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The Original Watercolor for this piece will be available in the Anthrocon 2017 Art Show

Warning: Chapter includes violent scenes

Chapter 2 – Raiders

I can think of only one time in my life that I stole something. And I’m not talking about my time spent in captivity, because as far as I’m concerned, the hyenas stole my life from me with that contract. If I took extra food or a weapon or two now and again, it was barely a drop in the pond towards repayment of what I lost to them.

No, I mean stole from someone who was a stranger to me. Someone who by all rights didn’t deserve it, and was hurt by what I took from them. Not some fat street merchant with a cart full of fruit who wouldn’t let me take the ones discarded and rotting in the sun. Although that happened more than a few times, too.

Alright, so maybe I’ve stolen things a couple of times. But the point is, there was only one time I felt bad about it.

There was this man near the ramshackle village I grew up in who sold dyed cloth. Cotton, dyed by he and his daughters. I’m guessing there’d been a mother at some point but I never saw one. Then again, they were tree squirrels, and I can’t say I’m well enough acquainted with their people to rightly determine age. But I’m pretty sure, just based on size, that all the girls who helped him sell at market were children.

Here’s the thing about people who work with dyes. Brick kiln workers destroy their bodies on the inside . . .people who work with dye destroy them on the outside. This entire family was stained from thin fingertips to elbow, and several places beside. The old man was bent like a crook and his daughters would probably be so as well by the time they were in their twenties. They stunk like the dyes they used, and their noses were probably ruined from the work. And they weren’t even prosperous. They probably lived about as well as my family.

But I was young, and selfish, and I wanted to bring my mother something flattering for the solstice. She was such a beautiful woman despite her hard life, and she hardly ever got to wear anything with a little color in it. I wanted her to have one nice thing.

I used my gods-given height and speed on the squirrel family to snatch some fabric I’d had my eye on, and easily outran the angry father, and his bemused daughters. It really wasn’t even a contest.

It had seemed so easy, I’d briefly wondered why I hadn’t been stealing all throughout my life. But slowly, the folly of my choice dawned on me.

The street the squirrel family sold on was fairly close to my home, and there aren’t many golden jackal families along the Hyronses. Both out of guilt, and more practically, out of fear for being pointed out and having the guards sent after me, I had to avoid that street for years after my crime. And that wasn’t easy, especially since I couldn’t explain why to my parents.

To further sour my conquest, I think my mother suspected I’d stolen the fabric, no matter my insistence that I’d simply saved coin. She knew my father found most of the coin we hid away. She never used the bolt to make a garment. I think eventually, she sold it.

Being poor is hard, and I don’t really fault people for becoming thieves. Sometimes it’s literally a matter of survival, but more often, it’s a matter of hoping for an easier path than the one laid out in front of you. You convince yourself it’s necessary, and how dare the world criticize you for your choices when it’s never given you a fair shake at having the things other people have. It’s easier to justify breaking the rules made by people with more means, opportunities and privilege, when you’ve never had the chances they’ve had.

Does that make it right? I don’t know. But you can only get taken from so many times before you get angry, and start taking back. And more often than not it’s easier to take from people who’ve got less, because they’ve got less to protect themselves with.

And so as a whole, we never do any better. At least that’s how it feels, sometimes.




We pick our way through the ruins carefully, towards the distant scent of a campfire, and the aromatic ‘coffee’ Ahsan had smelled from so far off. By now, it’s faded, but as we grow closer I begin to pick out the lingering scent amidst the more familiar campfire smell.

The distant flicker of the fire finally comes into view, barely visible behind an obscuring stone foundation and the crest of a windswept sandy ridge.

“Not hyenas,” Ahsan whispers softly as we take refuge behind a more natural rocky outcropping.

“You can tell from here?” Raja asks disbelievingly.

“Trust his nose,” I assure him, squinting to try and get a better look at the distant silhouettes occasionally passing near the fire. I sigh. “All I’m seeing are shadows,” I murmur. “I think. . . three so far. And definitely some camels.”

“It’s a no-man’s-land between here and their camp,” Anala says quietly. “No cover save the occasional dip in the sand. They picked their spot well, at least. If they have guns. . . .”

Ahsan’s expression goes dark at that, but he stays silent.

“If they have guns, this is a fool’s errand,” I point out irritably. “I don’t want to die over this. We can find another way.”

“You keep saying that without providing an answer,” Lavanya snaps quietly. “Now hush.” She pauses and looks to Anala. “Priestess?”

It’s then that I realize how firmly the balance has shifted. Anala’s been with us for barely a week and already, Lavanya and even Raja are looking to her for guidance. Ahsan and I are the odd men out, here. Most of our group wants to do this.

I set my jaw, and remind myself that this isn’t the time for a bruised ego. I can’t fault them for looking to a trained warrior in times of struggle like this, especially since, as I reminded Ahsan not long ago, she’s likely the reason we’re alive right now.

I’m able to make peace with it pretty quickly. I’m less happy with the idea of stealing from an innocent group of people, regardless what kind of peoples they be, but having less authority amongst my group of friends? I can accept that. Perhaps more readily than I’m willing to admit to myself. It certainly takes a lot of pressure off.

Thoughts for later.

“There isn’t much cover between us and the camp,” she reiterates. “So I’d suggest a quiet approach. Perception is only what you make of it. They may have clear sight in all directions, but that only matters if they’re making use of it. They may have good noses, or ears, but if they’re engaged in conversation or too close to the smoke of the fire, that won’t matter. You don’t need cover to stalk someone. You just need to be silent, and avoid notice. If you see any of them looking out towards you, get flat on your belly and go still. If you are seen, move in fast and the rest of us will back you up.”

“Are we just going to. . . kill them?” Ahsan asks, his tone possessing more strength than I thought it might, considering he’s speaking up to Anala. “Before we even know who they are?”

“Do not insult me,” Anala flicks her boxy ears back. “Do you not know by now who I am? What I stand for? The initial attack is simply intimidation. Threaten, convince them they have been caught unawares and stand no chance, and if they have weapons, seize them. We only fight these men in self-defense. They are not worthy combatants for the sake of combat. And no sneak attacks,” she warns in Raja’s direction, narrowing her eyes. “Killing an opponent who has had no chance to defend themselves is just. . . murder. We are warriors.” She claps a paw over her heart, clenching it. I know it to be a clan salute, so I don’t reciprocate. No one else does, but I see Raja nodding.

“If we do this, we’re raiders,” Ahsan continues to speak up. I’d be proud if I wasn’t worried for him. “Thieves. Vultures, preying on the-“

“We’ll be alive,” Lavanya interrupts. “Which is more than we’ll be without food or water, or a way out of here. I’ll save my tears for the truly lowly, who can only dream of imported, exotic drinks. Let’s do this, and try not to kill anyone.”

That seems to seal it for all of us. Like I said, Lavanya has a way of putting the situation succinctly, and she’s hard to argue with.

We all pull our weapons, a range of scavenged and inherited blades. Anala is perhaps the only one amongst us whose blade truly was made for and belongs to her rightfully. When she brought me Lochan’s sword, I gave up my shotel to Raja. It’s better crafted than the flimsier weapons we had, despite being a glorified farm tool. Ahsan and Lavanya took weapons from the oasis, a stone knife and a spear respectively. Although I doubt Ahsan has any intent to use it, I’m glad to see he’s kept it. We’re all ‘armed’ with our teeth and claws, but the last few months have taught me just how much an actual weapon can make the difference in a life and death situation.

Nothing terrifies me more than the thought that these people might have guns. What until just this year was basically a myth to me, a story I heard told of foreign power and weapons that shape wars, has now become a very frightening reality. I’ve seen what they can do, more than once now. Those thoughts stick with me the whole while that we move low across the sands towards them. We’re keeping a decent distance apart from each other, a fact which no one needed to be reminded of. We’ve all been fired on by the black powder weapons before, and giving them scattered targets as opposed to a clump of bodies is an obvious choice.

I lose track of most of my friends as we draw closer, the distant light becoming less distant, forcing my eyes to adjust. The darkness of the desert becomes just that. . . darkness, and I can no longer see the silhouettes of the others. That bodes somewhat well, at least. It means that whoever is close to that fire probably can’t pick out shapes in the black, either.

I’m not sure if I’m the first to realize who, or rather what, they are. It’s the smell I recognize first, because although I’ve only ever met a few, their scent is hard to forget.

Dholes. A group of dholes. Three, by the look of it. There might be a fourth nearer to the camels, but they’re in a loose group and it’s hard to tell if there’s something on two legs milling about amongst them. The three around the campfire, I can hear talking. They’re speaking with very foreign accents, far eastern Huudari.

We’re going to catch them entirely by surprise, I realize as I draw within less than twenty feet of the camp. I haven’t heard anyone else running, so no one’s been seen. Should I be the first to attack? We never really worked out a signal of any kind. Do I wait for Anala?

My questions are answered abruptly when I catch the flash of a tall figure, gold and black in the light of the campfire, storming into the small group of men, shouting and snarling with his weapon drawn. Raja has his flaws, but cowardice is not one of them. I should have figured he’d be the first in.

I rise up and spring from a crouch, rushing into camp to support him. By the time I make it there, the previously calm, quiet scene is a madhouse of shouting and confusion. Lavanya, ever quick on her feet, was the second to make it there and managed to get her spear point to within a hair’s breath of one of the dhole’s necks. He never even had the chance to stand up, and has his hands in the air, yelling in a jumble. His words are coming out so fast, and so heavily accented, I can’t make much sense of what he’s saying despite essentially speaking the same language.

The other two had a chance to stand and one of them went for a scimitar on his hip, but hasn’t so much as got the blade up before Anala is at his back and Ahsan and I are joining the scene. He assesses the situation quickly, his ears flicking towards the frightened, yelling dhole still seated on the ground. After only a moment’s pause, he drops his weapon, raising his hands and annunciating a few words. “Surrender,” he speaks up, to make his point clear. “We will not fight. Please. My father. . . .”

His eyes glance back towards the seated dhole, who is most certainly older than the other two. The third seems to be another son, or else another family member. They all sport similar tattooing beneath their eyes and along the bridge of their noses.

“Lavanya,” I say sternly but as calmly as I can, not trying to give these men the impression that we’re at all at odds with one another.

She eases up on the spear and puts some distance between the weapon and the old dhole’s back. The second son, moving slowly and keeping eye contact with her, reaches hesitantly for his father’s outstretched paw and helps the man shakily to his feet. He’s shaking everywhere, I soon realize. The man’s terrified. And feeble, by the look of it.

Ahsan doesn’t even have his weapon pulled any more. I can see him on the outskirts of camp, muzzle down, eyes dark. I’m feeling what he’s feeling, I’m sure, but we’re too deep in this now to turn back.

Anala takes charge, pointing her sword in the direction of the younger dhole who first spoke. “Your food, water, your camels. . . whatever wares you carry-“

“You may have all but what we need to survive,” the dhole says quickly. “Please. Just let me take one camel and enough so that we may leave the desert alive. Please. My father cannot go a full day without water, he has a weak heart.”

It seems almost absurd to me, but the dhole honestly sounds desperate, like he doesn’t expect his small request to be honored. But then, most raiders take absolutely everything from those they rob, I suppose. And often their lives, just to avoid the consequences of leaving living victims.

“Yes, fine,” Anala says, pointing her weapon towards the camels. “Pack what you need, and take one of the camels. The rest, you leave.”

The older son, I’m fairly certain they’re siblings now, says something quickly and quietly to his brother that sounded like ‘gather what you can’, before reaching over to take his father’s arm and draw him in a bit closer, wrapping a cloak around his shoulders. I stand back where I’ve been since this all began, my mind a tumble. It’s like I’m watching this from above, and finding it hard to believe that I’m one of the men robbing these people. Everything about this feels wrong.

When I decided I had to fight back. . . really fight back, against the people who were enslaving me, the decision to take the lives of the guards on the plantation was hard enough. It shifted the way I saw the world. I’d only ever killed one man before then, and he’d hurt me for a literal lifetime before I’d given in to my anger. Most of the guards on the Sura plantation were strangers who simply worked for the people who were oppressing and hurting me. But it had been necessary, and that’s what got me through it.

This still didn’t feel necessary. Just easier.

“For gods’ s- we missed one!” Anala’s shout suddenly breaks me from my thoughts, and I turn ears-first towards where she’s suddenly taken off to. Turning my gaze, I catch surprised expressions on the dholes, as well.

There’s a commotion amongst the camels, and a shout, again with that foreign accent. And just like that, the beasts begin to bolt, one of them carrying a rider, I realize.

If you’ve never seen a camel run, I’ll forgive you for not realizing how fast they can move when they want to. I know immediately that I stand no chance of catching the beasts or their rider, but I take off anyway, because the dhole who was escaping was taking not just our supplies and transportation, but the hopes of his family with him. And if these people died out here, we’d ultimately be the reason.

I would’ve run until my lungs burst, but unfortunately for the dhole making off with his family’s fortune, we had a cheetah.

This was the second time I’d seen Raja’s true speed when he put his head into the wind and really gave it his all, and it was breathtaking. He shoots across the sands, a blur of gold and black that soon becomes eclipsed by shadow as he leaves the halo of light from the campfire. I’m able to pick out his shadow as he catches up to the mob of retreating animals, and vaguely see the dash of movement as he leaps upon the only camel with a rider. At that point the herd breaks into confusion and begins running in all directions, and I have a chance to catch up.

When I arrive, only two of the camels remain, and one only because its lead is tangled around the arm of the prone form collapsed beside it. My eyes are still dilated from staring into the lit campsite, so all I catch is the rim of moonlight reflecting on the contours of Raja’s back as he slowly stands.

And then I smell the blood.

“Raja, are you alr-“ my words fade as I catch the glint of his shotel, stained and pulling up a thin trail of viscous blood, the kind you only get from a deep wound. He turns to stare back at me dispassionately.

“He would have taken everything, from all of us,” he states in a low voice.

“Zalman!” A breathless voice shouts, footsteps stumbling down over the dune towards us. With a sinking feeling, I realize it’s one of the dholes, the older of the two sons by the sound of it.

I turn to cut off his path, unsure exactly what to do, but knowing if he sees his gutted family member, things will only get worse. Unfortunately, no jackal is a wall, and even though I’m able to grab him by the shoulders and prevent his advance, he can easily see past me.

His eyes grow frantic, and he shouts again, a hoarse scream. “Zalman!”

I hear the approach of my comrades, but the suddenly grief-stricken, angry dhole is in my hands, is my problem at the moment, and he’s trying to tear away from me.

“Please,” all I can do is plead. “Don’t. Don’t!” I grip one of his biceps hard, his loose-fitting clothing making it hard to get a good hold on him, especially with him struggling the way he is.

“My brother!” He half-screams, half-sobs, flashing his fangs and snapping at me, “You killed my brother! Feralir! Monsters! Animals!”

I’m not sure if I’m actually losing the battle against his grief-induced strength, or if my resolve to hold him back is just crumbling, but he jerks hard enough that he manages to free one of his arms, and with a sudden stab of realization and panic, I catch sight of the second weapon he’d been hiding. A dirk, obscured beneath one of his layers of robes. He gets his free hand around the handle and is bringing it up towards my gut before I’ve even processed that I didn’t have my sword out. I try to twist away from him at the last moment, but it’s too late.

And then his head sways to the side unnaturally, a muffled crack signaling something I’ve become far too familiar with at this point.

Anala had swung her sword down into him from behind, neatly cleaving into where his spine becomes his neck. The whole front of his robes begins to soak in blood from his clavicle down, and he gives one bodily shudder before stumbling forward several steps, and crumbling to the ground.

I let go of him and step back, my mind releasing every thought for a few moments, strictly out of necessity. It’s all too much at once.

Anala pulls her sword free of the dhole’s neck with a single tug, and looks to me, her eyes reflecting red in the dark.

“No regrets, jackal,” she says quietly. “I have spared your conscience. Be glad he lies bleeding in the sand, and you live. His choices led to this.”

“No,” I say hoarsely, “our choices led to this.”

“None of us has ever had any real choice in anything we’ve had to do to survive,” Raja’s voice cuts through the sudden quiet. “But we finally will, if we can cut these fucking collars off.”

I can suddenly feel the weight around my neck as if it’s new. My fingers reflexively go to the metal ring, turning it slowly against my fur.

Choices.