Hrok pulled on the saddle strapped to his bison; different than the one found on a horse. Made of thick leather that sat just below the beasts hump, over the bridge of his back.
"You ready, Chekoya?" He patted the beasts black mane and the Bison shook, inviting the tribesmen calloused hands. "Does that feel good?" The beast shook again. Hrok looked over to E'krek whispering words to his horse in his tribal tongue. "She's a good mount," Hrok said, walking over to him.
The horse was as brown as fall leaves, with round black eyes, and a long mane of hair that draped from crown to back. She stood ready for the long ride, staring out to the endless dry lands that swept beyond the horizon in every direction.
"Madoah carried me when I escaped the Prod Trials." E'krek admitted. "She's been my closest friend."
Hrok's lip sunk at his words. The young tribeman spoke seldom of the Prod Trials. A wicked time done at the hands of wicked people. E'krek told him about the nightmares and the voices he heard.
"Numbwillow is the only thing that keeps them quiet," E'krek told him on more than one occasion.
Hrok stroked the beasts back, "she's grown old, she's grown weary, and can hardly keep up with the bison." He followed the horses gaze. "She gave you your freedom, now it's time you give her her own."
"I know," E'krek whispered, unstrapping the reins from the horse's head. He placed his forehead to hers, stroking her cheeks gently, continuing to speak in his native tongue. "Now go, My Friend."
The horse looked to the vast golden lands than back to the young tribesman.
"I said go," E'krek pulled out his revolver, lifted it towards the sky and fired.
The beast took off. A dust cloud dancing around them as she sprinted towards the south. They watched until her frame became a silhouette that melted into the horizon.
E'krek looked towards the western side of town. "There's been many tales told of ghostbound," His tone was weak, "but I've known the truth. I was here as a boy." He pointed to the west, "in the graveyard lays the indigenous who resided here before the pioneers slain them."
Hrok saw the stacks of stones and spears wrapped in feathers. Many splinted and broken, damaged from those who wandered into town with little respect for the dead.
"This is where they brought us," E'krek admitted, rounded us up like cattle and took us north."
"Who?" Hrok asked.
E'krek took a deep breath, "they called themselves the Silent Shepards-a cult-they wore cloaks and animals skulls. Raiding villages and cities, stealing children from their mothers teats. And butchering any and all who resisted."
"And who were these people behind the masks?"
"Powerful people: Presidents and Mayors; Chiefs and Warriors; Marshalls, Legionnaires, and the Achellite Elite." He shook his head. "Those who were sworn to protect the people were the ones who created the Prod Trials."
"You've never spoken of this," Hrok grimaced.
"The memories have haunted me while I've been here," he pulled a hide pouch from his waist, raising it to his torn lips and consumed. "This is the only thing that rids the voices. Numbwillow."
"You keep drinking that and you'll find yourself lying in a dirt bed beside them."
"At least it'll be quiet."
Hrok looked to the sun that sat above, beating on their heads and blinding while droplets ran down and into his eyes. He'd felt this heat in the prairie. A falls heat, near deadly as the summers. It didn't happen very often but when it happened best to be wary.
"Our ancestors have answered." He saw a dark, thick shape, spanning the western horizon, moving east. He kicked the dirt and it caught the wind. "They'll help us in our raid."
E'krek turned chin over shoulder, looking upon the mass cloud, rolling upon the sky, swallowing the vast blue.
"A storm," he said, "one of anger."
"A death cloud," Hrok nodded. "Ready your bison. We must stay ahead of the wind."
Hrok sat on his burley mount positioned seven feet off the ground. His legs sprawled wide, hanging, boots latched in the stirrups. The leather was hard on his rump, his calloused flesh, and strong legs used to it: as a boy, riding left his legs mangled and throbbing, back sore, and hands aching for days; blood dribbling down his soft hands. "Weak," his father would say, "you must be strong. And stop your whining." Father was wise, Hrok said, squeezing his leg muscles, tightening around the beast.
Seven Vultures circled; there wings wide, feathers black and bushy, blood red eyes glaring. They glided down to the ground almost elegantly, dropping to a mangy coyote that looked to be at the wrong end of a gun. The vultures landed, hoped, and tore into flesh. Their long, hooked-shaped beaks pulling dried flesh while their talons wormed into the grit.
Hrok whipped the reins and let out a high-yelping cry that echoed in all directions. Loud as a wolves howl. Behind nineteen tribesmen warriors gathered to his side. Their bisons breathing heavy. The ground trembling. E'krek took the rear as their twentieth, fighting the bisons every tug and pull.
The men laughed and howl-cried.
"Takes a year to earn one's trust," Quaf laughed.
E'krek tried to stir the bison right but it glided left. "Amuk Ni'ya!" He yelled, tugging angirly. "Never ridden such a dark-spirited beast."
"You will learn to be one in short time," Hrok said. "Trust the bison. Rid yourself of fear. She will follow the others, I promise."
"I should've waited till after the raid to release my mount." E'krek said.
"Fight well. Show her your strength-your courage-and she shall be yours." Hrok raised his hand. "Yiuk, Yiuk, Yiuk!" He cried.
The bison took off. Their hooves beating the ground, thundering the earth, sending the vultures back to the skies they came from. The wind was with them, blowing at their backs, pushing them forward with the strength of their ancestors hands. Guiding them. Watching them. Speaking in their ears.
Hrok adjusted his gunbelt on his hips; each revolver loaded with six shells awaiting their awakening, to scream into the wind and draw blood.
"Yiuk, Yiuk, Yiuk!" Tilting his head down, top hat cutting through the air like an arrowhead through flesh.
The men yelped and hollered with him. Their hands raised, gripped with jagged knives, rock-faced Tomahawk, and silver revolvers.
They rode for thirty minutes before the train station seemed to rise from the ground. At first a black, shimmering square. As they drew near it grew into beams to a deck, balcony and facade, looming over the desert alone.
"They will know it's a raid soon as they see us," Hrok yelled from his mount. "We must be quick, we must be precise."
There was a crack in the wind. Bullets zipped past them like bees, buzzing, flying lost in the desert.
Hrok looked to his men, "don't waste ammunition. Fire when close."
There was a yelp; a tribesman smacked the ground, body rolling. Bison still running with the pack.
Be calm...be aware... Hrok thought, lowering his chest to the bison's hump, angling himself like a bird flapping into a gust.
The men in the station were not the typical station rats, Hrok knew. They were hired guns. Living lives with their eyes always down the crosshairs. Many raids happened on the station from the desert tribes. None with any casualties. Though fierce the desert tribes never were a threat; their raids used to effect the minds more than to inflict damage or pain. To remind the pioneers that they were still there and that they were lethal.
Hrok never thought of the effect the raid would have on desert tribes, not until now. When guns were screaming while his men lifted their chins, opened their throats, and released their war cries. Forgive me, My Brothers, he thought, saddened by their fate. Another tribe likely wiped out at their doing.
The Yurks and desert tribes fought many wars, offered peace, and traded since he could remember. You had to trade to stay alive in the wild. And you had to war to keep from losing your fruitful lands. To keep tribes from growing too powerful; but you needed each other, nonetheless. The Pioneers didn't understand their ways. They slaughtered and stole. Raped and pillaged, decimating all who opposed their ways. The tribes people's way of life was being lost.
Forgive me, My Brothers... I will not let your sacrifices be in vain.
As Kallri he would have the power of the Yurks. He could unite the clans of the southern lands, he thought. And together they could take back the world that'd been taken from them. They had the Pioneers dark magic; the weapons that brought their people to their knees. It would be a second War of Nations. One greater than the first. But they would stand tall after the lands drank their fill of bloods and skies swallowed their clouds of smoke. They would have their lands back.
"Yiuk, Yiuk, Yiuk!" Hrok kicked his bison, faster and faster. Their bodies moving together. Their spirits entwined; beast and man; two souls bound together with vicious desire.
Thirty paces away. Twenty. Ten. The station grew, reaching for the sky, taller, as if trying to intimidate the attackers.
Hrok roared, "Dismount!"
Their bison yanked, bodies shifting sideways, dirt projecting from their hooves. The tribesman leaped skyward, nineteen bodies soaring through the air. Guns whistling. They hit the ground and rolled. Two tribesmen left in the dirt, bloodied, dead.
"Move, My Brothers, move!"
Hrok hunched, crouching as he walked across the ground. His steps light. Silent. Breath steady. The men followed, spreading outward around the building. The bison's circling, bringing up dust, blinding their foes.
The Kallri slammed against the wall, standing besides the door. E'krek on the other side. Warfrok and Varko kneeled on the ground, rifles raised.
Kuwak, a scarred, fearless warrior looked to his Kallri.
"Allow me to enter first," he whispered.
Hrok nodded, grabbing the door handle. The door swung open, Kuwak yelled ferociously; a bang came from inside, the Yurk blew backwards, three feet, his body bloodied on the ground.
"Down!" Hrok yelled, kneeling. Wood splittered as bullets tore through the wall. "Wait for reload." After the barrage, Hrok lifted an ear finding the ring of cartridges hitting the floor. "Move!"
This time he led the raid, shoulder first through the door. He roared as his eyes scanned the room: a desk to purchase tickets, a room full of chairs, and empty space between them and the three men reloading their six shooters.
An arrow wooshed passed his head while Hrok's legs pushed him forward, barreling towards the closet man. He withdrew his tomahawk and cried. Hips shifting. Arm extended upwards and back. The man saw him coming, pulling out a knife; he lifted his arm to meet the stoned blade. A clank of stone on steel and a flesh-torn sound as the tomahawk sunk into the man's skull. Another arrow flew finding the eye of a man with his gun drawn on Hrok. He dropped with the other. Two dead. The third kneeled to surrender.
"Please. Have mercy." The man screamed on Hrok's approach. He was short and thick, with hardly any hair on his face and just enough on his head. Hrok placed his leg into the man's back and he slammed on the ground. Hrok grabbed the man's hair and pulled. The man opened his mouth, a high-shrieking sound coming from his throat; Hrok's pulled a knife with feathers from his belt and carved the man from forehead to neck. "Please-" The man's voice faded as he hit the floor, still.
Hrok threw his arm over his head. Hair tangled in his fingers, knotted into dripping flesh. "Yiuk, Yiuk, Yiuk!" He yelled, smacking his chest. His men yelped in victory. He threw the head of hair aside, wiping his hand on his trousers. "Get ready, men. The train will be here soon." He looked towards the end of the room. "Hide the bison on the southward side of the building. They will becoming from the north." He smirked. "And they won't see us coming."