Flight of the Beasts (chapter)

Chapter----The Flight of the Beasts © A.J.W. 2010

Summer, Year 5034 A.C.W.

Teltin City, Continent of Fiorgyn

(A.C.W. –After Continental War)

METRICS Lengths and Distances

Fang (the length of one Culebre fang) 1.5 meters

Span(i.e. one Culebre wingspan)—approx. 200 meters

Ten-span—2 km

Dayflight—the distance covered by a flying Culebre in one day (approx 1000 to 1200 km. Top speeds of 100 km per hour times 10 to 12 hours.)

Bann—Length of the River Bann (the first Fiorgyn civilisation began around here.) approx. 45km



Ten beasts shackled in a row snorted and thumped on the Royal Field. The noontime heat of the twin suns were getting to the Culebres; and the Beastmasters wrestled with the chains to tame the beasts. Left alone, the Culebres could break the strongest bonds in a quarter hour. Often, a Culebre would exhale a thick cloud of sulphur that sent the unfortunate Beastmaster into coughing fits.

The riders stood at the sidelines, hesitant to get into the mounting area. A Beastmaster was coaxing them, but they only huddled together anxiously. Their apprehension was a stark contrast to the splendour of their warlike outfits.

Fianna and Tierney arrived just as the amphitheater was filling up. They squeezed through the sweating crowd, tolerating the sour body odours, to get a good seat right at the front. The heat from the crowd pressed on them like a fur blanket.

Tierney took his shirt off, and began wiping his dripping, ruddy face.

“Vileness,” he cursed. “We should have bought a private air-booth.”

“If you hadn’t gambled the money off at the Hunting Feast,” Fianna shot back.

“Well, I had to play. Those men and women are legendary!”

“So that you could tell your grandchildren that you were there? If we even survive this Rally…”

“Don’t let the summer heat get to you, Fi. It’s just a diplomatic job; even the old nuns and monks at Condary Tower could do it.”

“You haven’t even seen what’s outside.”

“I’ve heard stories.” Tierney said, rolling his drenched shirt into a ball.

“Pray tell.” said Fianna, though she had heard plenty of those.

“From the Hunters, mostly, if I’m nearby. They’re all high and mighty, and wouldn’t be seen with rascals like us. You could walk for Banns and Banns through forests and meadows and fields, and not find a single soul. They say that the people out there are so uncivilised, they live in straw huts and can’t count beyond their ten fingers. They speak like beasts, in grunts and cries and gestures.”

“It’s not all their fault. We holed up here five thousand years ago, and left them to their own devices.”

“If this Rally works, and Fiorgyn unites, we can teach them to be like us. Like the way it was before the Continental War. You couldn’t even begin to imagine the science and technology back then.”

On the field, the competitors were struggling to mount the beasts. Once seated and strapped, they had to hold tight to keep from being thrown off. The Drummer took up position at his instrument—an ancient drum of Culebre hide, a half-Fang across. The crowd began to grow restless with anticipation.

“They’re starting,” Fianna said. “The Beasts look pretty good this year.”

“It’s been a good summer. No shortage of prey.” Tierney said.

The drummer raised his drumstick—a large Culebre bone, so ancient that cracks and fissures ran along the mottled brown surface. The audience pressed forward. Fianna and Tierney were close to suffocation, trapped between sweating bodies and the barriers.

One strike on the drum, and a deep note sounded, resonating through ground and air. Fiorgians felt it in their chests— a glorious heaviness. Shackles were released in that instant. The Culebres screeched and puffed out yellow smoke in their freedom, spread their great wings, bringing forth a cool draft of wind in the still summer air. Whup, whup, whup, their wings went, and they rose upwards in their timeless majesty, chains descending from their rippling bodies.

Their scales caught the sunlight, and reflected godly iridescence. The audience, even the Beastmasters, was silent in astonishment.

Then the moment was over, and the crowd stood up to clap and cheer for the riders. A group of wild-haired urchins ran down to the playing field and began to dance some sort of village stampede. Children brandished shiny little trumpets, and blew until their faces turned red. Fianna and Tierney were too old for play instruments, but they were young enough to want a better view.

They wrestled themselves out of the crowd. The dancing urchins moved at a frantic pace now, flinging sweat as they spun themselves round and round, entranced in their own movement. All the while the great wings went whup,whup, whup as the beasts drew closer to the clouds like airborne jewels.

They sprinted to the back where the pillars were, and began to scale up with bare feet and hands. To their disappointment, the height seemed much shorter than last year, when they were still children yet. They hoisted themselves over the edge of the roof onto the black tiles. On their hands and knees, they caught their breath, but kept their eyes glued to the game.

A rider suddenly slumped in his saddle, and slipped down into the foliage below. A half-span away from him on the left, another rider was just lowering his bow. The first Culebre, now without human instruction, reared its neck in delight, and ascended until it disappeared in the white clouds. The killer nocked another arrow and turned to his left, but was shot in the skull before he had time to pull back the string.

“Great shot!” Tierney exclaimed.

“At a distance of two Spans!” Fianna muttered in disbelief.

In the minutes that followed, a few more riders dropped off. Then the Culebres got so far that they became just glittering specks in the distance. The duo sat listlessly on the rooftop, fanning themselves and awaiting the glorious return. Below them, the crowd had quietened down in the lull. The dancers lay sprawled in all kinds of positions on the field, exhausted, matted hair straggling across their faces.

Both of them must have fallen asleep. It seemed like a mere few moments before they were jolted awake by a general commotion. In the distance, one single jewel grew into the shape of beast and rider and pennant.

“Brynmor!” Fianna said, grinning from ear to ear.

“That bastard!” Tierney sneered. “Now we’ll have to be room-mates for a year. Thank goodness I’m leaving for the journey soon.”

“You’re only sour because he’s such a man.”

“At least I’m the one who gets to see the world instead of being cooped up behind these Walls. There’s nothing manlier than that.” Tierney smiled, but his lifelong resentment lent a hard light to his eyes.

As the beast descended, so did Tierney and Fianna. They got as close to the Royal Field as they could, but did not rejoin the crowd, which was now getting wilder by the minute. The dancers were revived, and started their bucolic stomping all over again, moving to the sides to avoid getting trampled by the beast.

The Culebre landed, talons digging into the grass and soil, stirring the earth. Brynmor leapt off the beast with a great flourish. The drummer began to beat a victorious rhythm. Brynmor faced the crowd, spreading his palms skyward and tossing his head back, his dark shoulder-length hair lustrous in the sunlight.

“Thinks he’s some kind of holy man now,” Tierney said, puckering his face.

“Even better! The Flying Prince of this year!”

“The Flighty Prince.”

The Beastmaster whistled an elaborate tune to the Culebre. It nodded its massive, horned head, and took its leave. By now the crowd’s attention was on this year’s Flying Prince. Brynmor draped the yellow pennant over his shoulder and wrapped it around his torso, a comical mismatch for his scarlet riding tunic.

The audience spilled onto the mounting field in straggly groups, possibly to curry some favour from Brynmor, or just to get a share of his heroic aura. Girls, and sometimes married women, were mostly out to fondle him.

Fianna reached Brynmor first, but Tierney hung back.

“Hey, lovebird,” Brynmor said huskily, turning his attention to Fianna. “From farm boy to prince in a day! Let’s go to The Dungeon for a drink, and maybe a cold tub.”

The girls around him giggled as they ran their hands over his chestnut hair, his wide shoulders and his bare arms.

“A cold tub? You nasty beast,” Fianna smiled impishly.

Brynmor jerked his chin in Tierney’s direction. “Would your sullen brother care to join us?”

“Give me a moment. Don’t let the girls scratch your eyes out.”

Fianna ran over to where Tierney was standing.

“We’re going to The Dungeon. Come along.”

“I have to pack for the trip.”

“We can do it tomorrow. Tierney! You should try talking to him some time. He’s kind to Ivar , you know that.”

After a pause, Tierney grunted in consent. “Only because he’s kind to Ivar. And because you begged.”

Fianna gestured to Brynmor, and watched in amusement as he tried to pry himself away from the groping hands. One girl had grabbed a fistful of his hair, another one pinched his bottom. He got out eventually with some damage, walking backwards and blowing kisses to his idolators. They sighed and complained, but let him go; there was much work to be done on the farms.

The trio made for the forest along the Eastern Wall. Behind them, the excitement was petering out. Brynmor exchanged formalities with Tierney, asking about Ivar’s wellbeing. Tierney obliged, but let his reluctance show in his knitted brows.

A little further into the forest and they came to The Dungeon. Rough-hewn stone steps led into the underground tavern. The interior was cool and damp, a relief from the simmering heat outside. Torches burnt in brackets along the mud walls, casting a diffuse, secretive glow over the chamber.

“The last I saw you three, you were children yet!” Lorcan the tavern keeper bellowed. “And it was just the year before!”

“Not anymore. Get us a cold tub after the drink,” Brynmor said, puffing his chest out.

A few of the older patrons laughed in mutual understanding.

“Back when I was your age, we had no such notions in our head until we grew hair on our chin!” Lorcan said in mock indignation.

The trio sat themselves in a dim corner. A young girl served them Mulsum—wine with honey—laced with a small drop of the Beast’s blood. She was homely, but Brynmor winked at her, and she dipped her head in embarrassment.

“Oi! That’s my daughter you’re ogling, you big oaf!” Lorcan shouted.

“A coin for the view!” Brynmor tossed a shiny Aur at him, and he caught it deftly.

Tierney shook his head in disbelief, but the tension was already gone from his muscles as the Mulsum and Beast-blood set in. He engaged in easy conversation with Brynmor, exchanging tales from beyond the Wall—a staple of every Teltin conversation. They started on their third round of Mulsum, Culebre blood burning uncomfortably in their stomachs.

“Soon you two won’t need these stories anymore,” Brynmor said, pulling Fianna close. He buried his face in her golden curls.

“Want to come with?” Tierney smiled, tipsy.

“Nah. The girls yonder wall don’t make love so good. Couldn’t tell a wildman from a prince.”

“Let’s get into the tub. I want a good washing,” Fianna mumbled drunkenly.

“I’ll give you a good washing and more, wench,” Brynmor bellowed like an orator, and stood up, a little unsteady. “What about you, Tierney? I’ve had a good tumble with a pretty boy or two back in the day.”

Tierney choked and gagged on his Mulsum. He was not that drunk.

“Sorry to disappoint, Morry. I love in traditional ways.”

“’ ’S your loss,” Brynmor said.

The couple staggered into the Tub Room and requested for a private chamber. In the main room, The girl (probably another one of Lorcan’s daughters, thought Brynmor, those same dull, vacant eyes.) led them into a smaller space, lit by scented candles and scattered with summer blooms. The wooden tub was large enough for five. She pumped cold water into the tub, working deftly with delicate hands.

“Join us, lass? There’s room enough.” Brynmor said, half-serious.

She gave a bashful smile, shook her head and left, shutting the door quietly behind her.

They helped each other undress, clumsy in their intoxication. Brynmor fell into the tub with a loud splash, and Fianna slipped into his open arms, graceful as an eel. The iciness brought them out of their drunken state somewhat, and chilled them to the bone. Intertwined, they sat in silent contentment for a while, finding comfort in each others’ limbs.

They were not lovers. It was a mutual understanding between them, and others seemed to sense it too. They shared intimacy but carried no weight in their souls. They were childhood friends who occasionally pleasured each other. It was unspoken knowledge that they had no future together.

“Well?” Fianna said after a long while.

“Well what?”

“Aren’t you going to ask me if I packed enough rain cloaks for my trip?”

“Rain cloaks? Whatever for? The rain’s not going to kill you.”

“What will?” Fianna clasped his hand.

Brynmor sighed. “We’re not lovers. So spare us the sentimentality.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about, it’s me. I like to be prepared. Even to the end.”

“I have an inkling. The first wildman that you meet out there is going to grab you with his grimy paws, defile you, and then strangle you to death.”

“I’ll save my death for something better.”

“I’m being honest, lovebird. In the five thousand years we’ve been here, do you know how much hatred has built up out there? Can you imagine the stories they tell each other, generation after generation, of the monsters that live inside the Wall? Each generation adding to the resentment and bitterness. Just like the way we’ve been making small talk of the decadence outside for five thousand years.”

Fianna fell silent for a moment, contemplating his words. Brynmor ran his calloused fingers along her spine.

“But there’s always a fighting chance, right?” she said softly.

“Even a farm boy can be a Prince. Even the Beast can be tamed, just for a day.”

They wiped themselves with towels and got dressed. The water had soothed her frazzled nerves from sitting in the noonday sun, but her mind was unsettled. As the journey drew near, she began to feel the weight of actuality in whatever she did. Just days ago, it seemed distant and vaguely exciting; like a myth.

“It’s going to be alright, Fianna, “ Brynmor said, sensing her unease. “It won’t be painless, but it’ll be fine. My Pa had a saying— the pure of heart always win, some way or another.”

“Or another?”

“Victory can be subtle.”

When they returned to the drinking hall, Tierney had fallen asleep on the table; sprawled across the furniture, mumbling something about hacking off Brynmor’s hair with a kitchen knife.

--END OF CHAPTER--