by Jim Galford
“Your mother is not doing well,” he continued, checking the hall behind him. “Go around the southeast halls, then back along the west entrance to the prison area. She’s the third cell on the left. I’ll do what I can to get rid of the guards.”
“Why help me? I’m not important, or a noble, or even one of your soldiers.”
Norum chuckled and leaned on the wall, blocking Oria from the sight of a soldier that wandered past. Once the man was gone, Norum relaxed again.
“Child,” he began, “I had three sisters and a mother who ruled our family with an iron skillet. Desphon disgusts me nearly as much as he does you. Given my choice, your mother would lead this whole damned place.”
Unable to help herself, Oria threw her arms around the man’s large midsection, giving him a big hug.
“Get going already, girl,” he warned her, pushing her slightly into the hall. “Everyone will know you’re out soon enough.”
Patting the man’s arm in passing as she rushed away, Oria headed down the halls he had indicated, finding only three guards the entire way to the prison rooms. Those guards she easily avoided, getting her to the row of rooms normally reserved for drunks and soldiers who abandoned their duties.
As Norum had warned her, the room with her mother in it was guarded by two heavily-armed elven men, who had not yet noticed Oria. The lamps were low on oil in the hall, making it easy for Oria to get close without being seen.
Farther down the hall, Oria realized a second room had two additional guards. That, she told herself, was her next stop. Phaesys’ cell.
Oria studied the guards at the two rooms, trying to determine whether any were sleepy or otherwise distracted, but all four appeared wide awake and very alert. Knowing she could not fight them all, she just waited, hoping she could come up with something to draw their attention away from herself.
Several minutes later, Norum came walking up the far end of the passage, giving a sharp whistle as he did. All four guards looked up at him, but remained where they were.
“Well?” demanded Norum, stopping well away from Oria down the hallway. “Form up, you scum. We have talk of trouble and I want you all briefed without having to repeat myself.”
Obediently, the soldiers from both rooms marched over to their commander, striking up straight-backed positions in front of him, all with their backs to Oria.
“Tonight, there’s talk that Corraith’s own Arturis will march his army across the desert again, looking for more easy targets…” Norum started, but Oria tuned him out at that point.
Darting from the shadows to the first room, Oria slipped inside, hoping to free Feanne and fight their way back out if necessary. It was not much of a plan, but it was all she had.
Inside the room, Oria’s plan fell apart instantly. In the light of a single flickering candle in the rather large chamber, she found that her mother was locked into a wooden frame that encased her neck and both wrists, holding her in a bent-over position that was not quite kneeling. The device had clearly been built to put as much strain on the prisoner as possible, as well as for security. Three separate locks held it closed and all appeared to be of far higher quality than the one that had held Oria.
Feanne herself was likely to be no help. Oria’s mother hung weakly from the wooden device, barely able to stand. Dried blood caked her face, as well as her legs. From what Oria could see, Feanne’s back was covered with raw lash marks that looked and smelled to be well on their way to infection.
At Oria’s entrance, Feanne slowly opened her eyes just a little.
“I thought you might come,” Feanne said, smirking, though the expression was skewed by the swelling in her face. “You look awful, Oria. You should go take care of yourself.”
“Not a chance, mom,” she insisted, examining the first lock. It was definitely beyond her skill, but Oria had every intention of trying anyway. “I’m getting you out of here.”
“Oria…”
“Mom, shut up,” she said without thinking. “You’re hurt bad. I’ve already got the kits and Atall out of here, so now I need to get you out so I can stop worrying.”
Feanne smiled weakly, saying softly, “Maybe you will be ready to lead your own pack someday, after all.”
“Not the time. Tell me how great I am when I get you out. Besides, right now I just want to see Atall happy again. Having a pack I couldn’t care less about.”
The smile did not fade from Feanne’s face as Oria worked the lock, trying to find any way to wiggle the tumbler without a key. From what Oria could feel under her claw tip, it would take a lot of very precise tools to open this lock.
“Can you change and break free?” asked Oria, letting the lock drop back into place.
“No. I am too weak. I think that was why they whipped me, to keep me from having the strength to use magic of any kind against them.”
Oria looked over the wood structure, trying to find a good place to work on it with her dagger, but everywhere she checked, it was strongly reinforced.
“Greetings, Council Master Desphon…” came Norum’s voice outside, making Oria’s ears go straight up in surprise. He was clearly speaking louder than necessary to warn her. “…a pleasure to see you, Master Desphon.”
Searching the room, Oria found little in the way of hiding places. There were no alcoves or other exits, just a pile of torture equipment that Oria could not quite determine the purpose of.
“Get around behind the tall wooden box in the corner,” her mother ordered, pointing a finger at the item she meant. “The lighting in here will not show you there.”
Not having time to argue or find an alternative, Oria hopped over a table covered with nails, then slipped behind a polished wooden box, not unlike a coffin. She had barely gotten halfway behind it when a lamp held by Desphon appeared.
“I see the criminal has woken at last,” the male announced, walking past Feanne’s face. He leaned to one side and then the other, examining the injuries on her face. “Those should heal nicely.”
“When I heal, I will tear this whole tomb down around you,” Feanne said matter-of-factly.
“Not true,” Desphon told her, checking the locks on the wooden harness. “You will submit to the authority of the nobility of this area, with no further quarrel. Namely, you will submit to my authority.”
Feanne laughed openly as Desphon walked around her side.
“Perhaps you don’t understand,” he continued, placing a blunted claw firmly on the open wounds on Feanne’s back. Oria could see her mother’s ears twitch, but she gave no other indication of pain. “If I cannot break you, I will break your children. Your submission or theirs. The choice is yours.”
Feanne’s eyes flicked briefly to Oria and then away before anyone other than Oria might notice.
“What possible thing did your parents do to you to make you believe threatening someone’s child is wise?” asked Feanne, twisting her hands in an effort to free them as Desphon walked around out of her view.
Standing off to one side behind her, Desphon ran his fingertip across Feanne’s wounds and stopped with his hand resting just above her tail on her hip.
“I am the only law left out here,” bragged Desphon. “You may be important where you come from, but out here, I will have anything I want. Until other nobles are found from the city, I can do anything. Whether you have power or not, you are nothing in these lands. Standing up to me makes you something to the peasants. Breaking you will solidify me as the only possible ruler.”
Feanne’s eyes went back to Oria, this time her face giving a firm warning not to say or do anything. Oria then saw her mother shift her weight onto her right foot, as her left moved into a position to kick backward. Feanne’s clawed toes flexed, ready to disembowel Desphon if he moved into range.
“I want very little,” Desphon continued, tracing his fingers across Feanne’s lower back. The unabashed willingness to touch her near her hips and tail made Oria want to rush out of hiding and tear him apart. “I wa
nt trained soldiers, the occasional woman to warm my bed, and a few other things that please me.”
“If you attempt to force yourself on me, I will kill you,” warned Feanne, changing her balance to the other foot as Desphon crossed to her other side.
Desphon laughed, setting the lamp he carried on the top of the frame, just above Feanne’s head.
“Threaten me all you like,” he told her, placing a hand squarely alongside her tail. “I care little about you, beyond having you train my soldiers. What I do care about is having my son married off without your tramp of a daughter causing further troubles. If she continues to lure my son, I would have you watch her skinned alive.”
Snarling, Feanne’s hands closed into fists.
Smiling down at Feanne over the wooden frame, Desphon continued, “I’m glad you understand. So long as your girl minds her place, I might even gift her to my son for his next birthday, whether he approves of my decision or not. Just so long as she knows she has no claim on him.”
Oria practically shook where she sat, watching Phaesys’ father touch and threaten her mother. She fought to keep her temper under control, clenching her hands until her claws caused her pads to bleed painfully.
Desphon took another step around Feanne, moving directly behind her. As he did, Feanne kicked out, aiming her claws for his stomach. The kick would have landed, but a flash of light around Desphon deflected her foot and also pushed Desphon back slightly.
“I see I’ll need to have your feet chained as well,” he said amusedly, leaning close to Feanne’s face as he came around her front. “Did you forget that I was the council’s enchanter and think I would be unprotected? I suppose I should not have expected more of a woman. Still, it is a good reminder not to let my guard down around you.”
Growling, Feanne struggled to grab at Desphon, but could not quite get her claws on him.
“I suppose I must sentence you by the law,” said Desphon, cocking his head as he studied Feanne. “A shame, really. I would think that taking Arlin and Cora’s place would have been more pleasant. No matter.”
Leaning out the doorway, Desphon said loudly enough that Feanne—and thus Oria—could easily hear, “I am waiving my right to immediately execute this one, pending punishment. She is too valuable to the troops. I want her to suffer thirty lashes a day until she either dies, or twenty days have passed. Do not trouble me with anything about her until then.”
Oria huddled farther into the darkness, watching her mother’s face fall in dismay. She knew deep down that her mother would have hoped for death over imprisonment any day. To some tiny degree, Oria wished for that as well.
Chapter Nine
“Revelation”
It is easy to think that you are the center of the world’s attention at times. Looking back at the stories I have left for my children, I can envision the scholar who finds those writings years later, believing that I somehow had a hand in all the major events of the war near Altis, when in fact I was sometimes just creating a good explanation of events for a child.
The truth is we are the center of the world in our own minds and those of our loved ones. It’s not bragging or foolish to think that, but rather, it is the nature of how we all see the world. Any story we tell must, by virtue of our perspective, center on our own actions. Those actions will always appear far more important than they really were when we are telling the story.
Did I set off a bomb near Lantonne that some say opened the first rift mist in that region? I can probably be blamed for it. I know what my mission was, but I wonder if I had failed, would the same results have happened? Would someone else have carried it or done exactly what I did?
If I had stayed in Altis and never followed Feanne, would Atall and Oria ever have been born? Would Ghohar, Ulra, and even Finth still be alive today? Would I? I have my hunches, but that is all they are. We cannot know the truth with any certainty of what the world would be like if different choices were made.
Second-guessing yourself or trying to put your actions into perspective of the bigger picture of the world is difficult, if not impossible. The bigger picture is called that because it is far larger than any of us.
At the end of the day, I know who and what I am. That is all that truly matters. Everything else is a story, either made up by me or by someone else, often blown far out of proportion for what really happened or what it meant at the time to anyone but myself.
To myself, I am a wildling, a life-mate, a healer, and a father. These are the only truths that exist for me. Everything else, I see as a story told by someone. These few titles define what I am far better than any story ever will. A story can be twisted in its intent and meaning, whereas these simple names are much harder to villainize.
To others, I could be anything ranging from a hero of legend to a fool who let his family be lost by his own mistakes. I could be a delusional rodent, who believes he can help others, when in fact he cannot help himself. In light of a changing world, one day I might be an anti-hero who opposed the glorious Turessians, who only wanted to help the world grow and change…if that is the world you now face when reading this, please throw this book into the nearest fire, as nothing I say really matters.
I might even be no more than a distraction from the real events that matter. After all, who can’t help but watch a seven-foot striped tail bounce past, even if the world is ending nearby?
Whether my actions are meaningful or a waste of my own breath, only the historians will be able to determine. I know what I must do and I am ready to die to see that Turessi never sets foot in this land again. Corraith and its deserts may not be my home, but it is where my family came to for safety.
I will create that safety, or convince myself that I did my part. Failing that, I will die a hero in my own mind.
“Estin, wake up.”
Groaning, Estin flipped his tail over his face, trying to hide for a few more minutes.
For the last two weeks, he and Lorne had spent much of their time searching the desert south of Corraith for Feanne and the kits. They had spent from dawn until sunset, normally camping among the ruins they found in those outlying areas. This had been the first night they had come back to the den in that whole week and they had both collapsed the moment they had arrived.
“Estin. Now. Please.”
Hearing nothing more than faint concern in Lorne’s voice, Estin curled into a tighter ball, hoping she would go away. Without the sound of panic, he really did not see the need to deal with early morning.
“Estin!”
Sitting up to demand what the problem was, Estin’s eyes went wide at what he saw.
Scurrying all over Lorne were three fox kits, poking and prodding at her. One, the female, was standing on Lorne’s back, leaned over her head to stare into her eyes.
“Why…am I…surrounded by these monsters?” Lorne asked nervously, trying to shake one of the males off her arm. The child clung all the tighter as though it were a game. “Are they going to eat me?”
“I hope not,” answered Estin, grinning as he plucked one of the males off of Lorne and gave the squirming kit a hug. “Those are my children.”
At that, all three little faces spun on Estin, staring intently.
Lorne looked no less concerned as the female grinned at her upside-down, showing off her sharp baby teeth.
“If you’re dad, who’s she?” demanded the male in Estin’s arms, pointing at Lorne.
“You don’t look like mom,” insisted the other male, looking between Lorne and Estin.
The female continued crawling around Lorne’s shoulders, eyeing her suspiciously. More than once, the little female made a menacing—for a child—growl in an effort to scare Lorne.
Just then, the canvas sheet that kept the blowing sands out of the small den was tossed aside and another fox wildling came walking in. Nearly full-grown and thin, the male froze as he saw Estin.
“Hello, Atall,” Estin said softly, still trying to keep the kit he held from escapin
g.
Atall stared at him a long time, as though unable to believe what he saw. Then, he turned slightly and saw Lorne.
“I need to go,” Atall said softly, taking a step back onto the slope outside the den’s entrance. “I found something and I can’t bring them. Please watch the kits. I’ll be back by tomorrow morning.”
Without another word, Atall left, letting the canvas fall over the entrance.
“Are you babysitting?” asked the female kit of Lorne. “Usually, Oria makes an elf babysit us. You’re not a furry elf, are you?”
One of the males hopped in front of Lorne, asking, “You dress like a human. Are you just a really fuzzy human?”
“That’s stupid,” the female announced. “She’s a wildling, even if she does smell like lunch.”
“I…what?” Lorne inquired, but the little girl dove behind her, out of sight.
“Yeah, she smells funny,” the male in Estin’s arms told them all.
“Where are your scars?” asked the male closer to Lorne, peeking around the edges of her shirt and dress. “You’re too old not to have scars.”
“Scars? I…I have a few on my back.”
“Just two I saw,” the female told her, now nearly sitting on top of Lorne’s head, while Lorne tried to remain still. “If you don’t have any more, can we give you some?”
“Estin…I am not a children person,” Lorne said, voice shaking slightly. “What do I do?”
Estin flipped the kit he was holding upside-down, then scooped up the other male. “Toss them around, wrestle with them, whatever makes them giggle,” he told her and looked down at the second kit he had picked up, who was nibbling on his arm. “Don’t let them bite you, even if they are teething, and don’t drop them on their heads. That’s about the sum of it. It’s not too hard.”
“What if I break them?”
The kits laughed at that, squirming free of Estin’s grip. As a group, they tackled Lorne—who squeaked in shock as they bowled her over—then wrestled playfully with her, even as she tried to get away.