Kirin finally figured out how he was going to capture the much-feared shroud cat.
Vintas came early that year. The air was still, quiet, and cold. A fine blanket of snow cast a delicate beauty upon the land. For Kirin it was ideal. The snow made it all the easier to follow the tracks of anything that passed before him.
As luck would have it the tracks of a shroud cat cut a distinct path ahead. The footprints were headed south. Kirin had been south only a few days earlier for he had been tracking a group of elk. He figured the shroud cat was doing the same. As his instructor used to say, “If you want to catch a predator, first you must find its prey.”
Kirin continued to follow the shroud cat’s footprints, splitting his attention between its tracks, large trees with claw marks, and any elk sign. Large piles of elk droppings were ahead. He spent a moment examining the dark pile. The round droppings were not quite firm enough to be frozen, despite resting on fresh snow. He stuck his finger into the dank mass. It was cold but still moist, likely less than a day old. Kirin hastily wiped his fingers on his pants and forged ahead.
He continued following the tracks across a small stream. It was then that he saw what he had been searching for. A large juniper tree still oozing sap from jagged claw marks. Clearly the large cat had been here recently. As he approached the repugnant smell of the shroud cat’s territorial markings filled the air. He looked about for another juniper of equal size. He found one. Its green nestles were covered in a fine layer of white powder glinting in the sparse light like a thousand diamonds.
Kirin took out his sword and made some swift cuts into the tree doing his best to mimic the claw marks of the great cat. He then laboriously removed his equipment to get at his pack. Within was a container holding the sap and residue of a shroud cat’s territorial spray. He uncorked the lid and was hit with the sour odor. Kirin took his time using a stick to apply the contents of the jar onto the freshly slashed tree trunk. Despite his caution a piece of sticky residue found its way onto his pants. When he was done he stood back and admired his work. Good enough, he thought.
He glanced about the clearing scouting for a suitable vantage point. A large tree sat anchored opposite the juniper he had just defaced. Kirin began the arduous task of climbing. The branches were cold and his hands were becoming numb. He ignored the discomfort knowing he could huddle up and rest once he found a suitable position. His plan was perfect, sit and wait for the cat to investigate the “intruder cat’s scent” and then pick it off with arrows shot from his bodark bow.
Plans and reality, however, are often like oil and water. Kirin was only partway up the tree when the distinctive crack of a branch caught his attention. He glanced up in time to see a massive shroud cat hurtling down toward him. Shock wasn’t quite the word he would have used to describe it. Sheer and utter terror combined with temporary paralysis was a better description.
Fortunately in his mind-numbing state he had fumbled his grip and slipped. To Kirin it felt as if the world had slowed to a crawl. Individual snowflakes hung suspended in the air. The air was still and bone cold. His stomach traveled into his throat where it throbbed uncomfortably. The gray stripes highlighting the aggressive features of the massive predator’s face burned an image into young Kirin’s mind.
Thunk! Kirin hit the ground and immediately rolled to the side. A second later the sharp claws of the shroud cat tore at the earth. Kirin leapt to his feet only to stumble backward over a large root. His bow fell off his shoulder and lay to the side. A couple of arrows had fallen out of his quiver and something may have broken in his bag.
The deep throated roar of the large cat filled the air. The deep pulsing sound tore at his insides like a rat trapped in a jar. Kirin pushed himself to his feet pulling his Templas sword free. He positioned himself as if he were squared off from a much larger man. A small part of him hoped the intense training he had received would work against a beast this size. Another loud roar startled him loose of any preconceived notion of bravery. Still the cat did not approach.
Several long moments stretched off into silence and forever burned themselves into his memory. The thick white coat of Vintas fur bristled behind the heavy head and above its brawny shoulders. Kirin briefly contemplated climbing the tree only to recall the cat had come from high up the conifer. Running was clearly not an option. He glanced at the fallen bow and discarded arrows. They seemed small and feeble. His options were narrowing. He needed a plan.
Kirin simply stood there stupefied with his sword held resolutely in front of him. His fingers were firm upon the grip but loose enough to maintain blood flow. His stance was strong, slightly wide and stable. His shoulders were in line with his hips and his head was straight. Despite his fear, the thousands of hours of training became his pedestal.
The large cat roared again and lunged. Kirin merely had time to stiffen and observe. He remarked upon its sheer speed despite its great size. He marveled at the large teeth exposed in its open mouth. He could even recall the spittle clinging to the back of its black lips. What he hadn’t anticipated was his sword sinking into the roof of the beast’s mouth. The hot flow of sticky blood that spurted forth as the beast slumped forward spraying internal fluids onto his clothing and face.
Kirin, still maintaining a grip on his sword, fell back. He wiped at his face, attempting to get the blood out of his eyes. He kicked himself backward desperately creating space. He braced himself for the cat’s second lunge. It didn’t come. Kirin opened his eyes not having realized they were squeezed shut. His heart continued to pound away within his chest like an angry drummer.
There before him lay the shroud cat, wheezing its final breath. Sitting on the snowy dirt, dumbfounded, he watched as it twitched and finally lay still. He had done it. He had killed a shroud cat.
A cold sweat broke out and he shivered. It was the closest to death he’d ever been and it was simultaneously terrifying and invigorating. His heart continued to race. His mind buzzed with adrenaline. Kirin felt more alive than he could ever remember.
He continued to sit there struggling to deal with the conflicting emotions that twisted through his mind like a festnia vine, twitching and convulsing under the light of a partial moon.
Finally Kirin gathered himself enough to stand upon shaky legs. He inspected his kill. It wasn’t until he walked the length of it that he realized the magnitude of his feat. Although feat wouldn’t be how he’d describe it. More like sheer, stupid luck.
Kirin patted himself down, checking absentmindedly for wounds as he had been taught. He was still fully intact. He gazed at the animal stupidly for a few moments before feeling inclined to pray.
“Kegal, accept this soul as a gift to my mother, so that she may remain safe and guarded while she watches over us, in your name and in the name of the sacred thirteen I pray.”
A weight was lifted off his chest. His mind cleared and he realized he had work to do. With this realization he fumbled within his pack for a proper cutting knife and set about removing the animal’s organs.
The fur was soft and thick. The cat’s skin was still warm. He slipped in the knife, wincing despite knowing the animal to be dead. Kirin struggled to cut through skin and muscle, exposing its organs to the Vintas chill.
Steam rose in small clouds from the internal cavity of the great beast. Kirin reached deep within and gripped hold of its insides and in a few quick movements pulled out its organs. He tossed the offal to the side. His hands felt slick with blood and internal bodily fluids. The smell was overwhelming.
Wiping his forehead on his sleeve he then began the task of carefully skinning it. If it was anything like a rabbit the skin and fur should come off like a jacket. He knew it would serve as his proof. He also knew that once measured it would serve to distinguish him amongst the few who had killed the much feared monster.
Kirin dragged the skinned fur to a nearby stream and rinsed it free of blood and dirt. He nearly slipped into the slow moving water as he attempted to drag the water-lo
gged fur out. Kirin fell back into the soft-packed snow panting, his hands numb from the effort. After a moment’s rest he laid it out to dry, stretching the mighty length of fur over a virgin patch of snow.
The next three weeks dragged by slowly as he found some mineral salt from a geothermal hot spring. He covered the shroud cat skin with the salt and allowed it to dry. Once dry he followed the time-old Thane tradition of using the hot spring water to soak and tan the fur.
He was exhausted, hungry, and ready to go home by the time the skin was conditioned enough to last the journey home.
Chapter 10
“Single moments are suspended from celestial strings waiting for memory to retrieve them.” Canton of Sawol
It had snowed lightly the night before leaving everything covered in a fresh blanket of powdery silk. Glancing up Kirin could see the sun’s feeble light struggling to reach through the partially obscured sky. Light flakes of the purest white began to fall.
He reached out trying to grab individual snowflakes only to watch them melt upon contact with his skin. Kirin paused and took in a deep breath. The air smelled faintly of pine needles and tilled earth. Finally, permeating everything was a tranquil silence that hung in the air like the final inaudible note of a masterful bard.
He daydreamed as he walked, imagining his homecoming. Kirin’s excitement was growing with each passing day. Each lumbering step took him closer to home. He missed his friends, the food, his bed, even his father.
In his waking dreams he could see his father standing proud announcing his return. The Medicine Man proclaimed the shroud cat skin was the largest ever caught. Dannon was standing there impressed by his skill. He would then run up into the hills and talk to Devon of how it had transpired. He’d ask him about his own trials and if he had found his carvings in the Shrine of Patience. The look in his best friend’s eyes; admiration, pleasure, and a tinge of jealousy, would make the whole ordeal worth it.
Kirin slipped on a smooth stone and used a tree to regain his balance. Excessive daydreaming could be a dangerous business. Complicating his movement was the skin of the shroud cat, rolled and strapped to his pack. It was a symbol of strength and pride.
Kirin felt content. Soon he would become Aeden of the Thane Sagan, son of the kovor, warrior and leader. With a smile he looked into the distance, recognizing the jagged peaks of the Barre Mountains. It was the range that had protected his people from those to the north for over a thousand years.
He paused and took in a deep breath. Kirin thought he could smell rosemary and sage spiced meat in the wind. He imagined the smile of the Master Cook welcoming him as a massive hand patted him heavily on the back.
A distant rumbling tore him free of his mind’s wanderings. He looked to the sky expecting the clouds to be dark and the flash of lightning to greet him. Instead they were much the same as before. Blue sky peppered with drifting gray clouds. The flittering snowfall had ceased. A light breeze from the north swept southward.
Shrugging as much to himself as to the unchanged weather Kirin trudged along. He had thought of stopping to rest but that slipped his mind. Instead he was determined to make it to his village by nightfall if possible. He quickened his pace and adjusted his rhythm, settling into a march.
As the hours passed underfoot, the subtle odor of burnt wood drifted through the air. A feeling of discomfort grew deep within his belly. Kirin couldn’t place it but a feeling of fear swept over him like a cold wet sheet placed over his naked body. He increased his pace, slipping occasionally over the snow covered surface.
Again the sound of a distant rumbling filled the air. The tone and pitch were different than that of thunder, deeper and more ominous. Kirin crested a small rise and could see black trails of smoke rising in the distance. His fear had been a hidden warning that now took on a new hue. Abandoning any sense of normalcy he broke into a run. Branches slapped him in the face and snagged on his bag. His sword chafed at his back and a cold sweat glistened on his skin.
Kirin maintained his hellish pace for two solid hours. His heart thumped heavily in his chest. The wind howled at his ears, bringing the sounds of fire and death. Smoke clouded the air and stung at his eyes. His breath came in wheezing gasps, but an unseen hand was guiding him ever closer to home.
A monstrous shriek filled the air and tore at his insides. Kirin’s bones rattled and his teeth chattered within his skull. Fear danced in his vision as he peeled his eyes open. There suspended in the sky was a draccus fiend. It was a beast that by all accounts should no longer exist. Its massive body swept through the air with angry purpose. Its gaping mouth spit streaking flames of draccus fire over the landscape.
It was impossibly big. Black scales seemed to soak in the sunlight. Its sinewy body spoke of power beyond Kirin’s fragile comprehension. The thick neck supported a monstrous head with teeth large enough to be seen from his vantage point. Yellow and blue were the hues of flame that streaked from its gaping maw, followed by the horrendous shrieking thunderclap of air rushing to fill a void. It was fear wrapped in terror, reining death upon his home.
Kirin wasn’t far from his village now. He paused at the edge of the tree line, frozen. Before him was the steep slope leading home. A home that was now engulfed in flame. There were no shouts, no cries of fear or pain. Instead the steady rhythm of buildings ablaze filled his ears.
Slowly the vice-grip of fear squeezed tighter. His legs were rooted to the ground. Thoughts of running came and fled his mind. Instead he brought his hands to his ears in an effort to ward off the terrible sounds of destruction. Kirin’s mind shut down as desperate hands pleaded inaction. All thoughts of courage escaped in a wisp of smoke as the mother of a shattered reality gave birth to stillness.
The rumbling sounds of shrieking fury stopped. Kirin peered into the sky only to see it blackened by smoke. He stood slowly and looked about, his ears ringing and his mind numb. Ash and smoke hardened the air into a congealed, unbreathable mass.
With fear in his heart he worked his way up the hill toward his village. Desperate thoughts struggled with the flavor of hope as he stumbled over loose rocks and blinked away the stagnant air.
A sudden gust of wind spat thick curling fingers of smoke into his face and sucked the air from his lungs. Kirin coughed as he crawled over molten stone. He was too dazed to notice the distorted shape of rock. Its edges were blackened and held the appearance of melted wax.
He dropped his pack with trembling hands and a wild look in his eye. Feeling dizzy from emotion and sick to his stomach he stumbled forward. He searched about desperately. The earth was discolored as if death had graced the soil with pouches of burnt ink.
Kirin’s bowels turned to liquid as he saw the crisp remains of a villager. The body was too blackened to recognize. Clothes were fused with skin and bone and the smell of overcooked meat hung thickly in the pungent air. The smell ripped through the fabric of his being and snapped his fragmented reality into the present.
Kirin tripped on a piece of chest armor emblazoned with a single powerful cat. It was the armor of the old master. It was partially melted resting upon a bed of ebony ash. The master was dead; reduced to charcoal waste, smeared upon the lifeless terrain.
Kirin glanced about seeing more scorched bodies litter the ground. Too many had died. Scattered remains flaked off carried by the fitful wind, fanning the final flames of death. The quiet crackling of burning embers sputtered and popped in the distance.
A hefty axe lay next to the charred remains of a man. Next to him was a smaller body, burnt and twisted. Part of the head had been protected by a low stone overhang. He knelt beside the smaller one and saw the auburn strands of hair that had escaped the draccus fire. Dannon. She had died beside her father.
The world spun as Kirin struggled to maintain his grip on reality. He wanted to shout but his voice was stuck in his throat. He wanted to run but his legs felt like rubber. Instead he fell to the ground and cradled Dannon’s disfigured head in his unsteady hands.
> His mind fell blank. With eyes squeezed shut Kirin whispered a prayer to each of the thirteen Thane gods. He begged them to let her pass through the gates so that she could live peacefully in the afterlife. He implored them to take him instead, but his words fell upon deaf ears.
He didn’t know how long he sat there. His back began to ache and his body felt cold. The smoke had dissipated enough to see the remains of the village. Broken buildings lay shattered upon the earth beside the blackened remains of all that burned.
Kirin slowly lowered Dannon’s head to the ground. He drew his Templas blade and carefully cut off a lock of her untouched hair. He tied it into a simple knot and placed the lock into a pocket.
He stood on shaky legs and began looking about for wood to create a pyre. He needed to properly care for the bodies to appease the gods. He needed to do something, anything.
The wind picked up again fanning the flames of death and scattering the ashes of the fallen. Kirin coughed as ash lodged in his throat and created a gritty film on his teeth. He wiped his eyes on the back of his sleeve. There was no wood, no kindling, no straw. Everything had burned.
As he looked about he stopped before the broken remains of his father’s house. All thoughts were stripped from his mind. Once again his legs turned to jelly. Kirin tried to be strong, but all strength failed him. His knees eventually buckled underneath him, as though felled by an axe. He collapsed before a blackened body that lay twisted on the ground. It was still gripping the Sword of Sagas, the sword of his people. It was his father, there could be no doubt.
Tears of a Heart Page 6
