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She knew these were not wild tarns, because of the orderly approach, the measured, three-dimensional spacing of the birds. - (Prize of Gor, Chapter 20, Sentence #287)

This must then be the rendezvous? It seemed there had been a responding signal, far off. Or one of perhaps several points of rendezvous? Would Fel Doron be the next to leave the train? But why would Tersius Major have freed the tarns and baskets in his winged retinue? That seemed to make no sense. Were they loosed to be retrieved by allies? As these thoughts raced through Ellen's head she noted, approaching from her present left, what would have been the right before her tarns had begun, leaderless, to veer about, and circle, a storm of wings, perhaps as many as thirty tarns. She knew these were not wild tarns, because of the orderly approach, the measured, three-dimensional spacing of the birds. She caught, in less than an Ehn, a glimpse of saddles and shields, of lances, of helmets. "Tarnsmen," she gasped. These were no irregulars, or guerrillas, no motley assemblage of defiant, desperate, courageous patriots. - (Prize of Gor)