Chapter One: The Plight of the Fourth
Smoke, steel, the smell of blood, the signs of war; to many, it was hell. To Nero, it was home.
The griffon, encased in pale armor trimmed with gold that made him look more like a statue than a living creature, rose from the cover of a sunken tree and emptied the contents of his sidearm into the murky depths of the swamp. The weapon snapped off each round with a loud pop, and the intricate gears of the weapon loading more projectiles was almost as loud as the attack itself. At this range, the weapon would have little effect on the armored carapace of his enemy, but no armor was without flaw, and no foe without fear; they needed to buy some time, and if their enemy was afraid to reveal itself in a hail of fire, then perhaps they would make it out alive.
But this was no ordinary enemy. This was the Stirge - the ancient enemy of the Empirical Order of Griffins. Insectoid in nature, often described as enormous armored mosquitos, the Stirge were a biological menace unlike any other. Their weapons – completely organic in nature, as natural as a stinger on a wasp – were on par with that of the Order, and no matter how much progress was made to outdo them, their enemy would only continue to hound them in a bizarre arms race pitting technology against biology.
And they were no longer on even ground. This was Stirge territory; if Nero’s home was the battlefield, it certainly wasn’t this one. The swampy homelands of the Stirge were some of the most unforgiving on record, and it was a miracle any species could survive, let alone thrive, within their depths. It was almost comedic how similar they were; just as the Stirge and enemies like them forged the Order in the fires of war, so too were the Stirge forged in the fires of their own birthplace. In these death-choked marshes, it was kill or be killed. Many had likened the nature of the insectoid menace to be a cosmic tragedy, that the Stirge never had a chance to be anything else than what they are.
Tragedy or not, the Stirge were a menace that had plagued Griffin kind for eons. Known only to kill, consume, and spread, whether or not the Stirge were truly sentient was a matter of intense debate back in the Mountainhomes. They were certainly cunning on the battlefield; they were not mere beasts that threw themselves in droves to die. Especially in the swampy lands of their birth, the insect menace were experts in outmaneuvering those who wished them harm.
But Nero was no ordinary foe, either. He was an Aerovice – the model of a warrior across all cultures and species. The Griffin Aerovice were without peer, and he was eager to demonstrate this to the Stirge.
The Aerovice Captain started with a jolt as the heavy gunwerk began its horrible crescendo anew. Situated a few meters to the east upon a slight rise in the marsh, the emplacement was all that stood between them and certain doom. Although Nero’s sidearm may not be much to contend with at such a distance, the massive rotating barrel of the gunwerk atop the hill was more than enough to punch through the carapace of the average Stirgen warrior. Their foe had tried four times now to outflank their position under cover of swampland murk, but that’s where the rest of the squad cut in, quite literally.
Although their bravery, cunning, and martial prowess had saved them from certain destruction in enemy territory, they were still deadlocked with no progress in sight. Stirge swarmed all around them, hiding only to evade the terrible wrath of the gunwerk. The moment they left their kin to advance, the encampment would be overrun and their advantage would be gone. They needed to hold their position as long as possible, until they could link up with the rest of 4th Company.
“Virion,” Nero called, his voice muffled by his helmet. A griffin to his right looked up from the sights of his weapon as the Aerovice Captain strung another belt of ammo through his gunwerk. “I want you to rally the others and be ready for another surge.”
“What are you going to do, sir?” the griffon asked. The enemies’ movements had come at random so far; Nero must have a plan in order to predict such a response.
“I’m taking Ghul and Tzec, and we’re going to do a little bug hunting. The boys up on the ridge have confirmed at least three Stirgen warriors are set up straight ahead.”
“Sir, there will be many more than that,” Virion replied, his tone voicing how little he thought of the plan, even if his words did not. “There could be variants hiding out there too.”
“We don’t have the luxury to wait and see, Virion. They know where we are, but we can’t say the same. Who do you think has the advantage here?”
“But what will killing yourselves accomplish?” the griffon muttered, forgetting protocol for a moment. Nero had admired this quality, while other officers might find it disrespectful at best and treasonous at worst.
“They are waiting for us to make our move,” Nero explained, looking over the decrepit tree that was his cover. “And when we do, they will swarm the encampment. If we launch a small squad, we might be able to force their hand. Trick them into thinking we were ready to advance.”
Virion did not look very convinced.
“It will mean a hard fight. For both of us,” Nero concluded, giving the sergeant a thoughtful frown.
“It is not us that you should be worried about, sir,” the griffin replied, returning his gaze to the sights of his gunwerk. “I will get the word out. Sir…make this count.”
“I will,” Nero said with a smile that was hidden by his helm.
Sixty seconds was all it took for the Aerovice of the 4th to prepare for their Captain’s ploy. Ghul and Tzec, senior warriors of uncountable triumphs, were more than willing to accompany their commander into the heart of the enemy.
“I never was one for patience,” Tzec had said, brandishing her blade expectantly. Ghul merely nodded in wordless agreement. The old warrior’s armor reflected the amount of battles he had seen; scars of varying depth snaked across the heavy battle plate, as if trying to strangle the one inside.
Trusting in their Captain, the rest of the Aerovice took up positions on and near the rise. If an attack came from the front, they would be dangerously out of position; Nero and his comrades would have to make as much of a scene as possible, to draw whatever Stirge lay in wait while their allies fought off the resulting ambush.
“For the Order and the Flocklord,” Nero said to his companions, his metal-plated wings unfurling on his back.
“For the Order and the Flocklord!” Tzec and Ghul echoed, mimicking their leader’s actions.
With such heavy armor, the Aerovice were very restricted on how they could use their natural gift of flight. In truth, with that much weighing them down, they shouldn’t be able to fly at all; such were the benefits of being the apex of griffin achievement. Some squads were designed to operate in lighter armor, offering vastly increased mobility over durability, including full use of their wings. But with such special forces yet to arrive with the rest of the 4th, Nero and his soldiers would have to make due.
Far from a costly compromise, surely.
Nero launched the attack with a powerful leap, sword and sidearm at the ready. Tzec and Ghul were right on his tail, guiding their descent with their gleaming metal wings. Nero let out a fierce cry as he smashed through the foliage into the lair of his enemy, finding himself in the midst of three buzzing warrior forms, just as the spotters had predicted. Four more specialized forms lay concealed in the murk, like snipers on the prowl. Their spiny forelimbs were interlocked together like the parts of a machine, forming a bizarre organ that mimicked the shape of a long-barrel gunwerk.
The Captain of the 4th raised his sidearm and fired in a short burst. The projectiles sliced through the fleshy hide of the foremost warrior form at the shoulder – one of the few places the vile creature’s carapace did not protect – and sent greenish fluid spurting out into the dreary marsh below. By the time the Stirge’s blood hit the murky puddle beneath it, its allies were already surging to meet him. Nero raised his sword in time to block a thrust from one of the warrior’s blade-limbs, the steel blade connecting with the chitin weapon with a loud clang.
A moment later, Tzec and Ghul fell from the sky above them, shouting war cries as they did. Ghul landed squarely on the back of the warrior form Nero was fencing with, crushing its insectoid body under the weight of his bulk. Tzec, meanwhile, had descended in mid-sweep, bisecting the warrior form her commander had wounded moments prior at the midsection.
The remaining Stirgen warrior clattered its grotesque mandibles, hovering away from the advancing Aerovice. The variant forms remained prone on the ground throughout the fighting, firing their organic weapons through the foliage at a target they could not see, as if oblivious to the slaughter of their brethren around them. Knowing that they still posed a threat to their kin beyond, the three griffin soldiers dispatched them without hesitation. One of the variants’ weapons was sliced clean in half by a swipe from Ghul’s blade, revealing an acidic compound contained within that ate through the muddy ground at an alarming rate.
The remaining warrior form continued to list back slowly, jerking from side to side to prevent a clear shot at its vulnerabilities. Nero narrowed his eyes, the gesture lost behind his helm. Stirge, especially the warrior forms, were usually bloodthirsty creatures that, even when faced with certain defeat, strived to cause as much damage as possible before their eventual demise. Only when ulterior motives were in play did they deviate from this behavior.
With a quick flick of his wrist, Nero fired a volley into the foliage surrounding their remaining foe. Without a moment’s hesitation, the vegetation exploded into a frenzy of buzzing chitin death. Five additional Stirgen warriors, joined swiftly by the survivor of the trio’s initial assault, surged toward them, blade-limbs poised to run them through. Viscous green fluid soared ahead of them in tight globs, corroding portions of the griffins’ armor as they flew by.
Nero brought his blade to bear on the lead Stirgen, cleaving through its armored carapace and splitting its skull in half. Before he could wrench the blade free for another strike, two of the grotesque insects smashed into his chest plate. Although one of the blade-limbs was sent off course by the thickness of his armor, the other punched straight through, spearing through the Captain’s side in a sheering frenzy of pain.
In an interesting twist of fate, the Stirgen warriors found themselves in the same situation experienced by their foe moments prior. Struggling to pull their pointed limbs from his armor, the chittering monstrosities left themselves vulnerable. Forcing back the pain by sheer force of will, Nero grasped one of the warrior forms’ heads in his swordless talons and pulled it toward his chest. The plates of its chitin were spread apart, revealing the tender flesh underneath. Placing the barrel of his gunwerk against this fleshy substance, the Captain of the Aerovice sent the contents of his sidearm into the Stirge’s neck and head, splattering his armor in a spray of green blood.
No longer beset by pain from the struggling of the beast than ran him through, Nero could finally think clearly. Smashing his emptied gunwerk against the side of the other Stirge’s head, the griffin used the opportunity that followed to pull his sword free from the corpse that had claimed it. He hadn’t the time to worry about blood loss, and instead opted to cut the blade-limb as closely to his armor as possible.
Freed from the remains of his slain adversary, Nero turned back to the remaining warrior form, which had finally managed to pull free of the soldier’s armor. The griffin lunged, skillfully cutting the blade-limb off at the joint before it could retreat out of his reach. The Stirgen warrior chittered in what Nero could only guess was pain, holding its bleeding limb close.
Only now did the sounds of his brethren fighting reach his ears. Ghul and Tzec had been preoccupied with the remaining four warrior forms, and, if the sounds of bitter fighting were any indication, they were having a similar experience.
Nero’s brief hesitation would quickly prove costly. The wounded warrior form, noting his preoccupation, lunged forward in a desperate bid to strike him down. The Aerovice Captain barely had time to parry the thrust aimed at his heart, steel and chitin clashing in a thunderous clatter. Nero forced the blade-limb downward and wrapped his free hand around the Stirge’s head, the insect’s skull fitting almost snuggly in his palm. A sickly smell and a furious sizzle followed; with disregard to its own safety, the Stirgen warrior had sprayed the griffin’s armor with its acidic mucus, the putrid liquid leaking from an organ on its chest.
With strength unlike that of any ordinary griffin, Nero clenched his hand into a fist and turned his foe’s skull into pulp, the soft contents of its head mashed between its chitin hide.
Retrieving his sidearm lost in the mud and fitting it with a fresh belt of ammunition, Nero waded into the thick of battle once more. Ghul and Tzec, covered in both the blood of their foe and their own, fought on with determination and skill. The Mountainhomes knew no greater warriors.
Such was the life of the Aerovice.
Author's Note
For Equestria Daily's flash fiction event! Griffins! Griffins everywhere!
