The Packmother's Daughter

Adda sat cross-legged on a padded lounge chair in the center of her mother’s tent and misplaced scorn. A thin veil of smoke swirled in under the deep red linen that shrouded the entrance and painted the morning light in a swath of color. Yuur paced angrily between the pair of armed guards that flanked each side of the entrance. The steaming Packmother gripped the hilt of her blade so tightly that her claws left marks in the hard leather. She ran a shaking hand through her short facial fur then gestured desperately at her daughter.

“Who do you think you are?” Yuur demanded of her. The tenacity of her gesturing set her dark tan fur quivering. “Why do you think you are better than this way of life? Did I not raise you for this exact purpose?”

Adda didn’t answer her; Yuur didn’t want an immediate response. The questions were rhetorical and Yuur wouldn’t respect her answers in any case. It was better to accept the shouting and the bristling than give her mother any more reason to berate her. It normally worked, but Adda could see that her mother was catching on to her games and pressing further.

“Answer me, Adda! Who do you think you are?”

The daughter of a low-born, no-name Packmother who is reaching far beyond her grasp.

She bit her tongue and said instead, “I am Adda, eldest daughter of Yuur, heiress to the pack.”

“Then why do you not act as such?” Yuur raised a hand to strike Adda but relented when she saw her daughter hold her ground. Instead she shook her fist with another venomous insult. “You act like a child!”

“I do not want to kill anyone, mother,” Adda said evenly though her heart was nearly bursting from her chest. “I don’t understand how that is childish.”

“You don’t want to kill anyone? Well, I don’t want the other families threatening ours for Packmother! What if something happens to me? How will they know our family can hold the title if you won’t fight for it?”

“What if I don’t want it?” Adda looked her mother in the eye but couldn’t maintain it for more than a second. She cast her gaze down into her lap and her clawed fingers she began to fiddle with nervously. She took a deep breath with the realization that she had never said anything about it before that moment. “Just give it to Fingi, she wants it.”

“She’s too young, Adda! Yivon will kill her in a duel. We must show strength here, and I know you can beat Yivon.”

Adda fell silent again as she crossed her arms and rubbed the fur that covered them. Yuur stood strong at the entrance with her sturdy yet slender frame bathed in red light that silhouetted her in the dark of the tent. Her white hair was braided along her temples and tied back into a tight tail, freeing up her constantly-scowling – yet still fair to look upon – face. She wore a simple blue dress of soft linen and a white silk shawl draped elegantly across her powerful, muscled shoulders. Yuur had always been meant to be Packmother, or at least so she assured everyone. She certainly looked the part, as far as Adda could tell, though she only had other Packmothers to compare her against. Other Packmothers, however, seemed to prioritize their family’s bond rather than their family’s status. Yuur did not, and as far as Adda knew she never had.

“You will go out there and address Yivon’s challenge, Adda. You will win and the pack will be united further under us. I’m tired of you shirking your duties as eldest daughter. Today you will either prove your worth or you will die. Either way, this family will be better for it.”

With that she left the tent and her two guards followed close behind. She could not tell for certain but one of them seemed to cast an empathetic look back at her as he dipped under the entrance cloth. Adda set the thought aside and laughed at the idea that anyone in Yuur’s inner circle could ever sympathize with anything but the lust for power and conquest.

She wiped her eye with the black shawl given to the Packmother’s eldest daughter and glanced over to the low table all her fighting equipment sat upon. Her shortsword, a simple mundane steel shined with oils and kept in proper fighting sharpness –one of Yuur’s constant requirements– sat unsheathed and twinkled in the soft light. A fighting sleeve made of thick layered cloth meant to be worn on the non-sword arm sagged tiredly from the side of the table where Adda had tossed it just before Yuur’s most recent berating. It was probably still warm from the day’s battle with the rival pack.

“Why Yivon?” Adda asked herself as she fell back onto the lounge seat. “Probably her mother forcing her to challenge Yuur. Why must our mothers use us to play politics?”

This musing caused Adda to laugh again. There was no way Yivon’s mother Eirnja would possibly coerce her daughter into challenging the Packmother. She was too kind, too smart. Eirnja hadn’t been seduced by the prospect of power, surely. Surely.

One of Adda’s guards rapped on one of the wooden supports just outside the entrance.

“My Fyrrl? Adda?” Sivar beckoned to her. “May I come in?”

“Yes.” She said into the pillow her face was covered with.

“I have been ordered to escort you to—”

“To kill one of my childhood friends, yes,” she murmured.

Adda heard Sivar sigh.

“Yes.”

There was another knock from outside.

“My Fyrll, may I—”

“Yes! Come in, Mikis.”

Adda cleared her face to see the tall man bow low beneath the entrance and stoop his head to avoid hitting the ceiling. He looked a true opposite of his brother; outspoken, social, tall with white fur, long hair and shoulders wider than nearly all she’d ever met. Sivar was lithe, strong and by far the superior fighter, but he had nowhere close to the same stature. Mikis bowed to greet Adda and rested a broad hand on his longsword’s hilt.

“I—”

“Have been told to escort me to the duel. I know. Thank you.”

Mikis cleared his throat.

“Yes. Pakkedur Yuur has said you formally addressed Yivon’s challenge and want to duel immediately? I’m guessing that that was—”

“A lie. Sorry, not a lie, politics. Pack politics.”

“Wasn’t Yivon your friend?”

Adda covered her face with the pillow again.

Sivar punched his brother. Or, more accurately, she heard a hit and resulting hushed cursing.

“I am sorry to be so forward, my Fyrll. I did not mean to offend you, I was only curious.”

“It’s fine, this isn’t your fault.” Adda sat up and trudged across the tent to gather up her equipment from the table. Slowly she put on each piece until she was in full fighting wardrobe and just as slowly she exited the tent to display her preparedness to the pack. Sivar and Mikis held the linen back for her and followed her out as she passed.

The camp was already lively at the rumored prospect of fighting, Adda saw. Men and women of all families and all castes scurried about eagerly when they saw her. Most progressed into whispers or overly loud comments of their thoughts on the matter. Generally her mother’s allied families, who comprised the slight majority of the pack, gave her smiles whereas the rivalled families offered only scowls. She ignored both in turn and allowed Mikis and Sivar to keep them clear of her.

As they approached the proving grounds, a simple dirt pit cleared at the heart of the war camp as they moved from one territory to another, Adda felt her heart rise from its sullen dullness to a fervent anxiousness. Yuur stood, arms crossed in a display of disapproval, with Eirnja at the wooden gate marking the entrance to the proving grounds. They engaged in a quiet but clearly intense discussion at the pending duel. Eirnja spotted Adda as she approached with her guards and wheeled on her with an angry slurry of hushed words.

“Adda! Why do you fight for your mother? Surely you know Yivon would be better as a Packmother. We need someone with intelligence, with compassion. You know this, we’ve discussed this before!”

Adda turned her eyes down and moved away from her which prompted Mikis to step between them. Eirnja did not try to step past the burly Durgambur but rather let out an exasperated sigh and stomped off toward her family’s camp.

Yuur put a hand on her shoulder. “Good, Adda, do not play into their sorry games.”

“So I’m only playing your games, then?” Adda did not look at her mother and instead searched the far side of the proving grounds for her opponent. Her heart began to flutter when she saw her; a woman taller and thinner than her with neatly trimmed white fur, short tan hair and a smooth elegant stride. Across her straight shoulders was draped a white shawl, meant only for the Packmother. Adda sighed. Yivon really had challenged Yuur. There was no escape for Adda now, she had to do this.

“Go on, then, Adda. Kill her or die. If you surrender, you will find a new home at the base of the Horn Lake Bluff.”

With her mother’s sharp verbal prodding, Adda stepped out onto the proving grounds. She adjusted her black shawl to ensure that the dozens of spectators gathering saw it. Some cheered at the bravado she faked, others for Yivon, who entered from the other side. Adda wiped the sweat lining her palms on the fur of her leg and took a deep breath as Yivon smoothly walked to the center of the pit with a sword in hand. There was no turning back now.