All Change

by Travolore

Rating: teen
Tags: Adventure, Dark, Alternate Universe
Length: 4081

Gilda has been called many things. Finch. Loud Mouth. Hot Head. Mercenary. Daughter. Friend. One she hoped to never take on: Leader. But circumstances rarely cater to our wishes and now she must take on the mantle to obtain justice. Or is it revenge?

Gilda has been called many things. Finch. Loud Mouth. Hot Head. Mercenary. Daughter. Friend. One she hoped to never take on: Leader. But circumstances rarely cater to our wishes and now she must take on the mantle of leadership to gain justice or perhaps revenge? The two go hand in hand it would seem

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2014-11-10 01:50:00 UTC

Prologue

“Mercenaries are perhaps the lowest form of scum to exist. Greedy, cowardly, dishonest, treacherous and insatiable. They sully the title solider with their mere existence.” From the personal journal of General Silver Spurs, shortly before hiring the crew of Erik Blood, a notorious Griffin Viking, to end the Diamond Dog Insurgence of 520 ANM (After Nightmare Moon).

The wind whistled through the streets keener then a knife. A frigid, frostbitten knife in fact. The freezing rain didn’t help much either in Jan’s opinion. The ebony feathered griffin stamped his feet as he sheltered in the lee of a stone building. He was dressed in a thick coat that, despite its advert, had miserably failed to keep out the cold. A rumpled toque covered his dreadlock styled head feathers whose ends were currently iced over. His face and whole body in fact was covered in old scars a particularly jagged one running half way across his scarf wrapped neck.

Not five strides away from him was a sheer drop down to sharp ice covered rocks. A half frozen river twisted through them down to the conifer forest that stretched across the mountains foot lands. The landscape was barely visible through the sheets of white. It faded in and out of view sporadically.

In summer, in passing, Jan would consider it a great beauty. At the moment it could have been on fire for all the shits he’d give. ‘Fire,’ he thought half frozen tawny beak cracking into a grin despite himself ‘That would be wonderful right about now.’ A particularly piece of hard hail smacked into his green right eye.

“Fuck!” he screamed “Freaking hail! Fucking winter!” He turned around trying desperately to pull his thick cloak tighter. With his good eye he glanced up at the sprawling mountain city. It, like the forest, was beautiful but in a less natural way.

Located just below the tree line the city was built directly onto and into the mountain. A mix of functional stone halls and sky scraping towers, the height of the buildings gradually rose as it approached the main castle. The streets, where they were lit by braziers, were a bizarre mismatch of winding and straight lanes giving the city the appearance of a giant nest. Complex and intricate, but planned in the moment.

The main castle was a functional stone walled, towers only rising twenty meters above its main roof. If you squinted, or were being forced to like Jan, you just make out swirling griffon carvings that covered the stonework above the gates and windows. Barely. The main castle was constructed like a classic hall, only its size and fixtures marking it as special. Finally, completing the effect, everything in the city had a cake glaze of ice. All in all the, great city of Eyrie looked like one big, beautiful winter hell.

“I fucking hate the cold.” He muttered. Jan squinted through the sleet and snow peering around for his compatriots. They sadly seemed to be late as usual. It wasn’t fair. Those arrogant pricks did none of the dirty work he did yet somehow had the audacity to order him around.

He fumbled with one bluish claw for his pipe. Fishing it and the pipe weed out he filled it. He brought out a well scratched piece of flint and hunching struck his iron tipped index talon upon the flint. It took several tries before the sparks settled inside the pipe and lit it alight. With an almost reverent look Jan brought the pipe to his beak and clamping the stalk tightly with his mouth breathed in.

That was better. Mixed in with the usual tobacco was just a smidgen of Weed with a capital W. It loosened him up. His friend’s, correction his colleagues, often pointed out the hazards of smoking, how it took years off his life. He knew the facts. He just didn’t care. Leif, a real friend, had constantly told him that, said he’d outlive Jan because of it.

“Of all the things that might freaking kill me,” he mused aloud. “I sincerely doubt it’ll be smoke.” He took a few more puffs, still hunched over the pipe to keep it from blowing out. Like one of those glass dipping birds ponies seemed to love Jan bent over sucked in another breath came back up blew the smoke into the blizzard and repeated. The stinging in his eye became more bearable eventually faded away to nothing as his ritual continued.

Jan stiffened as a light crunch came from behind him. Doing his best to control his body language and suddenly pumping heart he exhaled. Taking another draw causally he strained his ears to their limit. He was rewarded with another soft crunching noise. Still outwardly calm, inside Jan was tenser then a coiled spring twisted to the breaking point. He upended his pipe and with a few careful taps knocked it on the wall sending the ashes and embers spiraling to the ground. He thrust the pipe back into the pocket it came from and with infinite care reached slowly for the simple, notched sword hanging at his belt.

The quiet rasp of steel being drawn from behind him tore it. With a shrieking war cry he drew and spun around beak opened threateningly. An elegant rapier hovered between his eyes. The griffin holding it was wore a cloak over form fitting leather armour. She was the colour of ash, pale grey. Her hood was up but he could still see the smirk plastered on her shadowy beak.

“Tisk, Tisk Jan,” she berated in a low refined accent. “I could have skewered you just them and you never would have noticed.” Jan seethed with indignation but kept his eyes on the, oh so sharp, blade point that was now tickling his neck feathers. “You’d just bleed out quietly as I pushed you off the cliff. No one would miss you, after all.” Jan fixed his glare at the self-satisfied female.

“Except you ye finch, otherwise why would you and your masters need me to do the dirty work?” The grey griffin snorted.

“You really think we give a rat’s ass about you?”

“No but our masters seem to like my methods. So fuck off and put the blade away, Rache.”

“You’re none too good at keeping a low profile neither. I mean no exaggeration when I say I heard you cursing from five blocks away in this weather.” Jan scowled at her reference to his earlier pain.

“Yeah well that’s what they have you for. I’m a warrior, not an assassin.” Rache reached up with her free hand and pulled her hood back revealing a clipped hair style and a pair of miscoloured gold and silver eyes. She stared directly at him with no trace of emotion, despite her tone.

“Warrior? Let’s not kid ourselves, you’re a thug at best.” Jan stared into the fierce eyes and mentally swallowed. Outwardly he nudged her blade aside with his own as he shot back.

“Then I guess that makes you a backstabbing murder, doesn’t it?” They stayed like that, blades crossed, for a good minute before she smirked eyes still shining and sheathed her sword. Trying not to sigh with relief Jan copied her motion keeping an eye on the drab griffin. When he’d first met her he’d been extremely turned on. Now having worked with her for several months he knew taking a tumble in the hay with her would be fatal. He caught a glimpse of her feather shaped throwing knifes as her cloak shifted back into place.

His heart settling to a healthier tempo he asked in the most cordial tone he could muster.

“Would you mind giving me my assignment now? I rather not wait for Greg in this bloody cold…” Greg was the only other operative of Jan’s employers he knew of. A nice enough smuggler if a tad paranoid. Rache arched an eyebrow.

“Greg is dead.” Jan’s eyes widened at this casual statement. If Greg was dead and they’d summoned him here… The assassin grinned wolfishly “Don’t worry, it wasn’t us. He pulled one con to many with his various other employers. His longboat was ambushed out over Wardrunna Lake.” Jan nodded. ‘God’s that’s unfortunate.’ He relaxed slightly. He carefully phrased his reply.

“I see. So, what are my orders then?” Rache shook her head.

“You’re not getting them from me this time. This job requires a… comprehensive briefing.”

“You mean…”

“Yes, Jan. Tonight you get to look behind the curtain.” She smiled her humorless grin. “Isn’t it wonderful?” Jan blew into his claws as he glanced around.

“Now? Where?” Rache nodded as she confirmed.

“Yes, now. As for where just follow me.” As she finished the assassin spread her wing and with a powerful downward flap lifted off into the storm.

“Damn,” Jan growled as he did the same. “I hate the cold.”

…

Jan struggled not to shiver as he followed Rache away from the relative warmth of the city. Here the winds buffeted him mercilessly, cutting all the way to the bone and depositing ice on his already numb body. He flapped harder, partially to catch up and partly to stop his wings icing over.

“This had better be worth it.” He muttered squinting through the air born ice to his guide. She angled her wings and caught an updraft propelling her to the left deeper and higher into the mountain range. “You have got to be shitting me.” He turned to follow her lurching as a downdraft forced him into a dive. Jan compensated by angling his wings to catch the inevitable updraft as he chased after his infuriatingly faster guide.

Jan felt a strong sense of irony as he followed Rache. He’d always loved mocking his friend Leif for chasing ‘true love’ no matter how many times his heart was broken. The big dolt never tired of the chase it seemed. Each time he’d say ‘She’s the one’. Right up until that servant wench opened up his throat for the metal in his purse. Jan had made that finch suffer good and hard for that. Still though he’d gotten a good sword out of it.

“Some fucking silver lining.” He muttered banking right around a mountain. Leif had been his partner for fifteen long years. They raided together, got drunk together, suffered through typhus together and through it all had each-others backs. Jan wondered if Leif would approve of his current employer. He wondered sometimes if he himself did. Jan brushed the reminiscing aside. Gold was gold, after all.

After a bone cutting half an hour, Rache finally began to descend. Jan glanced at his wings and couldn’t help but notice a thin glaze of ice that had begun to form.

“Bout bloody time. A few more minutes….” He snuck a peak below him. The bottom was lost in the swirling clouds but he knew instinctively it was a long way down. Jan looked back up and focused on landing. In conditions like this one false wing beat could lead to serious injury and in this case, definitely death. His employers weren’t exactly the compassionate type.

Jan concentrated as he descended. With a careful flap he stalled his forward momentum and half closed his wings allowing himself to drip down to the courtyard of the old tower. He alighted without incident, pleased with himself. He smirked as he muttered.

“Not entirely graceless you scrawny finch.” The universe must have hated him. That was the only thing Jan could think as an errant gust knocked him face first into a snow drift. He spat snow as he struggled to his legs glaring daggers at Rache who stood with a cruel smile on her face.

“Not. A. Fuckin. Word.” She bowed mockingly and gestured to the keep.

“Ladies first.” Jan continued brushing himself off and growled.

“I don’t have a key.” There was an ugly glint in her eyes for a moment before she stated.

“Side by side.” Jan adjusted his sword belt to a more comfortable position.

“How else?” The two griffins, never breaking eye contact sidled towards one another and with the confident grace of predators strode in step to the old guard tower.

Up close Jan could more accurately judge the age of the tower. It was old. Judging by the design it had been constructed by earth pony thralls in the age of Empires, almost 1700 years ago. In those days the pegauas’ Tempest Empire was in a near constant state of expansion and was attempting to subjugate the Griffins of the Fjords. For the first time in history a Griffin king was appointed by the Great Thing who promptly erected a vast chain of guard towers, outposts and beacons to hold the legions back. For two hundred years it worked, till the Empire collapsed after its capital was, along with the other major equine nations, destroyed by the Wendiogs. In the intervening years vast parts of the line were bought by Yarls, left to ruin or were simply forgotten. Jan expected this was an example of the former.

‘Well so long as it’s warm…’ Jan watched impatiently as Rache produced the key and fiddled with the lock. Any other time it would have been nice to see the stuck up assassin struggling but tonight his true nemesis had her claws sunk deep into him.

“Is Winter male or female?” He mused aloud as he leaned against the doorframe trying to escape the wind. Rache left off struggling with the lock and with the first real emotion growled.

“The hell?”

“Winter. Is it a hen or a cock?”

“I heard you. I fail to see the bloody relevance.”

“Think about it. The Elk say it’s a venerable and harsh lord by the name of, what is it Frosnel? Anyhow, the citizens of Prance think she’s a beautiful maiden who behind her cold demeanour hides joy and hope. And the Diamond Dogs-“Jan was interrupted as the lock clicked and Rache looked him straight in the eye.

“Jan, let me ask you something. In battle if you are run through by a sword does it particularly matter if the wielder is a boy or girl? Does it change the outcome?”

“No…” She smiled almost sweetly.

“Exactly.” She turned and vanished into the tower throwing over her shoulder. “Don’t dawdle.” Jan snorted angrily but hurried inside heaving the door shut.

“Just trying to make conversation. Finch.” The door clicked satisfyingly locking winter and his (her?) cold out. Jan sighed in relief as he followed Rache into the warmth of the tower, loosening his scarf and overcoat and shaking the ice from his dreads.

The corridor they walked down was narrow even by ground bound races standards. The corridor Wide enough for the average griffin to spread their wings and as best Jan could tell six feet tall. No-griffin except maybe a Sparo, the smallest of the griffins, could safely maneuver in here. Earth pony engineering was, if nothing else, precise. The corridor extended for about a dozen meters before opening up into the center of the tower.

Due to its size Jan reckoned the abandoned guard tower had been one of the barracks. Somewhere out there, buried in the snow, were ten smaller beacon towers that were once maintained by a team of thirty griffins that slept in this building. In the center they took their meals and trained with weapons when not sleeping. In the result of an attack after lighting the beacons the warriors would retreat here and harry the invading force till the arrival of reinforcements.

Those days were long past. In place of the old table a solid piece of well carved oak lay, faint sheen of varnish evident in the flickering candle light cast from the six candles that ran along its spine. A roaring fire crackled in the hearth emitting the gods blessed heat directly opposite of Jan. The light failed to fully illuminate the rafters of the tower or the far reaches of the room but Jan could tell it was clean. There was little to no dust or other signs of decay. It had the feel of a place not used often, but maintained.

Six griffins hooded and in shadows sat at the table, none with their backs to the fire. The leader was clearly the one sitting at the head of the table his upright posture and the way the others were turned to face him clearly highlighting that. The griffin, if you could call it that, who sat at the end was big and misshapen. Big as in being able to look down on an Alicorn big. Big as in head feathers brushing the top of the entranceway corridor. His head, beneath the hood, seemed misshapen, lumpy in the wrong places. The other four, from Jan’s position, were unremarkable.

At their entrance Jan’s employers broke off their conversation and looked at them. Jan shuddered. From the cowl of the giant a pair of eyes deader than Rache’s flashed. Here was a being who relied on instinct and cared not who he killed. The simple intelligence that Jan saw was good for one thing: killing.

Of the other four Jan could make out little. The one sitting closest to the giant seemed to be trying to copy the leader sitting with easy grace. Sadly the kid, Jan was almost sure he was a newbie to all this, instead came off of as rigid and high strung. His pointer talon of his right claw kept tapping a nervous beat on the table. One, Two, One, One Two. Beside the youth sat a much pudgier and older Griffin. From what Jan could see he’d once been a great warrior but had most likely turned to food and drink in old age. The figure to his left was slight and slightly stooped, leading Jan to believe it to be an older lady. The gleam of eyeglasses came from within her hood. The griffin sitting beside the leader shared his upright posture and had a simple iron sword leaning on his chair. It was he who spoke.

“Rache. Excellent. This is Jan BlackFeather I assume?” Jan closed his eyes briefly.

“Hate that name.” He muttered quietly. Rache shot him a look as if she had heard him. Jan kept his face passive. The killer bowed before the table as she replied.

“Indeed sir. Jan has proved to be a…useful associate.” The harsh grating voice of an old hen came from the smallest figure.

“Hoo. High praise indeed, coming from you. Come, sit.” Jan followed Rache’s lead and bowed to the table before following the assassin to their places. To get to them sadly he had the choice of going by the big boss which, if the body guard’s claw drifting towards his sword was any indication, seemed a rather fatal idea or passing the behemoth that occupied the rear. ‘Some choice.’ Jan groused mentally as he opted for option two. The giant’s head tracked him as Jan edged behind his seat, the smell of gore and death rolling off of him hitting Jan like a physical punch. It was with a good deal of relief that the mercenary sank into his seat the fire directly at his back.

He closed his eyes and sighed as the heat enveloped him. ‘The hot seat huh? Well they don’t know me. This. Is. Heavenly.’ A booming jolly sounding voice addressed him.

“Cold isn’t it?” The portly griffin leaned across the table smiling under his hood. Jan nodded.

“As cold as a wendigoes a-ttitude.” The griffin sorted.

“Damn right! Also nice-” A rich regal tone cut off the old male.

“Let us get down to business.” The leader tapped his gloved right talon on the table. A small ding as if metal had been struck echoed through the room. Jan’s gaze was drawn to the appendage in question. ‘What in the-?’ “Screech? If you would be so kind?” The hen bowed her head glasses flashing reflecting the fire. Jan could make out the vague suggestion of an oval face. Clearing her throat with a few hoos she unraveled a scroll and began.

“Jan the task we ask of you is of the utmost importance and must be followed to the letter. Success will be very… lucrative for you. Failure, well, you’ve met Rache. Do you understand?” Jan touched his brow in an easy salute.

“Aye milady.”

“Good. I’d hate to have to let another asset go,” Jan glanced at Rache who sat opposite of the lady. Her face showed a rare emotion. Confusion. “The chase last week was terribly inconvenient. He was a better captain then he was an agent.” ‘Thor’s beard. The bastards!’ The jumpy youngling broke in with a chortle.

“The look on his face though! Dumb bastard.” The leader’s right claw tapped metallically in annoyance. His guard nodded and looked at the boy.

“Enough, boy.” The lad gulped and nodded, laughter dying in his throat. “Madam?” She cleared her throat with another owl call and replied.

“Yes of course. Blackfeather, we need someone taken care of.” Jan raised an eyebrow. She sighed. “Fine. Killed.” Jan fingered his dreads and glanced over at Rache.

“No offence madam, but I believe she’s better at the whole stealth thing.” The portly griffin leaned forward. His breath stank of liquor.

“You misunderstand, lad. This isn’t a simple assassination. This needs to be public, noticeable. A spectacle if you will.” The guard elaborated.

“An example.” Screech continued in her shrill voice.

“We want you and two score handpicked mercenaries to attack the targets home and kill him and his eldest son as well as a few villagers. You will be bearing false colours and will proclaim you were hired by Yarl ‘Ivory’ Ivan Kayson.” Jan cocked his head.

“Why?”

“Your target has a daughter, his second oldest, who’s hotheaded, vicious and impulsive. We believe it’s likely she’ll take the attack at face value and follow the dummy trail, therefore wiping out or at the very least tying up another one of our enemies.” Jan leaned back. This conversation left a sour taste in his mouth.

“Customers always right, I suppose. So who am I killing?” The leader answered him in a hate laden voice.

“Yarl Gustaf the Just and his son Bjorn.” Jan sat in silence for a moment stunned.

“Bloody hell, the reformist? The griffin who champions equal rights for all thralls? The father of Gilda Twistbeak?” Screech nodded.

“The very same,” her voice took on an inquisitive tone. “You know of his daughter?” Jan snorted as he crossed his arms.

“Not many in the mercenary world haven’t. One of the sole survivors of Ron Thunders disastrous expedition to the south? Said to have singlehandedly dragged Thunder, one of the biggest damn minotaurs you’ll ever see, out of a burning wreck? The griffin who, with a diamond dog and a one eyed yak, took on a platoon of Spurtans and won? Yeah I know of her. I’ll be damned if I take a job where I could cross paths with her!” The room was still after his tirade nothing but the crackling of the fire breaking the silence. Emotionlessly Screech reached down and rummaged through a bag by her side. She withdrew a coin purse and with a jingle threw it in front of him. Some of the coins spilled out, gleaming gold, as the bag landed in front of him. The silence remained unbroken as Jan picked one up and studied it. He bit it to taste the quality. The leader spoke then.

“Let me be abundantly clear: this job will happen with or without you. I’m sure you’ve noticed our locations remoteness. No one would hear you scream. That is a thousand marks in front of you. A further fourteen thousand is yours if you do this for us. I like you Jan. Really. You’ve proven surprisingly professional for one of your…profession. Honourable even. Now, what is your decision?” Jan looked directly into his brown eyes.

“Do I have a choice?”

“There’s always a choice.” ‘It’s a lot of money…damn it.’

“Philosophical. Fine, I’ll do it. Particular time?”

“Rache will contact you when it is confirmed. But it should be a week or so after the Spring Thing. Is that enough time?” Jan shrugged as he started shoving the money back in the sack.

“I’ll make do. Least it’ll be warm.”