false tranquility

8/7/2019 False Tranquility

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False Tranquility

Spear-Thrower was being a little careless as he walked the perimeter of his tribes terrain.

The Black Talon had not dared venture into the Snowy Barrens territory for the last couple of

years, their attention redirected elsewhere. Why they had stopped attacking didnt appear tomatter to most anymore. The longer the lack of raids extended, the more the better part of the

tribe took that feeling of security for granted. Spear-Thrower, young and inexperienced, was

amongst them.

While most people were grateful for the peace, the warriors had mixed feelings about it.

Their necessity was put into question would they not serve their village better by hunting,


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fishing, crafting or foraging, instead of scouting and training for a threat that no longer seemed to

exist? The elders werent convinced. These lulls had occurred before, but they were only calms

in a ceaseless Black Talon storm. Their aggressors were merely regrouping. They had saturated

their own tribe with as many slaves as they could manage, but there would come a point, as their

tribe members increased through natural population growth and their slave numbers declined

through attrition from use and abuse, when they would start raiding again. If the warriors did not

maintain their training, if they did not continue to keep watch, where would the people of the

Snowy Barrens be when that happened?

Spear-Thrower raised his face to the sky, shielding his brown eyes with one hand. He

rolled his shoulders trying to shake away the itch that came from wearing newly tanned leathers.

It had been a beautiful sunny day when he had started out on his patrol, but dark clouds were

now rolling in, suggesting bad times to come. He was so absorbed in contemplating the weather

that he almost missed the indentation in the ground, an imprint of a single foot. His toe caught

the edge of it as he passed, causing him to glance down.

One distinct difference between the members of the Snowy Barren tribe and the Black

Talon tribe was their footwear. The shoes and boots of Spear-Throwers people were carefully

crafted, their soles thick, ridged and sturdy, the soft leather attached, expertly tanned. The Black

Talon wore crudely fashioned coverings that were barely functional, the work of inexperienced

slaves rather than master craftspeople. The rough edges to the imprint had not come from the

foot of one of the Snowy Barren tribe and the print was quite fresh.

The young warrior tensed and crouched, following the ragged outline with his fingertips.

He drew in a hissing breath and the adrenaline began to pump through his veins. His tribe would

need to know about this find and their peace of mind, their state of calm, would likely yield oncemore to fear. Did this mean that the Black Talon were on the prowl again?

Before he had a chance to stand and return to the village with news of his find, an abrupt

sound from the brush ahead of him caused him to start and brace his weapon defensively.

Various scenarios flashed through his mind in the seconds that followed. No predatory animal

would charge their target so noisily, and that included the Black Talon. One of their raid scouts

would fire silently upon him first with one of their blow darts and once he was disabled, they

would fall upon him and kill him with deft blows from one of their horn or bone knives. They

would never take a warrior as a slave. A warrior would fight their attempts at dominance and

cause too much trouble. A warrior would never be tamed to the expected level of subservience.

Despite instincts that screamed at him to attack whatever emerged from the brush, Spear-

Thrower held back. He was glad his forethought overrode those inclinations, when one of his

tribe members, Nectar, stumbled out of the brush before him. The woman, normally a vivacious

dark-haired creature with a sharp wit, looked like she had just been through hell. She staggered

from the foliage, barely maintaining her footing and clutching the form of her small daughter,


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Clover to her chest. Her clothing was torn, her face and arms scratched and bloodied, and her

expression etched with exhaustion. She wavered for a moment and then, with a sound

somewhere between a whimper of relief and a sigh of resignation, she fell.

Fortunately, Spear-Thrower had not attacked, nor was he so bent on some sort of combat

that he was not able to cast his weapon aside and grab for her as she toppled. Had she dropped tothe ground without his support, she likely would have crushed the limp body of her child beneath

her. Catching and cradling the woman from the awkward position of his crouched stance, the

young warrior lowered the woman gently to the ground onto her side, protecting the girl from

harm.

Spear-Throwers heart thrummed in his chest, unsure what to do next. He needed to get

Nectar back to a healer, that much was clear, and he was unsure if the motionless child loosely

tangled in her arms was even alive. The pair had gone out to fetch honey with Nectars mate,

Flint, but the woman did not carry with her the specially made satchels she used to gather the

honeycomb, and the man that she had left the village with was nowhere in sight. He would havenever left his mate and child unprotected. He cherished the pair. They were his world. His

absence did not bode well.

Before Spear-Thrower could contemplate the situation further, the child began to stir.

She lifted her head shakily and looked about, emitting a slightly panicked mewling sound.

Spear-Thrower dropped to his knees and crawled closer to her. She glanced his way, a wide pair

of hurt and haunted eyes staring out from a face haloed by wild black hair. Spear-Thrower

reached out a hand towards her, an offering of comfort. He did not catch the glazed look of

shock in her unblinking stare, or the lack of recognition there. When his fingers were too close

for comfort, the little girl snarled at him with more ferocity than he would have expected from afour-year-old, and bit down hard enough to draw blood on the area of skin extending between his

thumb and index finger.

Spear-Thrower yelped and drew back his hand quickly. Then with a reflexive burst of

anger, he grabbed Clover by the shoulders and gave her a few jarring little shakes.

Stop it, you silly brat! Im trying to help you! he bellowed with each jolt.

When the small, frightened girl burst into tears, the warrior felt immediately ashamed for

losing his temper with her and hugged her to him, with whispered soothing sounds and relaxed

gestures. She did not try to bite him a second time, thankfully.

Im sorry, Clover. I didnt mean to startle you, but your mother is not well, and we cant

waste time. I need to get her back to the village, to the healers. Where is your father?


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Instead of answering him, Clover withdrew into herself, choking back her sobs and

turning her face away from him. Perhaps, Spear-Thrower thought, that had been the wrong

question to ask.

What happened then? We will need to know in order to find him, and to best help your

mother. He took her wrist gently but firmly as he supplicated her.

The little girls reaction was even more dramatic and she tried to pull free from him,

shaking her head frantically and issuing soft, plaintive whimpers. She had already distanced

herself mentally from this time and place, and from the events she and her mother had recently

experienced. It would take great effort and incentive to draw her back again. Spear-Thrower

sighed. He would be getting no answers from the girl, it would seem. Not immediately, anyway.

Can you walk then? I will have to carry your mother, and I cant manage the both of

you. Can you follow me?

Clover didnt answer this question either, her breathing laboured and her face devoid of

spirit. That worried Spear-Thrower greatly. Little Clover had always been a lively and spirited

child, full of mirth and positive energy. All that was left of the girl was animal instinct,

including a fierce will to survive. She did manage to yank her hand away from him this time and

struggled to her feet without his help, her features set with a harsh and determined look that

seemed inappropriate on a child of her few years. She looked tired, but she could walk

independently and she would follow.

The warrior did not bother to try and soothe the child or enliven her any further. There

was no time for that, and he doubted he would have much success even if there was. He

gathered up the still form of Nectar very carefully, and began what would be a very difficult trek

back to the village.

* * *

Ermine! Help - fetch Ermine!

Spear-Thrower slid to his knees at the central clearing of the village, as he roared for

help, his limbs numb from fatigue and barely able to hold onto his charge. He wanted to get

Nectar into the care of the healers so he could return to retrieve Clover. The girl had fared much

better than he would have ever expected, and had stumbled along stubbornly after him for almost

the entire length of the trip. She had finally dropped from exhaustion much like her mother had,

on the outskirts of the village. They were close enough to their tribe that the warrior had only

hesitated a second before leaving her there, but he had promised himself he would go back for

her as quickly as possible.

The pretty face of Ermines most recent apprentice was the first that Spear-Thrower

caught sight of, as his tribe-mates began to gather at the sound of his cries. She paused only


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briefly to take in the view of him and his circumstances before scampering off to fetch her

mentor, in a flurry of bright auburn hair and silvery-blue feathers. Spear-Thrower was quickly

surrounded and relieved of the burden of Nectar by others, as they came to his aid. Truetrail, one

of the tribes hunters and one of the stronger personalities amongst his people, helped the warrior

back to his feet.

What happened? Truetrail demanded.

Spear-Thrower shook his head, still mostly breathless from his demanding travail.

I have to go back, for Clover. She couldnt tell me anything, and they returned without

Flint. He gave Truetrail a fretful look. And I found a fresh Black Talon print.

The two men retrieved Nectars child and brought her to the home of the girls closest

playmate to recover from her ordeal. They hoped that awakening to the presence of her friend

might bring Clover a little solace and restore some of her senses. Spear-Thrower had seen

children react poorly to the loss of a parent, especially if they had witnessed it, and he was

suspecting that might be the case here.

Truetrail and Spear-Thrower then started out for Ermines hut, to check on Nectar, but

they were intercepted mid-route by one of the elders, Quill-Curl.

Thank you, Spear-Thrower, for all you have done here, the older woman said. Ermine

is treating Nectar as we speak and has sedated her while he tends to her. She revived in a terrible

state of panic, initially, and could not tell him anything that made any sense. She pleaded for

Flint and Clover, wringing her hands and wailing. Did she or her daughter say anything to you

when you found them?

No Nectar was unconscious within seconds of appearing before me and Clover refused

to speak. I think whatever happened to them was quite traumatic, and I pray the spirits allow

them to recover properly. Im worried that it may have been the Black Talon; I found one of

their prints. What I didnt find was any sign of Flint. Im concerned that he may not have

survived whatever frightened Nectar and Clover so violently.

The Black Talon? That wouldnt make any sense, Truetrail disputed. He had always

been the naysayer type, unwilling to accept anything that might disrupt the comfortable life that

they were living - not without solid proof. He was not the only tribe member who was change

averse. The majority of the people of Snowy Barren preferred to turn a blind eye to anything

that might add adversity to their complacent ways. They wouldnt have taken Flint and allowed

Nectar and Clover to go free. He was a fighter. They would have killed him and the girl, and

taken Nectar as a slave. It was more likely an animal - a bear or a puma, perhaps. If you spotted

a Black Talon print, it was probably a Rogue and not a raider. You know they occasionally stray

into our territory. Theres no point in stirring up a bees nest over nothing.


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Spear-Thrower was not as quick to dismiss the notion. He had a bad feeling about this,

and he preferred to trust his instincts. He wouldnt be satisfied that the Black Talon were not

responsible for whatever had happened to Nectar, Clover and Flint until he could confirm it for

himself. If the Black Talon was on the warpath again, the tribe would have to make themselves

ready. His faced reddened.

Fine Ill find out for myself. If I bring back solid evidence, then we can warn the

tribe. Besides, someone needs to look for Flint. If hes still alive, he may be stranded out there,

hoping help is coming.

Ermine will consult the spirits on this as soon as he is done with Nectar, Quill-Curl

advised him, as the warrior started to walk away. He was going despite the fact that his limbs

were weary and his back and shoulders ached from the strain of carrying Nectar all of the way

back to the village. Perhaps shell be able to offer us some insight as well, once she is properly

settled and healed.

Spear-Thrower, driven now by frustration, shrugged and continued walking.

Ill accompany you too, Truetrail insisted. Id like to see this print you spoke of.

Besides, youll do best finding Flint if you have a proper tracker with you. I can trace Nectars

steps back to where she had come from. Its the most likely place where well find him.

Spear-Thrower knew that as much as Truetrail was claiming that it was for the missing

mans benefit, he was much more motivated by personal interest. The chieftain hopeful was

planning on disproving Spear-Throwers theory regarding the Black Talon, if the option were

there.

Drawing in a deep, ragged breath, the warrior ignored the cockier mans words and

presence and set off to find what he both dreaded and felt he needed to verify for the sake of his

tribe.

* * *

Well?

Truetrail crouched by the print and frowned. Spear-Thrower wasnt one to gloat, but it

was clear that he had been correct about the source. The tracker grunted in displeasure.

Its Black Talon but it could just as easily be a Rogue. This doesnt prove that the

raids have begun again.

Spear-Thrower crossed his arms over his chest and scowled as well. Truetrails

resistance to the idea wouldnt be easily conquered.


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Lets find Flint then. Nectar came through there. The warrior pointed at the area of

brush through which the woman had come crashing, but Truetrail was already headed in that

direction, the disturbance in that spot quite obvious to a knowledgeable tracker. He drew in a

loud breath.

She certainly wasnt trying to hide her path. Ive seen a stampeding herd of deer do lessdamage.

She was panicking, and barely able to keep her footing. She was running with Clover in

her arms, Spear-Thrower said in her defence, but Truetrail wasnt interested in excuses. He

sprang ahead, following the very obvious trail at a good clip. A very tired Spear-Thrower

trudged along behind him, barely able to keep up.

They had been travelling this way for several minutes when Truetrail came to an abrupt

halt, staring dead ahead. His face paled drastically. Before Spear-Thrower could reach him, the

man lunged ahead, dashing over to the bloodied form of Flint. There was no chance, with thenumber of grievous wounds that scored his flesh, that he was still alive. But what made the bile

churn in the pit of Spear-Throwers stomach was the fact that the craftsman had been scalped, a

war token that the Black Talon took to claim the right to a new facial tattoo, a mark of an enemy

kill. Nectar would be without a mate and Clover was now fatherless. Both would be devastated

by the mans loss. This was the work of raiders.

Truetrail dropped to his knees, gagging a little at the sight of his fallen tribe-mate.

He must have sacrificed himself protecting them, the tracker choked, his eyes glued to

the corpse. Thats how they managed to escape.

All of this happened as Spear-Thrower readied his weapon and ducked behind some

bushes, but before he could give warning that the area had not been secured and that they should

make ready for more trouble, what he had been trying to avoid had already been set into motion.

The raiders had not succeeded in getting what they had come for, and were lurking close to the

body, hoping that Nectar might return for her mate. The first dart missed Truetrail, but the

second flew true to its mark. It lodged firmly in the back of the trackers neck. He clapped a

hand over the offending spot as he felt the darts sting, but before he could even stand, his

muscles tensed and his body went rigid. He slumped to one side, twitching and gurgling before

unconsciousness claimed him.

Spear-Thrower held his breath and waited, hoping that the raiders did not realize he was

there. Eventually, two of the cowardly tattooed Black Talon scouts, dressed in their standard

brown and green leathers, crept out of the brush, one of them wielding a horn knife with the clear

intent of doing to Truetrail what they had already done to Flint. Praying to the spirits that his

training would not fail him, Spear-Thrower rose to his feet and launched his weapon at one of the

raiders, grabbing his secondary weapon before his first had even struck its target. The warriors


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aim had been flawless and the spear tip pierced the raiders breast as if a bulls eye had been

painted there to guide Spear-Throwers hand. The Black Talon man did not even get the chance

to cry out before he dropped to the ground like a stone, still and dead. His cohort took one look

at the first mans lifeless and unblinking stare, as well as the blood spilling from around the spear

that protruded from his chest, and then turned to run. The raider was well behind cover before

Spear-Thrower could let loose his second missile, and the warrior was far too exhausted to try to

pursue him.

When he was certain that the second Black Talon man was well out of range, Spear-

Thrower stumbled out to where the three men lay, side-by-side, two dead and one far beyond

caring. The warrior braced against the body of his victim with one foot, and wrenched his spear

free from bloodied flesh and bone. Then he slipped down into a seated position to rest, too

fatigued to do much more. He did spare the time and effort to lean over and retrieve the blow

gun and bandolier of darts from the fallen Black Talon man that would be sufficient proof that

the raiders had returned. Once he had managed that, all he could do was wait. After all that he

had already done that day, he would never be able to carry one immobile and dead-weight fully-

grown man back to the village, let alone two. He would have to be patient and remain where he

was until the effects of the blow dart drug started to wear off of Truetrail. Then, hopefully, the

pair, one groggy and the other exhausted, could return Flint to where he belonged, where his

body and spirit could rest.

Spear-Thrower noticed the special satchel that belonged to Nectar and reached for it. She

had already gathered a fair amount of honeycomb when they had been attacked, but she had

abandoned it all when forced to run. The warrior reached into the bag, drawing out one of the

waxy segments. He leaned back against a tree trunk, licking at the sweet golden liquid that had

already begun to ooze down his fingers.

Under other circumstances, resting in the shade of the leaves and enjoying the peacefully

pleasurable moment of sucking honey from his fingers, while serenaded by songbirds, would

have been a memory to treasure. The bodies lying before him, however, killed whatever serenity

could have been drawn from the experience. They assured him that it was a false tranquility, one

upon which his tribe never should have become dependent, and it was up to him, now, to carry

home the sad news.

false tranquility

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