

  “Your people are no better than animals and we are protecting you by bringing you in from the cold to be our servants. You would freeze in the woods without our aid. Why would we want to let you continue running amok in our fields, eating our cattle, and generally being a nuisance? I’m already being generous by not putting your people in the fields as livestock.”

  Lady Feanne glared at the duke with a ferocity that made Estin think of the wild animals that roamed the streets at night, even though he was not the target of the stare. The fox-woman seemed to bite back the anger in her demeanor and bowed again, coming back up with a far more calm appearance. Though the other races might not notice, Estin could feel the tension in the female’s stance and knew she was struggling not to attack the duke. He doubted he had that much self-restraint himself, though his reaction would have been to run away.

  “My people are as well educated as most of your peasants,” she argued, keeping her voice level. “I would seek nothing more than the same respect you show the other citizens. It is a small price for our willing involvement in your city’s prosperity. My people ask for nothing more.”

  “Get this foreigner out of my sight,” demanded the duke. “Strip her of the silver and gold as back payment for her taxes.”

  Feanne seemed undeterred, continuing to talk, even as armed guards began to mass around her.

  “You have taken people from my pack for the last year through violence and threats,” she told the duke, somehow making it not sound as though she were criticizing him. “This will end. My people are weary of fighting with the city of Altis. As such, I and the wealth I bring are a payment for our freedom. Accept either and leave my people to live their lives in peace. I am to be the last from my pack to risk themselves over your whims.”

  The chuckles and insulting comments through the hall died away as many appeared to be waiting to see how the duke would react, or were watching the guards that now stood in a full circle around the wildling female. The duke seemed to be contemplating the offer, studying the gold and silver that Feanne wore.

  “Why do you claim the title ‘lady,’ when you are not of noble blood?” demanded the duke, gesturing to one of his orcish guards to lean closer. He whispered something, then waved the large green man away. “You demean those of true nobility through this claim. Some might be executed for such a claim above their station. You cannot even claim citizenship, yet you use a title above your station.”

  “I asked your crier what the appropriate title for my position among my people would be,” she replied calmly, dark eyes watching the edges of the crowd carefully. “Among my own, I am known as Keeper Feanne, or simply Feanne. This title ‘lady’ is as appropriate as any human title might be for my kind. I would expect the same respect I show you shown to me.”

  The orc rushed at Feanne, striking her so hard across the face that Feanne tumbled backwards into the aisle leading to the throne, sliding on her back a foot or two. Clearly stunned, she struggled to sit back up.

  Estin watched this in horror, wondering how this wildling had thought things would end up, even as he hoped that she would keep her mouth shut in vague hopes of avoiding death or slavery. That was, assuming the powerful blow had not broken her neck already.

  “You will kneel before your betters, beast!” roared the orc, returning to his place beside the duke. “Stand in the duke’s presence again and you will be leashed!”

  Estin felt his own temper rising, wishing he could do something before matters got any worse. He looked over to Varra, but
the girl did not even notice him, glaring darkly at the orc.

  “That one will suffer a most uncomfortable rash in places he would never admit to,” she noted dryly to herself. “This I pledge to my ancestors. Rudeness like this is not to be tolerated.”

  Down below, Feanne had finally gotten back to her knees, shaking her head and stumbling as she got her legs under her. At first it looked as though she were trying to get into a proper kneeling position, but then abruptly, she pushed herself to her feet and raised her head triumphantly…if somewhat groggily.

  Estin could hardly believe that anyone would be so bold, risking their life to remain noble, when they had not been granted such a title. Part of him thought this Feanne was crazy, even as another part was impressed and adored her for trying.

  “As I was saying, Your Grace,” Feanne began again, fixing the duke with a stern gaze. Her left eyelid was swelling badly, closing the eye as she spoke. “I have come to negotiate a peace, not to challenge your rule or engage in a fight with your pets. I have shown you no disrespect, so please treat me accordingly.”

  Estin very nearly thought the orcs would leap on her, but somehow they restrained themselves…barely. The one that had struck Feanne earlier began casually scratching his inner thigh uncomfortably.

  “I think this circus is over,” stated the duke, waving a hand dismissively. “Put the dog in the kennel and dispatch troops to collect her ‘pack,’ before they try something foolish and get themselves killed. If any other peasants or foreigners want an audience, throw them in chains as well.”

  Soldiers rushed in on Feanne, grabbing her arms and wrestling her to the ground. She went down hard, but did little to resist the attack, making it easy for them to pin her to the ground.

  With a knee on Feanne’s neck, one guard pulled out a length of leather cord and tried to fasten it around the wildling’s neck like a leash. This, Estin watched in fear, wondering if the first truly memorable person of his kind was about to become another emotionless slave to the city.