Scavengers of the Deadlands

Prologue

 Humanity’s reign of the Earth ended in the year 2153 with the Last Great War. A combination of nuclear warfare, genetically engineered viruses and the never-ending quest for more space and better resources sealed their doom. A deep darkness was cast upon the world but from these ruins life began anew. From the ashes of human kind the Phoenix rose and where her light fell, a new race rose to claim the world. A race of mankind’s creation, of scientific meddling, these new Kin excelled above their forefathers and flourished as humans fell into obscurity.

 They were the Furrae. Neither people nor animals, but a hybrid of both. They claimed the inhabitable land that remained, islands within a sea of desolate wasteland where nothing grew save for the tendrils of the coral-fungi Blackemarr and no life stirred save for the scuttling of beetles mutated beyond nightmares.

 Kingdoms formed, and within them smaller fiefdoms where different species of the Furrae lived and loved, hunted and celebrated. Vulpids, Canids, Felids, Prosimians, nearly every species of mammal known had their representatives in this New World.

 And as in all civilisations, there were the outcasts, the criminals and runaways. Unable to find their way in the regimented world they found their way to the shadows.

 And the Deadlands beckoned.

 * * *

He stood in chains, head bowed, blind to the commotions around him, the fear-stink of his fellow captives. The scent of smoke still lingered in his nostrils, the screams and torments ran riot in his mind. They had fallen, all of them except him. He did not know why he had been spared, why he had been chosen amongst his rather more esteemed peers to survive. Unheeding, he stood in silence.

“Can I have this one?” Came a voice from somewhere before him. It was a lilting voice, young, uninhibited and eager.

 “Whatever do you want that one for?” In response, a deep, amused rumble. “Why? ‘Tis only a runt of a Vulpid.”

 Something about it made the boy raise his head, and surprise shot across his glazed features. The speaker was tall, towering over his small, slender muzzled companion and broad of shoulder. His fur was a rich gold, decorated with whirling patterns of spots and stripes - not quite a Tiger, but not a Leopard either. Perched atop his broad head, between rounded ears, rested a most extravagant hat, topped with a huge feather. He smiled broadly at the boy, displaying a lot of teeth.

 “But I like him. He’s all pretty, with that dancing fire pattern on his head. I’ll take good care of him, Jamie, I promise.” She was the opposite of her Felid companion - petite, dark and with a feral gleam in her orange eyes. The boy could not recognise her species.

 The Felid’s eyes narrowed. “How many times have I told you not to call me by that name? James, yes, Morgan, yes, Captain if you must. But never, ever Jamie. Understand?”

 Her eyes held no fear, no sign of submission, she met his emerald gaze calmly and coolly with her own. “Yes, I understand,” she said finally casting her gaze downwards. The boy saw that she mouthed the word, “Jamie,” followed by a feral grin.

 She was lucky he did not notice, for his attention had turned once more to the boy. “Do you have a name, boy?” He asked.

 The boy forced himself to meet the studying gaze and shuddered at the emerald gleam. The power in those eyes could cower anything. “Kameryn,” he said, the words little more then a whisper.

 “Kameryn,” the Felid savoured the word, rolling it on his tongue. “That is rather a girly name, do you not think? Are you a girl, Kameryn?”

 “No.”

 “No sir,” he scolded. “You would do well not to forget that. And how old are you, child?”

 “Eight years sir.”

 “To what fiefdom do you belong?”

 “Rannifae sir. My father is the Duke there. He will pay you well for my ransom.” He could have bit his lip there, as those words passed them. The Duke may be his father, but he doubted any ransom would be forthcoming. Even if his father had survived the attack, Kameryn doubted that his ill-got son would rate highly in his mind.

 It appeared the Felid felt the same. “He would pay well, would he? For a half-breed like yourself? Vulpid you may be, but you rank at least two species in your lineage. What was your mother? A serving wench?”

 “A seamstress sir.” He hung his head in shame. If only his status did not show so clearly, in his oversized ears and the orange fur that framed his face. The blood of both Grey and Bat-eared fox blood ran in his veins. Both the Duke and his wife were Bat-ears. As the illicit son of the Duke, he was thus confined to a life of servitude. His father would have rather more pressing concerns.

 The Felid’s small companion stamped her foot. “I want him,” she said, with all the petulance of a small child although she was a woman grown. “He’s marked by the flame.”

  Rolling his eyes, the Felid conceded. “Very well Luka, I shall buy the boy, and it will most assuredly be a waste of opates. I would doubt that he shall survive into his adult years.” He turned his unerring gaze back to the boy. “Can you fight? Or fire a musket?”

 “A little.” He could not meet that gaze. “Sir.”

 “Very well, we shall see what we can make of you. You never know, it will take a great deal of work and a lot of luck but one day, my boy, we might make you a Scavenger.”