In Wilder Lands

by Jim Galford

  Everywhere, grasping hands were trying to catch the living off-guard. More than once, Estin felt the cold fingers try to wrap around his arms and wrists, until an axe severed the creature’s arm, setting him free.

  At one point, several of the undead grabbed Estin, their claws digging into his flesh as he was pulled away. He stabbed and slashed, but the creatures would not relent. Teeth sank into his shoulder and he began to think that he had failed the group. Death seemed certain. It was a great shock to Estin when the claws let go and he was pulled bodily back into the foxes’ group.

  Looking up, he realized that the male that had saved him was actually the same one he had broken the nose and jaw of when Feanne had first been taken to their village. There was no more anger between them—now there was only survival, which required every living being to keep fighting.

  There was no going back, Estin realized as he scrambled to his feet, wiping at the blood that ran down his arm. Already, the undead were so numerous behind them that they faced equally-awful odds both in front and behind them.

  Nearby, Insrin called to push harder and the group’s pace accelerated, nearly leaving Estin behind with their abrupt rush. He struggled to continue on, doing what he could to aid them, often just providing the smallest of healing to each of the warriors, trying to keep them upright as they went, rather than worrying about fully mending their wounds.

  They were moving at a rough pace downhill, the group moving around a denser section of trees when Insrin fell, bleeding from the arms and face. Deep gashes in his armor had been hidden from Estin, who only had seen his back for a long time. The male’s entire front side was covered in blood.

  The second Insrin hit the ground, undead grabbed for his ankles, trying to drag him into their ranks, even as more stepped into the gap he had left, trying to divide the group of foxes. Insrin’s honor guard was faster, closing the gap and driving the undead off of their leader, closing ranks over top of him.

  Estin dropped alongside Insrin as the line of soldiers closed around them, shielding their leader. The whole advance stopped and they fought to hold their ground, giving Estin the chance to do his duty.

  Insrin’s wounds were not horrible, Estin noted, but he had fought on long after blood loss should have slowed him. Estin honestly could not find any reason Insrin had lasted as long as he had, given the sheer number of cuts. There was at least one artery that had been severed, covering Insrin’s fur with more blood than Estin believed anyone could lose and still breathe. Still, he was alive, though barely. Insrin was incredibly strong to have any life left in him.

  The undead pushed back hard, driving into the line and forcing the soldiers nearly atop Estin as he tried to mend Insrin. He found himself forced to lay over the fallen pack-leader to shield him from his own warriors as the undead crushed in close enough that he could hear that groans and feel the impacts of their hands against the shields of the foxes who were covering him. It felt as though an entire city had come rampaging down on them, trying to crush them underfoot.

  Throwing his hands in the air, Estin called out the words and drew the magic to him, driving the undead back with the same spell he had used at the gates of Altis. This created a small bubble that helped hold the undead back while the warriors regained their footing. Still, the shambling corpses were close enough that they could still claw at the warriors, the sea of broken and rotting faces contorted in rage at being stopped by his spell.

  “I need you to hold them back long enough that I can heal Insrin!” Estin shouted, struggling to maintain the barrier as the group of twelve fought to hold their ground inside the ten foot wide bubble he had created. The scent of rotting flesh was beginning to make him sick. While they had been moving, he had managed to ignore it, but now his stomach was twisting at the stench.

  Estin lay there, half-kneeling, half-lying, as the warriors struggled to regain any ground at all. He could see Insrin bleeding quickly to death, the blood soaking into Estin’s own shirt as he was flattened against Insrin by the warriors trying to cover them.

  He looked up from Insrin’s chest and stared at the face of the male that Estin had long felt had ruined his life. Killing him would be so easy. Estin did not even have to do anything…just by inaction, he could let Insrin die. Those thoughts passed quickly as Estin thought of Feanne and her children.

  “Get me some room to heal him!” Estin screamed at the other foxes. “He’ll be dead soon!”

  Through the legs of his defenders, Estin could occasionally see the village far up the hill. The main line of warriors still held, but he caught glimpses of people rushing around behind them. The village was far from evacuated. If his position was overrun now, only part of the village would get away safely. Still, Estin knew he could not do anything more than maintain his spell and hope the others could push back against the undead. It was a truly hopeless feeling, knowing that he could only lay there as people died around him. He lay so close to Insrin, that he could feel the fox’s breathing slowing.

  The undead closed their ranks again, pushing hard against the group, crushing Estin under the warriors as they tried to hold their positions and not be dragged off.

  When the group was able to finally push back and give Estin the slightest bit of room again, he lifted his head to check the village in the hopes that the residents might be mostly clear. Instead, from the middle of the village, Estin saw someone coming their way. With the fires silhouetting her the regal stance and poise told him exactly who it was. Feanne was coming to help—minus the children and her cloak—despite his efforts to get her to safety.

  Marching straight through the town’s defenders, Feanne went from calm to ferocious instantly. Her speed and strength enhanced by her magic, she tore into the undead, ripping them apart with her claws more effectively than many of the warriors with their weapons. She rushed through the dense group of corpses, slipping through their grasping hands and even using one as a step to leap over the last few between herself and Estin’s group.

  With a grunt, Feanne landed heavily beside Estin, the tight quarters making her landing from the jump difficult.

  “How badly hurt is he?” she asked, kneeling beside Estin. She started to reach out for Insrin, then recoiled when she looked down at her gore-covered hands. Instead, she began wiping them off on the ground.

  “I can help him, but I need to be able to drop the sanctuary against the undead.”

  Feanne nodded and stood, raising her hands and calling upon her own form of magic. The trees surrounding them began striking at the undead, hampering their movement and driving them back by the dozens. Many more rushed in to fill the gap, but it bought them precious seconds and allowed the warriors to get better footing, finally solidifying their position.

  Dropping the barrier, Estin went right to Insrin, guiding the healing magic. The wounds closed swiftly and in seconds, Insrin opened his eyes, even before all the bleeding had stopped. Insrin jerked in surprise as he woke, then blinked and began looking around.

  “Not who I wanted to see,” he groaned, looking up at Estin. He then turned his head and saw Feanne towering over them both. “Neither of you.”

  “The children are safe for now,” Feanne told him, reaching down to help him and Estin up. “We need to turn this tide, or they will not be safe anywhere in these mountains.”

  “What would you propose, my mate? My warriors are doing all they can.”

  Feanne looked out at the raging horde of undead, then turned to Insrin, stepping close to him and putting her hands on his chest.

  “I have been very clear that there are some things about my life you do not need to know of,” she whispered, though Estin could hear her, as close as their confines were. He looked away, trying not to be a part of their private conversation. “After this battle, if you wish to never see me again, just say it. For now, it is what needs to be done.”

  “I would never drive you off,” answered Insrin immediately.

  “Please do not say that until
you know what I really am.”

  Feanne turned on Estin, her demeanor hardening again, the warrior in her taking control.

  “A certain spirit tracked me down, out there in the woods. I believe you have made an enemy, but he did guide Finth and the children away.”

  “It was all I could think to do. I am deeply sorry,” Estin apologized.

  “Don’t be. This is the time to call on him and I want you at my side to ensure that I do not do anything foolish. Be ready to save me from myself, Estin. We will not need an army for this.”

  “As you wish.”

  Feanne glanced at her mate one more time, then let out a howl like the call for help that he had heard her make months before. This time, she kept the call going, the sound ringing off the trees, where it was answered by dozens more like it. The moment the answering calls came, Feanne collapsed to the ground, clutching at her face and crying out in agony.

  “Are you…,” Estin began, then saw that her jaw had broken and was shifting, realigning. In seconds, every bone in her body was moving and growing, destroying much of her clothing with the size of the change. It was similar to what he had seen when she had changed her hands to fight him, but on a far greater scale.

  The alteration of her form took only seconds, but when Feanne rose up, she towered over the other foxes. Still vaguely fox-like in appearance, she was a fearsome sight, with immense claws, long fangs, and eyes that glowed a forest green lighting her face. With a roar, she reached over the line of village warriors and tore three zombies to pieces, her hands able to crush their skulls with ease.

  “Fall back and protect the village!” cried Insrin to the warriors, though he looked to Estin to be deeply shaken, as did all of the warriors. “Estin and I will guard the charge!”

  Estin himself was not faring much better. He had known about the rages, the loss of control, but he had never once considered how extensive the Miharon’s gift to her really was. He could only follow behind as Feanne pushed through the warriors and began tearing a path through the undead forces, with Insrin close behind him.

  At first, Estin believed his role was to heal Feanne, to keep her going until whatever had answered her from the mountains was able to arrive. He soon saw that was not his duty at all. Every time the undead clawed at her, bit her, slashed at her with weapons, the wounds would close almost instantly. From what he could see, she was nearly unstoppable. The more she was hit, the angrier she became and the faster they tore into the undead army.

  Estin drew his weapons, focusing his magic on them to channel energies that might help him against the undead, the healing energies hovering like a mist over his blades. When a creature shambled past Feanne or ducked under her arms, he slashed at it, the magic flaring as the corpse fell lifeless once more. It was more elegant than Feanne’s battery of the undead, but also slower.

  For quite some time, all that Estin could see were Feanne, Insrin, and the sea of undead. Everything became a blur of gore and reaching hands. Bulging eyes stared blankly at them, then would vanish as Feanne tore the creatures apart. Soon, Estin was covered head to toe in blood and bits of the corpses from the violence Feanne had unleashed, even hiding just behind her left hip for cover. He checked on Insrin every so often, finding him equally spattered, but unharmed as he fought just behind Feanne’s other leg.

  An inhuman shriek was Estin’s first indication of how far they had come into enemy lines. From what he could see around Feanne, they were only about twenty or thirty bodies from the back side of the undead army, where he could only hope their leaders might be directing from. As the cry echoed through the woods, Feanne shuddered and roared, pushing harder into the enemy lines.

  Again that shriek let loose, making Estin’s body itch and his mind burn. He fought out from one of Feanne’s sides, pushing into the undead to get a better idea of what they were up against. This proved easy, as the corpses just moved past him, all focused on the village and not even trying to fight back against him. Soon, he was able to walk beside Feanne, finding that they were now looking down at a little camp, complete with campfire.

  “I wondered what I might find out here,” hissed a man’s airy voice.

  The heavily-bundled form of a Turessian eased itself out of the tent.

  Feanne let out a howl that shook the trees and was answered from the woods nearby. It sounded as though whatever she had called was already engaged on the undead, the answering cries coming from several different directions. She panted, eyeing her new target and advancing slowly.

  “I demand that you turn your troops back!” shouted Insrin, stepping up to Feanne’s other side. He had his sword ready and his hand shook anxiously. “Do you think we can’t take you too, after going straight through your army?”

  The Turessian laughed, kicking out his small campfire.

  “One lycanthrope and two overprotective wildlings will not stop an army,” the man said calmly. “If these fall, I’ll bring thousands more. If you manage to destroy me, my brethren will come in my place.”

  He flicked his hand and a shape moved through the trees.

  “Assuming you can touch me…”

  Feanne lunged at the man, grabbing him with both hands and her teeth, bearing him to the ground. She tore at him, ripping away bone and flesh.

  It was then that Estin got a look at what was in the woods.

  Misty and almost shapeless, a vague human shape approached from the trees. He could hear the whispering voices in his head, the same as he did when there were spirits seeking help returning to their bodies. This time though, the voices were angry and raged at him, demanding he join them.

  The ghostly figure wailed just once and Feanne shrieked in pain, but kept fighting.

  “Get the ghost!” Estin cried at Insrin, who raced into the woods, his sword slashing harmlessly through the spirit. He continued his attack, trying to at least distract it.

  The ghostly figure fled from Insrin at first, then began ignoring him, letting him attack it to no effect. It turned back to Feanne and wailed again.

  This time Feanne shook and stopped clawing at the Turessian. She stared blankly at the necromancer, then collapsed atop him. Estin felt the life die within her body and her spirit cry out against the death magic that had driven it out. Whatever the ghostly apparition was, it had killed Feanne with just its voice.

  “No!” shouted Insrin, rushing at the ghost again, attacking it as effectively as he could the wind itself.

  Another scream from the ghost and Insrin stopped in his tracks, wavered, then fell like a rag doll, his own life snuffed out.

  Estin found himself at a loss. He had little strength of magic left and it would not last long against both the Turessian and the death spirit. He was going to have to run soon or he would be helpless, but he knew he was not going anywhere without the others.

  Uttering the words of one of his more unfamiliar spells—one which, if successful, should have dismissed the creature from the world of the living—Estin motioned at the ghost, watching as it blinked out of existence and reappeared several feet away. His spell unraveled without a clear target of its destructive power, fading away in a flame-like flicker.

  “Don’t I know you?” asked the Turessian, pulling himself out from under the limp body of Feanne, shoving her such that she flopped onto her back. He snapped his broken bones into place in much the same way a living person would adjust their clothing. “I think I killed your friends in the woods last year.”

  Estin had too much to worry about with the spirit moving through the woods to bother bantering with the necromancer, so he kept moving, trying to keep the spirit in sight. It moved and darted, trying to keep the trees between it and him.

  “She really is antisocial,” laughed the Turessian, popping his collarbone back into place. “Banshees rarely enjoy direct combat. Give her a moment to get her voice back and you’ll see.”

  Estin finally got a line on the banshee and threw out another spell, this one a powerful form of healing that h
e hoped would cause a great deal of harm to the ghost, or possibly disperse it if he was lucky. This one landed and the ghost wept loudly, its form scattering as a whimper drifted from where she had been as white tendrils of light ripped it apart.

  “Now that I would say is impressive. Most people die long before they can land a spell on one of those. No matter though, she will reform tomorrow night back where I found her. Annoying, but not a setback.”

  The Turessian stepped between Estin and his fallen companions.

  Time was beginning to be an issue. Estin knew that he had the strength to bring one person back to life within a few minutes of their death, before the body cooled. He just needed to reach them. The longer past that point, the harder it would be to heal them even with Asrahn’s circle.

  Estin shifted his stance, lifting both swords. The magic he had funneled into them was weak, but still present. He hoped it would be enough to get through this man’s magic.

  “This gets old, wildling. I have lived longer than your cities have had names and yet, you manage to tire me. Your friends’ lives are slipping away. You should hurry. Let us be done with this, as I have some other lycanthropes out attacking my troops that must be dealt with.”

  Estin attacked, wielding both weapons in a flurry of strikes as Feanne had once taught him. She had demanded independent movement of every weapon, always striking, blocking, or setting up for the next attack. As much as she had hated his use of swords, she had taught him much about using them effectively.

  The weapons sliced into the Turessian, sending bits of flesh flying away. He knew the swords would not do much, but everything was a setup for the next strike.

  His next move was harder, requiring that he drop into a crouch as he spun. He used that momentum to bring his tail around, sweeping the Turessian right off his feet. Coming back up, Estin drove both swords through its chest, impaling it on the ground with a grunt.

  “You have improved,” the man gasped, his pale face grinning at Estin from under his cowl. For a moment, Estin saw his eyes flash red. “You have stabbed me before though. It will take far more.”