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Archers
carried two quivers in addition to their traditional compound bows,
short, but with a longer range than any other bow on Epi.
Lancers used high saddles with short stirrups giving them
leverage for short, powerful thrusts.
Every warrior carried his short sickle shaped sword, sharpened
and ready for the eventual slaughter; yet none of these weapons could be
used until the proper time. Satisfied
that they had prepared for a six-week campaign, they remounted and
waited. The sky above
showed a deep blue with a richness only seen from the high plains of the
Erdi Desert, their homeland. A
cool breeze kicked up, refreshing them.
Koric
sighed. “You know, for as
much land as we conquer and now can call our own, there’s no place
like home.” Septic
nodded, “We’re away too much.”
He let out a long sigh. “This
really is the chosen country.” They
looked out upon what some would consider barren wasteland: no tree in
sight; shallow rolling hills giving way to endless plains; and naked
rock-faced mountains in the distance.
Low scrub brush and short grasses covered the land that only
native ponies and haochi would enjoy.
Hot in the summer, bitterly cold in the winter, and always dry. Hearing
someone approach, Koric and Septic turned around to see the Marshal of
the Hunt and his corporals galloping past them.
The marshal’s well-trained eyes scanned the line of warriors
quickly as he sped past. A
few minutes later he approached the center of the line, a knot of high
officials clustered together. Before
them stood trumpeters, banner bearers, and the traditional standard of
white yak tails -- signifying a tribal status of peace. The
Marshal of the Hunt approached a pale, shriveled figure hunched over in
his saddle in the middle of the cluster.
All eyes of the Salmonil high command turned towards the Marshal,
who held his head high, knowing this was his annual moment of glory. |
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“The
line is ready and thirsty for battle, my liege,” he reported. The
shriveled figure said nothing in reply.
Instead, with a slight wave of his gnarled hand, Araknik
initiated the hunt. A
corporal replaced the standard of white yak tails with a standard of
black; trumpets sounded and maneuvering banners waved; the hunt began in
earnest. Over
the next several weeks, they hunted the beasts as they would any other
enemy, but without the intricacy of counter-strategy. They pushed
forward, driving up out of the brush all manner of beast, be it predator
or prey. Still, they could kill neither ... not yet. At
first the predators took advantage of the game scared up in their
direction. But, if they did so, they soon had to leave their kill
as the Salmonil steadily advanced. At times wild herds of haochi
would turn back on them, but the Salmonil did not break ranks. The
lancers eventually turned them back. During the day they pursued
and during the night they rested, keeping the beasts at bay with
bonfires and guards. Even the regular passwords were used as in
time of war. On they drove the animals for weeks, moving the
flanks of their crescent formation faster than the center until the
flanks closed in around the animals. The circle of warriors shrank
until they rode three or four rows deep, always keeping the scurrying
animals inside. At last, the trumpet sounded and the warriors stopped closing in. They held their ground. Araknik rode through the ranks. All waited and watched him, it was his turn to head the Council; it was the month of the wolf. He rode out among the jumping, fleeing animals with only a sword and a wicker shield. His sword glowed like Firesmyth’s, for it had similar heritage, and its name was Temujin. Araknik chose for himself the most dangerous animal, usually a lion, or korax. This time he chose a carnasil, the largest of the cat family. The carnasil were known for their lightning speed and ferocious hunger. They had large canine, saber-like teeth and terribly sharp claws.
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