The Tirnano - Book 1 'FINN'

by Peter Emmerson

  ‘SHE FLAMES, THE PURPLE QUEEN FLAMES’ Lord Dominie’s mind was full of reverence.

  ‘SHE FLAMES, SHE FLAMES’ the other M’ntar responded.

  Swooping from the ceiling she landed on Mira’s shoulder, with a pop of in-rushing air the little Purple Queen and Mira, her chosen companion, disappeared.

  PART 3

  37.

  THE TIRNANO

  BODAN

  The Northern Plains

  Bodan lay on his stomach under the overhang, his senses straining to vibe the source of the thought that had come drifting on the wind, it sounded like a call for help, but it was so faint he could not be sure.

  To catch a readable thought out here on the edge of the snow-fields was so rare that it was impossible to imagine. If it was humans they were a long way into Brosynan territory and must be either crazy or have a serious death wish. Involuntarily his hand moved to check that his spike, crafted from the horn of a steer, was close to his grasp.

  He lay in the cool shadow, under the overhang for a full hour waiting as the sun passed its zenith. He then backed silently away from the edge of the cliff. The thought had not come again, and his sharp eyes had detected nothing more than the small group of steers that he had been watching since dawn.

  The little herd had been making its way slowly through the snow field, from tuft of grass to tuft of grass towards his position. They were cropping contentedly at the exposed fronds of purple headed grass. He counted two large bulls and their harem of nine cows; there were six youngsters of all ages, from milk-suckers to young adolescents, almost old enough for the older bull to consider covering.

  Bodan smiled as he watched the old bull ‘chance his arm’ once or twice as they moved through the grass. The young heifers were obviously of a different mind and skittered away from his amorous advances, the old bull wasn’t too concerned; more than anything he was merely asserting his authority.

  The little herd ambled closer. He waited; they were almost close enough. He confirmed his choice, a young heifer on his side of the herd. She was moving forward slightly apart from the others, her attention somewhere far away as she chewed incessantly on her cud.

  Bodan knew he would have but one chance to make a strike before the herd would turn on him with a vengeance, seeking retribution for the death of one of their tightly knit family group. Confident in his ability, he silently drew his long spike, his intention to make his kill, then disappear, swiftly making his way back to the safety of his vantage point. The steers would spend a short time keening around their fallen family member before moving off. Leaving the body where it had fallen.

  The young bull had already ambled past his position, and was leading the herd towards a small gully; he would never have been able to get near enough for his spike stroke, his favoured method, had the bull been closer.

  The heifer approached his hide, ‘just a little bit more m’beauty’. She took three more steps, and then began to turn towards the gully entrance passing his position. He could see her clearly, her gentle brown eyes exposing her high level of intelligence. He was almost overcome by the softness, for her long lashes gave her a haunting beauty.

  But the clan needed meat, not sentimentality; he thrust the thought aside. The wind was blowing in his direction, and she was now so close he could smell the cud she was chewing. Bodan waited a moment longer. She was almost upon him when he rose from his crouch; slipped silently towards her, taking the two separating paces swiftly. His approach was such that the bulk of her body hid him from the remainder of the herd. In less than a heartbeat he was alongside her, he drove his long pointed spike into her eye, smashing through the socket and into her brain.

  She died instantly but took two further steps before she fell in a heap. Instantly he faded back into the grass and rapidly made his way back up the side of the outcrop to his previous vantage point. The other steers were as yet unaware of her demise. She gave a deep grunt as her body went into spasm, and with a loud noise her bowels emptied. The nearest beast, an elderly female, wandered over to investigate, and then with a tremendous bellow of alarm announced the death. The two males stirred instantly into defensive mode, rushing towards the spot, bristling with anger. The remainder of the herd followed. They stood for a moment around her, sniffing at her bloodied eye.

  Bodan watched as they spread out from the corpse searching for an enemy, but he had expected just that, and had covered himself with fresh dung which effectively masked his scent. With the powerful aroma that was issuing from the luckless heifer’s final offering, there was little chance that they would be able to locate him. If they had discovered his presence though, they would spend forever waiting for him to come down, or linger, waiting for him to die from exposure or starvation, such would be their revenge.

  As it was, it was more than an hour before the herd had moved far enough away to enable him to leave his hiding-place, and make his way at a fast sprint back to the Tirnano’s outpost. Roza and Jojo were waiting in camp. They swiftly swung onto their waiting mounts and at a rolling gallop followed the now mounted Bodan who had draped two large dragging skins across his mount’s shoulders. Experienced hands all, they soon had the heifer butchered, quartered and packed away. Each gave a thankful prayer to the gods that the Gargoys hadn’t picked up the scent of the dead animal, or they would have been in ‘deep doodoos.’

  For protection each carried a long spear tipped with sharp flint, the fearsome weapons, along with short bows with their equally sharp arrows, were kept close to hand as they worked.

  The circuitous route they would follow to the Clan cave the following day would be the most dangerous of the hunt. Even though the Gargoys were cowardly, the disgusting flying creatures being loath to attack armed riders, knowing the speed at which a rider and his mount could move and fight. They also knew full well the accuracy the hunters commanded with their small but deadly bows. Gargoy’s would attack if the stakes were high enough, and of course stacked in their favour. But the hunters were well versed in all attack methods that the Gargoys were able to devise, for they had guarded continuously against the creatures all their lives.

  ‘Well done young’un, good job, with what we already got, there’s loads to take back to the caves tomorrow,’ whistled Weesia as they loaded the butchered carcase on the skins before dragging it back to camp. Their mounts swiftly disposed of the unwanted parts of the carcase.

  The hunters had been away from the Clan caves for five days, each day had seen at least one kill added to their hoard. The kills had been packed by Weesia and Mikhai; wrapping the fresh meat in soft skins which were then buried in a snowdrift within the camp’s perimeter. The drift was under the shadow of a large rock, and even the mid summer sun could not melt it completely. The snow covering was replenished each morning by a daily snow fall, creating an effective storage spot. They had used it continuously over the years, as had their predecessors before them.

  They completed packing the camp before the sun sunk behind the high peak. The remainder of the patrol rode into camp just after, the nine mounts almost silent in their approach across the snow. Across each of their mount’s necks were a brace of rabbits, they were a much sought after delicacy. In addition one mount carried a deer carcase draped with the rabbits.

  ‘Where’d ya find them?’ Mikhai whistled, generally the only sight of rabbits was after a patrol had visited their southern borders, ‘You ain’t been gone that long.’

  ‘Bout three thou down, looks like they spreading onto the fields in numbers, much higher than last year,’ Radaka replied, her hands and fingers flashing. She smiled at him, he was a handsome lad, nice and wide across his bushy shoulders, and he had proved himself in battle. He might be worth a little tumble, she mused, but the poor lad was so besotted by the frosty Anabee, he probably wouldn’t even notice her advances.

  She sighed, Oh, well, what you ain’t had, you don’t miss, and there was always Kallim, the next youngest. She was tall, beautiful and solidly built with cr
opped black hair and an amazing pattern of green and black variegated stripes criss-crossing her hard muscled body. The hooded hide shirt and long pants tucked into her knee high boots were tight enough to show off all her ample curves. Radaka was never short of admirers and she knew it. She carried the same long spear and short bow as her fellows, and like the other hunters it was not for show. She was no amateur with either weapon, able to hit a leaping deer or a galloping steer with either at fifty paces.

  The team broke camp before daybreak; their intention, to be on the move in battle formation before the Gargoys were to wing. With four mounts hauling towing skins wrapped around the packed meat, and two others dragging skins with the remainder of the useable parts of their kills; horns, hides and large bones, they would present a key target. If the Gargoys could force the riders to surrender their towed cargo, they would swoop down and steal as much as they could.

  The hunters’ only defence against the flying denizens was to fight to protect themselves and the payload. The Gargoys were inclined to attack in numbers, numbers which would take a whole heap of fighting off, and which invariably ended with substantial if not fatal injuries.

  It should have been easy for the hunters and the Gargoys to have come to some sort of truce, but the Gargoys had totally ignored any attempt at communication the Clan had proffered. Their singular intention seemed to be to kill as many hunters as they could, with as few casualties on their own side as possible. And to steal whatever they could, which did not exclude abducting any unwary members of the clan.

  The Tirnano rode in combat formation. The six lead mounts towing the large hide sacks; the remaining six hunters forming a tight group around the precious cargo. As they set off at a quick walk the snow was falling, their breath rose in white clouds before being whipped away by the keen wind.

  Kallim, Jojo and Ames took up the three rear positions, Pavel and Roza flanked each side, while Naum took point. Bodan was in his usual position at tail, his was the most dangerous of their formation; the sun would be rising at his back, and out of the sun would come the Gargoys.

  The Tirnano’ haul was more than sufficient to attract attention and the patrol knew it. If the odds were stacked against them, things might not go too well, but they were ready. They had all faced the Gargoys. Even Mikhai, rookie though he was, had a deep puckered, roughly stitched scar, running from shoulder to elbow on his right arm, evidence of the sharpness of Gargoy claws. It was an affirmation of his first patrol less than a year before. He was proud of his scar and of the fifteen notches on his spear which proclaimed his subsequent verified kills.

  He was fortunate; the wound had been cleaned swiftly, washed out with copious amounts of boiled water. Ames had stitched the wound as well as she could and then wrapped the youth’s arm in a clean piece of buckskin. Even so it had taken two weeks for Mikhai to be back on his feet, and another two before he had resumed his place in the patrol.

  He was lucky the wound had been completely cleaned, unlike some wounds inflicted by the Gargoys, which after a single day would be oozing thick yellow pus, and invariably spelt a slow and painful death.

  The Tirnano patrol was well known to the Gargoys. Counting the number of notches around the group would give a good indication why, for the total tally amongst the twelve was well over two hundred and fifty confirms. To say that the group were experienced, and battle hardened was an understatement.

  Pavel was a good leader; his thirty two years of life had honed a powerful body with wide shoulders and muscular arms. He could have his pick of any of the maidens in the Clan caves, but only chose occasionally, to share his sleeping skins with Radaka.

  She was a vital member of the troop, a skilled huntress and a vicious fighter. The thirty four notches on her spear, more than any other female member of the troop were testament to her abilities. Radaka held the central position at the point of the A, it was her responsibility to direct the towing group. She could feel the tight rawhide ropes under her thighs. The hunters rode bareback without reins, guiding their mounts with knee pressure and clicked commands alone.

  The highly intelligent plains Runners, whom their riders claimed were able to understand every thought; moved and fought almost as one alongside their riders, and observing them one could easily believe that they did understand every single thought or gesture that was made.

  The meat sacks were secured by ropes, one to either side of the mount’s body attached to a harness around its neck. The harness was the only handhold the rider had available, but most would never use it, relying on their superb riding ability even at full gallop, to keep them safely mounted.

  To cling to the harness was almost an admission of failure as a rider, for the use of both hands was essential to handle their weapons. The long spears were supported by a socket sewn onto the side of each of their right foot boots. The spear was held in the right hand, ready for instant use. Their short bows were strung and looped over their left shoulders. A hide quiver of arrows, dried and rolled straight after heating over slow fires until they were as hard as rock, hung from their left hips. The arrows were tipped with sharp slivers of stone, each one painstakingly chipped from the hard black stones which littered the valley floors around their home caves.

  Every hunter carried a horn spike of a similar shape and size to Bodan’s. The spikes were expertly carved and shaped for the hunters by the oldsters in the tribe. Each hunter was gifted with his own personalised spike on his acceptance into a patrol.

  The hunters were as always, prepared for war.

  From an early age they were trained and groomed to be experts in all of the tasks they would call on as hunters and fighters. Acceptance into a patrol required the rookie to pass many tasks, not only in weaponry but also hunting lore. The culmination of their training was a rite of passage at the age of fifteen. The test required them to spend six days and nights alone on the snow-fields, armed with nothing but a bow and just two arrows.

  During that time they were expected not only to survive, but to feed and protect themselves. Survival meant acceptance into the Clan; it was a one way ticket. Every member of the Clan had passed; those who hadn’t were the ones that didn’t return.

  Acceptance into a hunting patrol however was only by the total agreement of all the other members of the troop. The youngest age for a rookie was eighteen, but membership was only to be had by filling ‘dead man’s boots’ and the newcomer had a lot to live up to.

  The first year, if they survived, was always the hardest.

  The patrol rode into the Clan valley just after midday, each of them with their jerkin hoods up and their gloves on. The guards at the valley entrance and along the surrounding heights were made up of fifteen to eighteen year olds, who whooped and hollered their delight at the size of the haul and the obvious well being of the patrol. Their enthusiasm was quickly picked up, and soon there were crowds of excited youngsters from the schools scrambling around their idol’s feet.

  To be a member of a hunting patrol was the pinnacle of success for the Clan’s youngsters. The more successful the patrol, the higher they stood in hero rankings. The Tirnano were amongst the top three patrols in ranking, only two others held higher hit rates in terms of Gargoy kills, and weight of meat returned to the caves.

  The plains Runners were jittery and tired, the boisterous youngsters scampering around their huge clawed feet, chancing death or injury, was not helping.

  Rather than stepping high and prancing into the valley as the occasion warranted, for the mounts too were venerated, each known by name and ranked in adulation along with their riders, they took short steps, their claws just skimming the hard packed earth.

  A short time later when the meat, hide and horns, and those bones which were useful, had been off loaded and dropped at their respective preparation areas, that Pavel was approached by one of the clan elders.

  38.

  A TASK IS SET

  Northern Plains.

  Tirnano Lands.

  ‘Gre
etings, Lord Alion,’ he clicked, fisting his forehead in salute.

  ‘Greetings, Patrol Leader Pavel,’ the older man responded, ‘Lord Hoolie requires you to attend soon as.’

  That meant now! For Lord Hoolie to send one of the Elders to fetch him meant something either pretty rare or mighty scary was in the air.

  Pavel followed the elder towards the back of the cave and ducked through the hanging skins which were the demarcation to the council chambers. The walls were black with soot from the fat soaked rush torches, which were placed in holders all around.

  In the flickering light they gave off he could make out the entire upper echelon of clan elders, including his escort there were twelve. Every group in the clan was made up of the number twelve. It was bad luck to operate a group of any other number. A patrol hated to function if a hunter was killed, and they would always wait until they a replacement had been chosen, before becoming fully operational again.