A Song of Storms: Shattered Skies

by Sigur024

Rating: teen
Tags: Gore, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Dark, Alternate Universe, Original Character, Adventure
Length: 53569

Two brothers, separated by cruel circumstance, shall face a great war apart and be forever changed.

All griffons live beneath the rule of the Cirran empire, the militaristic pegasi dominating all of Dioda. But war looms upon the horizon, and with it the end of Cirra.

Two brothers, separated by cruel circumstance, shall face this war apart and be forever changed.

Sidefic to "Of Skies Long Forgotten"

Published 2015-03-08 06:40:02 UTC
Last updated 2019-06-23 20:11:04 UTC

A Forked Path

Vigild sat amongst the debris of the feast put on for him and his brother. The dawn mist creeped between tables and discarded chairs and curled its tendrils around abandoned casks of ale and wine. Food and finery had simply been left where it had rested, as if it were a feast left for the dead.

The guests dispersed quickly after the pegasi left. The good mood of the celebration had vanished, replaced with the deep brooding sadness that had consumed Eboric. The tercel had not moved from his throne within his hall in hours. He simply sat and stared at the small gold chit given in exchange for his wife, and now his son.

Vigild did not feel that sadness. His breast was filled with a smouldering rage that threatened to overtake him.

The pegasi had taken so much from his people. In the days of Roamulus they had taken their strength, leaving countless brave warriors rotting in the fields of Dioda. The Dawn War had taken their pride, the apex predator forced to bow before the herbivores that should have been their prey. Now they had taken their blood, their kin, stolen away and shackled far from home.

The young tercel screamed, the feral sound echoing around the abandoned shrine. He drew his sword and drove it into a nearby barrel, where it bit deep into the stained planks. Ripping the blade from the wood he struck it again and again, howling in rage as the planks splintered and ale poured out over the ground. With one last mighty blow the sword struck the sturdier wood of the table beneath and was jarred from his hand.

The shriek died in Vigild’s throat and he dropped to his haunches. The rage was gone for now, leaving him hollow and empty.

His sword sat half buried in the grass. What was it worth if he could not protect his kin?

“Such… anger,” purred a familiar voice, a shadow moving from the woods into the clearing.

The raven-plumed tercel that had saved Vigild and his brother the day before stalked through the debris of the celebration, barely disturbing the mist with his passage. “Such hatred,” he continued, giving the shattered remains of the cask an amused glance. He took a half-full goblet between his talons, forgotten from the celebration the night before, and held it before him. “Tell me, young tercel, where was your anger when they came to take your brother away? Where was your hatred? Did you let the Cirrans steal it from you like they’ve stolen everything else you hold dear?”

He took a long, slow sip from the goblet before pouring the rest on the ground. “Or were you afraid? Terrified of horses with wings, puny ponies that any griffon worth his weight in steel can split from head to tail with his talons alone? Tell me, when did the sons of such a great warlord become so... timid?”

Vigild watched the tercel carefully, rubbing his jarred talon. “Did you come here just to taunt me, or do you have a purpose?” he snarled.

The tercel smiled. “It is my duty, as ordered by my master, to ensure that no harm comes to you.”

Vigild scowled silently at the griffon.

The tercel began to circle Vigild. “Do you know how often twins are born among our kind? Once in a hundred years, or more. There are many tales about those of your ilk. In many tribes, twins are seen as chosen champions of the gods.”

Vigild stayed silent, watching the strange tercel carefully.

“Like the ancient one who serves this village, I too am a seer. I see the light of the one true god, and that god has chosen you through me.” His talons dug into his cloak, and he withdrew a small silver pendant. It was a fine thing, as far as griffon work went, with an insignia of an outstretched talon upon its face. “Magnus is no mere mortal griffon. He is the one who will bring our people back to greatness...”

The tercel picked up Vigild’s sword and held it out to him. “...and you shall be among his champions. So proclaims the Herald of Magnus.”

Vigild took the proffered blade, looking up at the tercel with suspicion. “His champions...” he muttered to himself.

A smile crept across the Herald’s face.

“War is coming. So soon, so close I can nearly taste it. Much blood will be spilled, much glory won. Forge yourself a warband and you will be part of the living god’s great plan.” He pulled the amulet from his cloak and held it out to Vigild. “And when you are ready, find me in Angenholt.”

Theod fought to stay airborne. Every muscle in his body ached, wracked with fatigue and cold as mountaintops passed slowly by all around.

They had been flying for hours, the legionaries holding a tight formation around Theod and the legate as the moon dipped beneath the horizon and the sun took its place. The tercel was exhausted, having rarely flown further than the length of his home valley in one burst, but the razor edged wings of the pegasi at his back kept him moving.

He did not know how much longer he would last.

He considered asking the pegasus at his side, but thought better of it. The stallion glanced around constantly, perhaps searching for attackers amongst the cloud-wreathed peaks. Instead, Theod retreated to his mind in hope of some comfort. All he found was the scene from the night before, repeating endlessly in his head.

He did not have the strength left to feel sadness. A cold certainty filled his mind instead. He would likely never see his homeland or his family again. Hostages never came home.

A shout from one of the legionaries shook him from his contemplation. “Legatus! Metam ante!”

The legate shifted to a gentle dive, Theod and the legionaries following suit as they passed between the jutting spurs of two mountains.

The valley beyond opened up, the last gap in the mountains before the vast plains of western Dioda. An unbroken mass of tents, palisades and hastily erected towers filled the entire floor of the valley. Thousands of legionaries walked through the streets of the Cirran encampment and the sky was dotted with the patrols flying in diamond formation.

This was the might of Cirra. A legion on the move.

To Theod’s knowledge a comparable force did not exist in all of the griffon lands. This is why his kin had failed their bid for freedom in the Dawn War. For all the pride griffons held in personal strength and prowess in combat, no number of individually skilled swordsman could hold strong against thousands of pegasi fighting in unison.

The Legate dipped his wing and Theod followed close behind, their path spiralling down towards a red tent among the white, easily four times the size of the others. Pegasi moved in and out in an almost constant stream, carrying slates or stacks of parchment.

The ground came up to meet Theod far more quickly than he would have liked, his wings threatening to give out from exhaustion. As his talons met the earth his legs buckled beneath him, dropping the tercel into the sucking mud churned up by hundreds of marching hooves.

Theod lay there for a moment, mud soaking into his coat as he tried to gather the strength to pull himself from the filth. Hooves slipped beneath his arms and he was lifted, hoisted across the shoulders of a pair of legionaries.

He felt the legionaries step up onto the wooden decking that made up the floor of the tent. They dropped him again a few paces inside and spoke in Cirran for a moment. There were a few disdainful laughs pointed in his direction as he gasped and struggled to rise from the floorboards. Something cold struck him and soaked his coat, making him yelp in surprise.

He struggled to his feet and was hit with another bucket of ice-cold water by the legionaries that had dragged him in. He scowled and they laughed, clearly enjoying this more than was strictly professional.

“At least you are clean now. Mostly.” The Legate said, the smallest trace of a smile upon his face. “Follow.”

Shivering, exhausted and now soaking wet, Theod stumbled after the Legate, dripping water in his wake. The pony led him between a set of low dividing walls and into a small office. The pegasus motioned towards the desk that sat in the middle and Theod sat obediently before it, where a bowl of steaming, straw-coloured goop was placed in front of him.

“Oatmeal.” The Legate said in response to his questioning look. “I am told that it should be suitable for your kind to eat.”

Theod picked up his spoon and took a mouthful of the slightly-sweet slop. It was not as good as Helga’s cooking, but it helped to drive the cold out of his bones.

The pegasus sat opposite Theod and steepled his hooves. “Why do you think you are here?”

“To keep my father from turning on Cirra”

“I… regret that it took this long to inform your family of Senkas passing. we had to-”

“You had to wait until the legions moved through this area.” Theod cut in. “You couldn't risk my father-”

“Do not dare interrupt me.” Pruina snapped, his voice cold and even like the edge of a knife. “Understand that if you disrespect the pegasi around you, you will have a very brief captivity”

Theod winced.

“... But you are correct. we could not risk venturing into griffon lands and demanding things of your father without a legion at our back.”

They sat in silence for a moment, Theod taking a spoonful of the oatmeal. “What will become of me?”

“You are a hostage of Cirra now. You will likely be placed in the care of a senatorial family somewhere. most use hostages as part of their household staff. It will not be a proud existence, but you will be kept safe.”

Theod stirred the slop in the bowl before him absentmindedly.

“I was going to be a warrior… and now I must be a slave.”

“You do not have to be.”

Theod looked up at the pegasus questioningly.

“You are a hostage, but you need not spend your life locked in a gilded cage in some senator’s villa. We can offer you something more. The emperor has seen fit to allow hostages like you an… opportunity. He has allowed the formation of an Auxiliary legion from griffons who volunteer.”

Pruina took off his helmet and placed it beside him.

“I understand that you may not have the greatest affection for your ruler, especially now. But the rewards for service can be great. Cirra offers wealth and luxury in return for faithful service, and perhaps… a chance to return home before your father’s passing.

“You will be trained as a legionary, equipped as one, and expected to fight as one on pain of death, but is it not better to live the life of a warrior and return home to your family with some honour? What do you say, Theod? Will you serve?”

Theod thought. Decades of confinement did not appeal to him, but neither did serving the enemy of his people. But the chance to see his father again… that could not be passed up. What else was there to say but...

“Yes.”

“Very good.” The legate said with a smile. “I must ask one more thing of you though.” He motioned towards the leather strap around Theods waist. “I will need your sword.”

Theod looked down at his weapon. He had almost forgotten that he was wearing it. He undid the clasp on the belt that held it and lifted it onto the table.

He ran his talons along the carved surface of the scabbard. That piece of edged steel was the tool that bound him to his tribe. A symbol of his loyalty and devotion. Now he was turning it over to a pegasus. He felt like a traitor. Slowly, reluctantly, he held it and his pride towards Pruina.

The legate took the blade and turned it over in his hooves, inspecting it for a moment before placing it behind him.

“Very good. Stay here, Obsidem, I need attend to other matters. The legionaries outside will take you to your quarters.” He said, standing and picking up his helmet again.

As the stallion reached the door he turned and looked back at Theod. “Welcome to the legion.”

Legate Pruina walked away from his office, the cheekplates of his helmet rattling as he moved. His assignment had gone far better than he had expected. No bloodshed, an easy extraction of a hostage and a new soldier for the auxillia. A familiar stallion in veteran’s armour with a crested helmet leaned against one of the poles in the entrance of the tent.

“Barley, might I have a word?”

The pegasus grunted as he righted himself and gave the legate a carefully half-assed salute.

“Of course sir,” he drawled.

“How go preparations at the training camp?” the Legate asked, pausing at the door of the tent and carefully placing his helmet upon his head.

“On schedule sir. We should be ready for the first intake in three weeks.”

The Legate sighed with relief. “Another thing gone right. Today is a good day. Follow me Barley, we need to look over some things.”

Barley fell into step alongside the Legate. “If you don't mind me saying, sir, I never thought you would be the type to go for a training position. Get tired of being the Emperor's messenger colt to the barbarians?”

“You think too lowly of them, Centurion,” the legate said. “They have the capacity to be great, they just need… guidance. Like the Canii.”

Barley snorted. “Barbarians in togas, the lot of them.”

Pruina shook his head. “This is why I can’t take you anywhere nice, Barley.”

The Centurion laughed. The Legate lifted a hoof to acknowledge the salute of a passing group of legionaries as Barley sighed. “I doubt it’ll be an easy assignment sir. Griffons seem to be the willful type, and they are always armed and dangerous.”

“Which is why the Emperor has seen fit to give me veterans like you to serve as staff and instructors. No matter how well I train them, there is no way that they can even touch legionaries like you.”

They walked for a minute or two in silence before the centurion spoke again.

The Centurion shook his head. “Griffons. How do they even manage to threaten Cirra?”

“Sheer, pig-headed determination on the part of their chieftains I suspect. It is a shame that we fight so often, together we could be… magnificent.”

The Centurion stopped as the Legate ducked into a small tent beside the track. Pruina dug through a chest in his personal effects and pulled out a large list, and carefully added another name to the roll.

“Almost one thousand all up… “ He said, leafing through its pages one more time.

Barley sighed. “Pruina… I have been in the Legion for most of my life now. I have spent more time with griffons than I have at home. I know them to be treacherous, cruel beasts who would murder every one of us given a chance. This is a dangerous plan. If we teach the griffons how to fight like the Legion, we will lose our advantage over them. This could ruin Cirra.”

“I understand that, Centurion. I had to explain it to the senate no less than a dozen times. But the benefits outweigh the risk. If we can make the hostages think like Cirrans, enjoy the Cirran way of life, they might be more inclined to side with the emperor instead of turning on him. They can keep their kin loyal, help patrol the deep mountain ranges...”

Barley shook his head. “At least make a note that I am not happy with this. Dont want my name attached to the plan that destroys the empire.”

The Legate rolled up his list and tucked it into his breastplate. “Very well... Fetch me a scribe and some fresh ink. We have a lot of work to do.”

Auxillia

Theod awoke with a jolt, everything around him shaking and rattling as the sky-wagon rolled to a stop. He groaned and rubbed at a sore spot on his back. He had been cooped up in the wagon for three days, let out to eat, drink and relieve himself only when the pegasi briefly stopped to change puller teams.

He wished once more that he had been put in the carriage with the pegasi. They had seats and windows, and the possibility of something more interesting to do than sleep. Unfortunately, they had decided that he was to ride with their travelling chests and bags.

Theod heard the lock be removed from the door and the wall that he rested upon swung outwards. He tumbled out onto the dirt, into the blinding sunlight and swore. The legionary who had released him chuckled, and set about unloading the bags and chests that had been Theod’s traveling companions.

Groaning, the tercel sat up and rubbed at his eyes, waiting for his vision to return to him. It was hot wherever they were, the compacted dirt around him baking in the sun. He was at the end of a long dirt track, surrounded by low, square-ended buildings with wood shingle roofs. They were arranged in orderly lines with well-trodden dirt paths between, each one marked with cirran words that Theod could not understand.

The legionaries’ carriage sat next to the wagon, Pruina and his troops climbing out and heading towards the largest of the wooden buildings. Theod moved to follow, but the pegasus unloading the wagon stopped him.

“Go that way, to the parade ground. Wait with the others,” he growled in accented gryphic, pointing in the opposite direction with his wing. “No dawdling.”

Theod did as he was told, walking stiffly around the corner of one of the buildings and along the street.

Rounding the corner, he laid eyes upon the parade ground. It was much larger than the markets in Darkwood, perfectly square and flat, and surrounded on three sides by buildings that ran almost the entire length of the field. Banners planted in the ground at the corners of the field stirred in the light breeze, each embroidered with a talon and the words Legio Auxillia. At the bare end of the field there was a raised platform with a long bar held above it by stout pillars. A gallows most likely. Theod hoped he didn't have to see it used.

A large mass of griffons milled about before the platform, some talking to each other in hushed tones, others standing alone. Theod could see the clan and tribe divisions amongst them, each trying to keep to their own kind. Decoratively scarred northerners stood apart from the small and scrawny coast-dwellers, while the “civilised” western tribes segregated themselves from the griffons of the heartland. Only a few tribes seemed to have more than one candidate for the auxilia present. Those without kin either stood alone and wary, or tried to form their own groups for mutual protection.

Griffons had a hard time trusting each other beyond the bonds of shared blood and blood spilled. Some scholars lamented that their race was doomed to be fractured into a thousand petty kingdoms forever. Theod found it hard to disagree.

He scanned the crowd, hoping to see someone, anyone from a tribe that he knew, when his eyes fell upon a certain white hen. She had forgone the cirran-style dress she had worn at the feast, and stood conversing amongst a few other Canii. Her coat remained spotless despite the dusty surroundings, and not a single scar marred its surface. Theod could not help but notice how lean and shapely she was compared to the hens of his own tribe. Clearly she was more used to physical activity than most.

One of her companions motioned in Theod’s direction and he hurriedly looked away as the hen turned towards him. He could feel his cheeks flushing red under his feathers as he tried to disappear into the crowd, and he cursed himself internally. He was a tercel now, a warrior, but he was drooling over a hen like a fledgeling on his first spring. A Canii hen at that.

Theod tried to sidle into the crowd, but walked into something solid. He looked up just in time to catch a talon on the side of his face. He snarled and reared up as blood trickled from the small gashes that it left.

The tercel who had struck him laughed. He was shorter than Theod, but looked twice as strong. His coat was blonde and marked with a pattern of blue dye. The tribe of Verstecktholm. Eboric had fought a short and brutal war with them shortly after becoming chieftain for control of the seams of iron in the pass between their respective valleys. They had not forgiven that insult.

“Darkwood pig! You bastards never were good at watching where you are going.” The blonde tercel sneered, rearing up and meeting Theod’s glare.

The tercels cronies moved up beside him, laughing dutifully at his insult.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there,” Theod said lamely.

The blonde griffon scowled. “Did you just call me short?”

Theod tried to respond. “No, I-”

“Shut up, you dog! I don't know why the Cirrans bothered to bring your pathetic mangy hide all the way over here when they could have picked someone who was stronger than a hen. Your brother for a start.” The tercel growled. “Why did they send you?” he pondered, an evil smile crossing his face. “Perhaps... your father sent you away because he just didn't want you?”

Theod snarled, seeing red. He raised his talon to return the insult, but a grey and white tercel stepped between. “Come on Verstohlen, you know that fighting before they tell us to will get you both flogged. You don't want that, it’d ruin your pretty makeup.”

Verstohlen was momentarily gobsmacked, but found himself again swiftly. “If you call my Woad makeup again I will gut you, lowborn sack of crap!”

The grey-bodied tercel laughed. “Easy, easy! You’re still pretty!” He nimbly dodged the blow the blonde griffon threw at him and laughed again.

Someone took Theods arm from behind. He spun, ready to strike and found himself face to face with the white Canii hen. His snarl died in his throat, and he was suddenly extremely aware of just how hot it was on the field.

“C’mon. Tapfer won't be able to play the jester for long without drawing the guards.” She said, dropping onto all fours and motioning for Theod to follow her.

He did, numbly, as she lead him to the comparative safety of the Canii griffons. There were at least two dozen of the distinctively pale-coloured hybrids there, far more than could reasonably be taken as hostages by the Cirrans.

“Just got here and already picking fights? Let it not be said that you don't have the warrior spirit.” The white hen said. “We met before, at the feast in Darkwood. I am Aella if you don't remember me”

“Theod.” He said numbly.

The tercel Aella had called Tapfer trotted over, holding a smug grin on his face. “No need to thank me, just saving your hide out of nothing more than my magnanimous goodwill.”

Aella ignored the grey tercel, remaining uncomfortably focused on Theod. “So, do you have a history with mister blueswirl over there?”

“Our tribes fought a war not long ago, and mine won. My brother and I must have drawn their interest if he knows of me-”

Aella elbowed Theod in the ribs, cutting him short. Legionaries landed all around the mob of griffons, taking up position in flawless formation. One swooped around the perimeter and landed upon the stage. He removed his crested helmet and passed it to an aide who stuck close by his side. The stallion was oddly dull coloured for a pegasus, with a light brown coat showing underneath his armour. His mane, once black, was shot through with grey and white hair. His face was neutral, but his eyes were filled with contempt as he scanned the crowd

“Silencio!” he commanded, his voice ringing around the square.

The whispered conversations of the mob died out, falling into silence under the stallion’s withering glare. All save one. A hen whispered something to her companion. The Centurion pointed her out, and a pair of legionaries detached from their formation and moved towards her.

The hen opened her beak to question, but was struck across the face by a legionary’s hoof. They stood over her, kicking and stomping while she cried out in pain. The rest of the congregation looked on in stunned silence until the stallion upon the stage motioned for them to return to their places. The beaten hen staggered to her feet, bleeding from splits upon her face.

“Discipline!” The stallion shouted. “A foreign word to all of you, I am sure. But it is what is expected of you in the Legion. My name is Septimus Pilus Prior Barley, and it is my job to turn you stinking barbarians into something worth the emperor’s investment of time and legionaries into training you!”

Barley scanned the crowd, seeming to note how the griffons were clustered together. “Know this! Here there are no tribes, no nobles and no peasants, there are only Auxillia! You will all act the part, or you will suffer, starting now. Move into four lines, now!” he bellowed.

The griffons were shocked into action, moving quickly to form into rough lines across the parade ground. Legionaries moved amongst them, checking whom was standing near whom and shuffling a few around.

“The Emperor demands your service as subjects of Cirra, in the name of our great empire.” Barley began while his legionaries worked. “When you are trained, you will serve alongside legionaries in the borderlands and beyond in pacifying your kin and bringing the peace and prosperity of Cirra to them. Serve faithfully and live out your term, and you will be settled in the borderlands with a villa and slaves to work it. You will also be released as a hostage and considered Citizens by Cirra- though the thought of the current rabble diluting that station disgusts me.”

There was a murmur from the crowd at the mention of land and property. The Canii were rewarded in a similar manner after the dawn war, and all the tribes envied the wealth that their treachery brought.

“Where are the slaves going to come from?” A heartlander near Theod grumbled.

“Why the fuck are you looking around?!” Barley screamed, turning red in the face. “Stand straight, eyes forward, don't even twitch without my say-so!”

Theod and the others did as they were told. The centurion finally nodded, seemingly satisfied but holding his scowl. “The lines in which you now stand will be your Contubernium. You will sleep next to these legionaries, eat next to them, fight next to them, and die next to them if and when we demand it.

“Your training will begin immediately,” he continued. “Collect your equipment from the warehouse over there then report to the Decurion outside for your barracks assignment!”

With that, Barley turned and marched off, leaving his underlings to deal with the hybrids. They sent each row of four off one by one to the warehouse, leaving the others standing in the baking sun while they waited.

Theod had ended up standing behind Tapfer, still mixed in with the Canii. As he waited, his eyes wandered, eventually falling upon the scars that covered the tercel’s back between his wings. They were thin individually, but so numerous that some areas of his coat were completely bald. Before he could ponder that further, Theod’s contemplation was broken by one of the legionaries.

“Next line, move it!” he yelled inches from Theod’s head.

The tercel turned and paused, trying to figure out which building was the warehouse. The delay earned him a clip across the back of the head from the soldier.

“The big one! Move it!” he shouted as Theod retreated towards the indicated building. The others followed behind him, seemingly content to let him take the fall for all of them.

The inside of the warehouse was blessedly cool compared to outside. It was filled with long lines of shelves down which a dozen or so unarmoured legionaries moved, fetching and carrying stacks of parchment, bags of flour and all manner of military equipment. Griffons approached, were handed a sack of equipment, and then shooed away so those waiting behind them could take their place.

One of Theod’s of new “Contubernium” shoved past him. He growled and turned to protest, meeting Aella’s cold blue eyes. His words died in his throat and the hen chuckled, strutting around him and over towards a desk where a legionary sat pouring over a large ledger. A tall, ash-grey Canii moved by in her wake, not even sparing Theod a glance as he went to collect his own equipment.

“Nobody’s gonna invite you in if that’s what you’re waiting for,” Tapfer called from behind.

Theod muttered an apology and moved, letting the tercel into the building.

“C’mon, let’s get moving. I’ve already had my fill of watching other griffons get disciplined for the day.” Tapfer said, leading the way towards the counter where the pegasus sat, carefully matching bags with their intended recipients.

Aella and the other Canii had already moved on, and were digging through their bags on a bench near the wall. As they approached the stallion at the counter he looked over a list, matching them to a bag of thick canvas each.

Tapfer lead the way to the benches against the wall and began digging through his bag as if it were full of gifts at Yule. Theod shook his head and opened his own bag. A thick tunic with a belt of plaited cloth sat at the top, left undyed and roughly stitched. Pulling it out, Theod rifled through the rest of the contents: A bowl, a spoon, and a few other small tools for grooming and cleaning. He put the bag down and pulled the tunic over his head. Aella and the tall Canii had moved on to another counter by the time he managed it, leaving him and Tapfer alone near the wall.

“Why are there hens here?” Theod whispered to the tercel.

Tapfer raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“This is supposed to be some kind of warband right? Why are the hens here?”

“Because they are Auxillia. Warriors.”

“Hens… as warriors.” Theod said, turning the sentence over in his mouth. “Do they really expect hens to fight in the shield wall with us?”

“Cirrans don't fight in a shield wall, and neither will we—and yes, we will be fighting together. We’re supposed to fight like the pegasi,” Tapfer said, putting his tunic on and tying the cord around his waist, “and the pegasi like having their mares with them when they fight.”

“You seem to know a lot about this,” Theod remarked, delving deeper into his bag to find a necklace with a pewter amulet upon it. One side bore the crest of the legion, the other his name spelled out in Cirran text.

“I volunteered, along with a few others. Didn’t stand to inherit anything, so I thought this might be a way to make something better of myself,” Tapfer said matter-of-factly. He reached for his bag but accidentally clipped the side, spilling the contents upon the floor. He cursed and set about retrieving the rogue items before they could roll too far away.

“Get moving, we don't have all day!” the stallion behind the counter called out, making the two tercels jump and hurriedly recoil.

Leaving Tapfer behind at the mercy of the swearing legionary, Theod moved on to the next counter. The tall tercel had already moved on, but Aella remained, exchanging a bundle of equipment for a slightly different one with the mare behind the desk.

The pony behind the counter leaned over and looked at his tag. “Si quidem hisce.” She turned around and pulled a neatly folded mass of leather from the shelf. She hoofed it to Theod. “Posuit super”

At Theod’s helpless look, the hen rolled her eyes. “She wants you to put it on. It's your Lorica,” she said, unfolding her own bundle into a coat and turning it inside out to reveal the bronze scales that protected the outside. She slipped it on easily and strapped it up with the small iron buckles that closed it over her chest, covering her from elbow to neck to rump with golden scales.

She swung her arms experimentally, making sure she could move properly before saying something in Cirran to the pegasus and padding out to the square again. Theod watched the hen leave.

“My, my, my, don't they teach fledgelings not to stare where you come from?” Tapfer piped up. “Not that I can blame you- she is a fine example of noble breeding.”

Theod scowled and Tapfer laughed. “Doorway-blocking, hen-staring, and humourless. You heartlanders are an interesting bunch.” He took his armour from the mare behind the desk and slipped it on. “Blegh, we have to wear this gaudy bronze stuff? I thought they would at least give us chain, or armour like a proper legionary.”

Theod put his own armour on. It hung strangely compared to chainmail, and lacked the padding that was normally worn underneath. “Maybe they will give us better stuff later on?”

Tapfer scoffed. “I doubt it. Unless we are somehow able to buy it ourselves.”

Theod buckled his armour. “They said that they would give us land and slaves, maybe we will be able to.”

Tapfer considered his new armour for a moment. “Maybe they want us to get used to dressing gaudy, like Senators.”

“The only griffons who dress like senators are their slaves,” Theod remarked.

“Isn’t that what we are already?” Tapfer said with a wink.

Theod peered past the tercel, and saw an irritated legionary marching towards them. He elbowed Tapfer and slung his bag across his shoulders, and both tercels hurried from the building. They rejoined Aella and the other Canii, standing in line in the street as a legionary marked each of them down on a slate

“Took you long enough.” Aella whispered as the pegasus moved by.

“Hey, I couldn't leave our poor, delicate little heartlander friend behind, could I?” Tapfer replied.

“I don't think you could even if you tried; he’s in our contubernium now.”

Theod turned away from Aella and Tapfer and looked around. The rows of barracks, the banners around the square, the unit of griffons being drilled by their instructor. “Perhaps this wouldn't be so bad after all,” he said to himself.

There was a yell from down the line, followed by a yelp as a centurion laid into one of his charges with a thin yew cane.

“Psssh, and I’m the king of Hengstead.” Tapfer said with a chuckle.

Author's Note

I wish to apologize for the massive, massive gap between the last chapter and this one. Now that my time at university is finally done, I hope to move to a more regular release schedule

Upstart

Vigild crouched in a cluster of shrubs, staying low and silent. Before him was a small farmstead belonging to a family loyal to his father. Mostly loyal anyway.

A gang of lowborn griffons, perhaps twenty in number, skulked around the main hall of the settlement. They were unarmed and unarmoured, but covered in dust and sweat from the exertions of their training. Their trainer sat upon a barrel, the son of the tercel who owned the farmstead.

He was a few years older than Vigild, and stronger too. But he was a commoner, and played at war with his pathetic warband. Other hopefuls were always rising within and without the tribe, and now this would-be warlord had gathered his own friends and allies to be his warriors.

The words of the Herald remained in his mind. They were warriors that Vigild needed—and as much as he hated having to train his own host, waiting to poach this warband would be dangerous. He needed to crush this nuisance before it got too strong.

Vigild moved back through the scrub to where his own fighters sat ready. They were the sons of low-born warriors sworn to his father, and had in turn sworn themselves to him on the promise of future glories. Normally he would have avoided fraternizing with them, but the quest for power required certain sacrifices.

None of his dozen or so warriors had proper armour. Scavenged leather vests and padded coats were the norm, and one had tied cutting boards to his chest in an attempt to make a breastplate. Sticks, clubs and claws had to suffice for weapons. They did not want to damage their master’s new recruits.

Vigild took his helmet from the tercel who he had entrusted it to. It was old, with thick iron plates covering everything in a scowling visage. Fearsome spikes protruded from the crown making the helmet itself a useful weapon should the need arise. He placed the close-fitting armour onto his head and pulled the straps tight, feeling significantly braver with the metal mask over his face. He knew he did not have much to fear thanks to his own suit of chainmail, but the nervousness was still there. He had never faced a fight of any size without his brother at his side before.

He turned back towards the hamlet and moved forwards. His tercels followed him without a word, well understanding their master’s plan.

Vigild held up a talon to signal halt as they reached the last line of scrub. He let his talon rest reassuringly upon the pommel of his sword before grasping the wooden waster strapped beneath it.

He drew it with a shout, and all hell broke loose.

He and his warriors broke from cover and charged, yelling and hurling obscenities at their opponents. The gang reeled in confusion at the ambush as Vigild’s warriors struck out with their staves and claws. Their leader stood dumbfounded upon his barrel, unable to react.

They were outnumbered, and time was only on their side for a few moments.

Vigild lashed out with his waster, bludgeoning the first tercel to come up before him upon the head. The second he struck in the kidney with the reverse stroke. One of the gang leaped upon him, attempting to tear at him through his chain. Vigild only saw a flash of the arm of one of his warriors before the ganger was hauled him off and slammed against the ground with a muffled crunch.

His path was clear for a moment, a glance around him confirming that his warriors were holding off their opponents. His lowborn rival was open, vulnerable.

Vigild shouted a challenge and rushed through the gap towards his target, the tercel having found his wits and a woodcutter’s axe in the confusion.

The commoner swung the tool overhead and slammed it down upon Vigilds helm. His vision went dark, and his ears were set ringing by the tremendous impact. He did not remember falling to the ground, but now saw the commoner standing over him, axe raised to smash his helm in.

Vigild took the only option he could see, and thrust his waster up into his opponents groin. The commoner’s pupils shrunk to pinpricks as he dropped the axe in favour of clutching at his tercelhood. He toppled a moment later as Vigild rose, striking hard as he could at his opponent’s ankles and sweeping his legs out from under him.

The commoner had time to emit a strangled squawk before Vigild cracked his beak with the wooden blade of his weapon. He brought his waster down on the tercel again and again, smashing it down upon any part of his body that he exposed in his spasms.

“Mercy! Mercy please!” the commoner screamed, blood running from his cracked beak.

Vigild snarled and raised his waster up over the cowering tercels head. “You yield?”

Whimpering was his only response.

Vigild turned to where the once-brawling warriors stood, taking in the sight of the duel. His tercels had managed to corral their opponents as ordered, and only a few of the gang seemed badly injured.

He spread his wings and snarled. “You serve me now, all of you! Refuse and end up like your dear master here,” he said, punctuating the statement with a kick to the bloodied tercels ribs.

The commoners bowed their heads and muttered pledges of loyalty. Vigild smiled as the beaten tercels fell into line with his own. More than thirty warriors would follow him now, wherever he would lead them. The pathetic specimen at his feet would make a fine servant as well when his bones healed and hide knitted.

A rightfully humiliating fate for one so eager to rise against his betters.

Vigild’s host marched back into town as a bedraggled mob. The villagers stopped to watch them pass, dried blood and bruises decorating their hides. Vigild walked at the fore with a confident swagger. Behind him, the upstart was half-dragged, half-carried on the shoulders of two of Vigild’s cronies. He scanned the passers-by, smirking to himself as each refused to meet his gaze.

They were afraid of him now. This was good. A warlord needed to frighten his own subjects as much as his enemies if he wanted to stay on top.

The youth’s smirk fell into a frown as he approached his father's hall. There was a crowd gathered outside. Warriors, all wearing their swords. Vigild motioned for his troops to stop and advanced on the group. They parted for him, allowing him into the hall.

His father sat on his throne, moping as he had done for days. Another tercel stood a safe distance away, his posture ready for action and his sword in his hand.

“Go home, Gustave.” Eboric rumbled. “You are not worthy of being chieftain.”

The tercel spat on the floor. “I am not worthy? You have sat on that throne ever since the legion came and done nothing! Are we to follow a chieftain who will not even stand against the equines?!”

There was a murmur of agreement from the crowd outside. They watched carefully. Blood was to be spilled, and all needed to be present to witness the victor.

Vigild walked across the room and leaned back against the wall. Gustave glanced at him, and he returned a self-superior grin. This tercel was going to die. Perhaps a little bloodshed would help to bring his father out of his melancholy.

Gustave glanced back over his shoulder at the assembled warriors, then turned back to Eboric. He put another talon on his sword to try and hide his shaking.

“So be it.” The warrior whispered. He tensed for a moment, then flung himself at Eboric, his sword thrust two-handed for the chieftains heart.

Eboric slapped the sword aside with the back of his talon and rose from his throne, his face contorted into a mask of fury. He swung his other hand up into the tercel’s stomach faster than Vigild could follow. Gustaves eyes went wide and his sword clattered to the ground as his chieftain rammed the other talon home just below his ribcage.

He hefted the Gustave above his head, holding his victim high so that all could see. Then, he began to strain. Muscles rippled beneath his coat as he pulled Gustave in two ways at once, the tercel screaming as the chieftain’s talons tore down his belly until they came to rest upon his pelvis. Gustave’s entrails spilled out, falling over Eboric like grisly finery. Blood ran freely down his arms and stained his coat. But still he pulled.

The chieftain roared and gave one last mighty heave, and simply tore the tercel in two.

He dropped the twitching halves of his rival on the floor and snarled at his warriors. They recoiled, some bowing their heads to both avoid his gaze and his ire.

“I will hear no more of this. I am your chief, and I will treat any who say otherwise as I have treated Gustave.” He growled. “Now get out of my hall, you treacherous scum!”

The warriors turned and retreated as swiftly as they were able, almost falling over each other in their haste. Vigild faked a laugh, but he tasted bile in his mouth.

Vigild stayed quiet as Gustave’s corpse spasmed its last, blood congealing between the flagstones. He glanced up at Eboric, who sat moping on his throne once again. He pushed himself off the wall and walked to the blood-spattered ground before the throne.

“I am leaving for Angenholt, father.”

Eboric stayed silent. As still as if he were a statue.

“Father? Did you hear me?”

“Why?” Eboric rumbled. “Why must you desert me too?”

Vigild was taken aback. “I am going to win us glory, father!” He snapped.

Eboric lurched from his throne, grabbing his son's head between his bloodied talons and holding it up to his eye level.

“Glory?” he hissed. “I have won glory. I have won fear and respect. They are as worthless as a Cirrans’ promise.”

Vigild pulled himself from Eboric’s grasp, stepping back from the larger tercel. “You… You coward! I am going to strike against our enemies and you want me to—”

“Listen to me, damn you!” Eboric roared. “I am trying to save you from the heartache that glory has given me!”

“Father—”

“Enough!” he bellowed.

Eboric dropped back onto his throne. The fire was gone from his eyes again. Cold and empty, vacant and dead. “Just… leave.”

Vigild bared his teeth, venomous words at the tip of his tongue, but he thought better of it. True warriors won glory with their swords and armies, not their quills and words. He turned and stormed out of the longhouse, snatching his sword from beside the door as he went. If his father wished to remain a cowed, broken puppet, then so be it.

He found his warband quickly after. They sensed his bristling anger, and none dared to speak to him.

They had gathered their belongings, as ordered. Parcels of food, bags and waterskins were piled around the street end where they had settled in. The beaten tercels of the usurper’s warband were mixed in amongst those that Vigild had brought to fight, and the lowborn himself was sitting moping and bandaged at the outskirts of the congregation.

“Warriors!” Vigild barked. “We set off for Angenholt at once, by foot until we hit the Dales of the Ironborn. Gather your things and move.”

The collected tercels hurried to do as they were told, grabbing their packs and moving into a rough mob. As they marched off, some stole glances back at the village. A few turned out to watch them go. Family, some beloved hens. They looked afraid.

Vigild turned to the usurper, still sitting broken upon the ground.

“What is your name, lowborn?”

The beaten griffon lifted his head, regarding Vigild with one eye, the other swollen shut by bruising.

“Adal.” He answered.

“On your feet Adal. If we are late to Angenholt, you will suffer.”

The lowborn scoffed. “You want me to follow you? After what happened today?”

Vigild snarled. The whelp still defied him? He lunged forward and hauled the tercel up by the scruff of his neck, drawing a groan from his throat as the motion aggravated his injuries. “You will be my personal servant. Perhaps that will make you learn your place”

The young warlord shoved Adal towards the marching mob. “Go join the others,” he spat.

As the tercel limped off after the cohort, Vigild trailed behind. He dangled the amulet he had been given in a talon, watching the light reflect from its surface. His father was pathetic, his brother stolen and his mother dead. But he was stronger than them. He would be worthy of the glory that war would bring him. But he could not fight Cirra alone.

“Not long now…” he whispered to himself. “We shall see if this Magnus is as divine as they say…”

Author's Note

New cover art done by the lovely Ruirik!

A Taste of the Lash

Lines of Auxiliaries marched across the rolling hills that surrounded the camp. Each hill was rough with rocks and gullies, and sparsely covered in gorse and low shrubs that were able to withstand the punishing sun of central Cirra. It made marching a hard slog, and every delay crossing a ditch or finding a path seemed to enrage the veteran pegasi sent to mind the griffons.

The Auxilla had set off at sunrise, rolled from their bunks by shouting pegasi and made to march armed, armoured, and with their full load of equipment. Now the sun was nearing the horizon again and a mercifully cool wind blew through the passes and along the flanks of the hills.

Theod’s feet ached, and the backpack slung over his shoulders seemed to only get heavier as they went. Underneath his armour his plumage was sodden with sweat, and he could feel the beginnings of blisters where the straps rubbed against his hide.

His own century had done its time at the front, scouting and outriding for the column. Now it sat somewhere near the middle of the line. Tapfer was in the rank beside him. The march seemed to have taken most of his smart remarks from him. Theod was glad for that. The attention of the Centurion was not something that he craved.

They crested the top of yet another hill. The shouting had increased in frequency and volume ahead, and other centuries were being arrayed across the nearly level area that formed the summit. Theod followed the line in front of him, doing his best to stay in step as they veered off to one side at the instruction of their assigned centurion.

“Halt!” The pegasus cried. “Set up camp up here! 1st and 3rd contubernium are on palisade construction! Everyone else, get your gear in order, and a fire started! You sleep rough tonight.”

A groan from one of the hens of the chosen contubernium drew the centurion’s attention, and his ire, allowing the rest of the century a moment to relax.

Theod dropped his pack and fell onto his haunches, rubbing at a spot where a sharp rock had cut the pad of his paw. Tapfer slumped to the ground beside him.

“Why did they bother building the barracks if they aren't going to let us use them?” Tapfer grumbled, pulling his helmet from his head and setting it beside him. “Barely half a night’s sleep in a hard cot, then out and marching to this gods-forsaken place.”

Aella and the other Canii shuffled over from their spot on the line. The hen slung her pack from her shoulders and began digging through it.

“The Legion operates in all conditions. We will probably get beds when they think we have earned them,” she said.

Tapfer took a long drink from his bottle, wiping his beak dry on his sleeve. “And how long will that take?”

Aella shrugged. “Two, three laps around the basin maybe? On foot of course.”

Tapfer grumbled to himself as Aella found what she was looking for. She pulled a small wooden box from her pack with a flourish.

“Flint and steel! Plenty of tinder around… if we can find some wood, we can have a fire tonight,” the hen said.

“Why is the army so much work?” Tapfer moaned.

Tapfer jumped when the other Canii, who had been silent until then, dropped his pack. “It gets cold and windy here at night. No fire, no sleep,” he stated plainly.

“Gretus is right, Tapfer, we need the fire.” Aella added.

“I’ll get some,” Theod blurted out, finding himself back on his feet.

Aella glanced at him and raised her eyebrows, and Theod felt his face turn red.

“I will help him,” Gretus rumbled from beside Theod, giving him an excuse to turn his burning face away from the hen.

Gretus marched off immediately, Theod following him down the slope of the hill and in amongst the scrub. A few other groups of Auxillia seemed to have had the same idea, and were swiftly gathering whatever they thought would burn. It was not difficult to find dry wood on the hillside, and the pair quickly brought together bundles of dry sticks and branches.

Theod stood upon a branch to break it. “So… your name is Gretus?” he asked the tercel beside him.

“I was sent to protect her.” Gretus said, ignoring Theod’s question.

Theod stopped and frowned, adding the stick to the bundle under his arm. “What?”

“Not what. Her. Aella. Fool.” Gretus replied. He dropped his bundle and strode over to Theod, staring him in the eye. “You have an interest in her. It is plain. She is not yours to take. Her duty is to her father, and whoever he chooses as her husband. Not. You.” he growled, punctuating each sentence with a jab from his talon.

Theod puffed out his chest and drew himself to his full height, a head taller than the grey Canii. “And what if he chooses me?”

“Then he is a fool as well.” Gretus spat.

Before Theod could retort, a shout came up from one of the veteran pegasi that circled the camp. "Any Auxiliares not working on the palisade, return to your camp to be counted!"

Gretus spun on his heel, picked up his gathered sticks and marched away, leaving Theod standing on the hillside. He recovered and hurried after the tercel, stunned by his sudden hostility out of silence

Theod made a mental note to keep an eye on the Canii. His loyalty was to something beyond Theods reach.

Theod gulped down the last of the water in his canteen and wiped his brow. The sun was as bad as the day before, and the camp they had created on the hillside had become a cauldron of hot metal and dust as the Auxillia trained. The griffons were gathered into smaller units, either drilling in the use of Cirran weapons, or nervously waiting for their turn to spar against their comrades.

Centurion Barley shouted and Theod shuffled forwards and into line with the rest of his team, straining to heft his newly issued shield. He looked to his left where Gretus stood, shield locked to his shoulder and wooden sword held low. The Canii seemed to almost enjoy using the massive, unwieldy shield. Opposite was another team of Auxillia, similarly armed with oversized scutum and undersized swords.

Veteran legionaries kept their eyes trained upon the recruits, checking for any faults; and above them all sat Barley upon a raised chair with a slate in his hoof. He raised the other hoof and shouted in Cirran, signalling for the next group of griffons to begin their practice.

Both lines rushed toward each other, shields clashing together and threatening to knock Theod off his feet. He dug his claws into the ground and grunted, heaving with everything he had against his opponent, who fell back two paces and no more.

Gretus shouted something from behind him, his voice muffled by Theod’s helm and the clatter of wooden weapons on shields. Theod chanced a glance away from his opponent. Where Gretus should have been, there was a heartlander from the other team.

He turned to face the new threat, scrambling to get back into line with his fellows.

He could hear the hen he had barged back pursuing him, a flap of her wings, the sound of her armours scales clinking. A sudden blow to his ribs knocked Theod to his haunches, and his victorious opponent stepped over him to get at Gretus.

Dead from a sword thrust by the rules of the bout, Theod fell out of the melee, and watched resigned as his opponent rolled up the unprotected flank of his team.

“I thought you said you were good with swords.” Aella said, moving over next to Theod and leaning on the shaft of her padded training spear.

“I am good with swords. It's the shield, it's too damn big, keeps getting in the way,” Theod grumbled, resting his Scutum against his side. “How the Cirrans manage to win fighting like this is beyond me.”

Aella smiled and placed her helmet upon her head. “But they do win. That's why we are ruled by them, and not the other way around.”

The bout was not going well for Theod’s team. Gretus had been forced back away from the line by the efforts of the hen that Theod had fought, and the rest of the team was being slowly rolled up by their weakened flank. Gretus stood like a wall with his shield, parrying the attacks of those who came at him from his unprotected side with his sword. But not even the sturdiest of defences could hold forever.

Theod looked away from the bout, over his shoulder, and scanned the assembled crowd of Auxiliares.

“If you are looking for Tapfer, he is down on the other side of the hill.” Aella piped up. She stirred the dusty ground idly with her foot, making her white coat even more dirty. “The Cirrans seem to think he’d make a good Ballistarius.”

Seeing Theod’s questioning expression the hen continued. “It's a siege weapon, like a big bow.”

A cheer signalled the end of the bout, Gretus falling in a cloud of dust and hit from all sides at once. As the victorious team moved off, Gretus picked himself up and marched past Theod to stand at Aellas side, scowling.

Barley made a few notes on his slate, then called out. “Next Decum, form up!”

Aella moved off to join up with her team of spear-armed Auxillia, forming a double line as the Cirrans had taught them. The white hen stood in the front rank and faced off against a similarly spear-armed group of Auxillia.

At Barley's command both sides advanced, the ordered formation devolving into a melee of thrusting points and fencing parries as soon as contact was made. The Auxillia on the other side seemed to target Aella, their animosity towards the Canii clearly visible.

The hen held her own against them.

Theod could not take his eyes off Aella as she moved. She was like a dancer, throwing her hips to one side to dodge a thrust, stepping back and returning her own, stepping away with a spin of the shaft to knock another point thrust in her direction. Her armour barely seemed to affect her, the bronze scales glinting in the sunlight adding to the impression of a dancer upon a stage.

Two auxillia came at her, one thrusting high and the other sweeping at the hens midsection. She swept her spear in an arc before her, parrying the thrust and catching the swing before it reached her. Continuing the motion, she pushed the spear up the length of her opponent's spear and thrust against his chest. The other thrust again, and the noblehen darted out of the way, swinging her spear all the way around her body in a wide feint, which the tercel dutifully tried to block. She shortened her grip on her spear and thrusted past the clumsy defence, the padded end of her spear striking his helmet.

She darted around the flank of the weakened formation, thrusting into unguarded backs and sides, a few Canii watching from the sidelines cheering at her victory as the defeated team slunk away.

“Eighth and Fourth Decum, reform!” Barley called out, tearing Theod’s attention from the melee. “And if the Eighth don't win at least one bout before we are through I’ll have you digging latrines until sundown!”

Theod sighed and moved back to his place alongside Gretus in the line as Aella’s team finished off their victory, the white hen claiming three of her opponents herself.

As the field cleared, Theod looked across the line at his opposition. Verstohlen looked back. The Cirrans had organised him and his cronies into the same unit. The blue-tattooed tercel grinned back evilly. He turned and said something to his neighbour, and laughed, theatrically dragging the edge of his wooden sword across his throat.

Barley lifted his hoof, watching the opposing lines carefully. “Begin!”

Again both sides rushed towards each other, trying to knock their opponents over with a full tilt charge. Then the sword-work began in earnest. Verstohlen fought like a beast in the middle of the line, opening a gap with a barrage of heavy strokes. The other Decum pushed to exploit the opening, driving a wedge between the separated groups and bringing down the others on Theods flank, save Gretus.

Theod could not find an opening in the line across from him. He was too slow, the shield too heavy to move out of the way and strike when opening appeared.

Theod growled and tossed his shield aside. Barley’s head snapped around and he screamed at him. “Pick that goddamn shield up right now or I will have you flogged, barbarian!”

Theod ignored him as his opponents pushed forwards, eager to attack him while he was unprotected. A heartlander tercel was the first to reach him, swinging his sword wildly at head level. Theod sidestepped deftly and thrust his gladius up against his side.

The second was more wary, feinting high and switching to swing at Theod’s leg. Theod stepped into the blow and shouldered the griffon’s shield, pushing him off his feet.

A cry from behind Theod made him turn just in time to parry a downward swing at his head from Verstohlen. He stepped back as the tercel advanced towards him, thrusting and cutting and keeping him off balance. Gretus was tangled up with one of Verstohlen’s tribeskin, the Canii beginning to tire under the sustained attack.

Theod feinted a dodge to the right and jumped, beating his wings to throw himself further. He sailed over Verstohlen’s head as the heartlander rushed towards the spot Theod had been a moment before. The airborne swing he took to the side of the head caught him completely off guard and sent him sprawling on the ground.

Theod landed and rounded on the last tercel, who now stood between him and Gretus. The outnumbered griffon looked back and forth helplessly, trying to decide who to attack. Gretus swung and swept his legs from beneath him. Both tercels turned to where their other flank held their ground against the rest of the Fourth Decum, their backs open to Theod and Gretus.

“Halt! Halt goddamnit!” Barley screamed, ending the bout prematurely. He jumped down from his chair and advanced on Theod. “You! You disobeyed a direct order!”

“Sir, I-”

“Silence!” Barley bellowed. He breathed deeply, composing himself, then turned to the assembled Auxillia. “We train you this way because it is better than what you barbarians learn in your hovels and filthy villages. To ignore our training, our orders, is to defy Cirra.”

Barley motioned to one of his legionaries, who brought forwards a more pegasus-sized shield and Gladius. “You are going to fight me in the style of your people. You are going to lose. You will receive thirty lashes, and from then on you will fight like an Auxiliary,” the pegasus spat, taking the shield in his hoof, and the sword in his teeth.

The legionary glanced at Barley's side. “Sir, your wingblades are edged, are you sure you want to-”

“Yes, I am damn sure. The barbarian will get a taste of his punishment early if he likes,” Barley snarled, cutting his underling off.

Barley rounded on Theod and planted his hooves, scowling up at the tercel. Theod swallowed and gripped his sword tightly. The other Auxillia gathered around in a wide ring to watch. Verstohlen muttered something to his neighbour and both laughed, eager to watch Theod be taken apart by the veteran centurion.

“Begin.” Barley growled around his Gladius.

Theod began circling around the pegasus, making him turn to face him, but he kept his distance. He had the advantage of reach, but the pegasus had his shield, his sword, and his wingblades.

He struck out at Barley's head and sidestepped into a lunge at the pegasus’ side. The stallion brushed it aside with a flick of his wingblade. Overbalanced, Theod had barely a moment to bring his sword up to protect against the stallion’s gladius swung hard around the shield. The griffon moved with the blow, moving back along the dusty ground with a sword flourish to keep the pegasus off his back..

Barley smirked around his sword and advanced, backing Theod towards the edge of the circle.

The tercel watched Barley carefully, assessing his options. He was old by pegasus standards. Slow, and he would tire quickly. His left hind leg dragged a little in the dirt, an old injury. The top of his shield sat level with his eyes. His helmet open faced to allow for the use of his sword.

Theod struck out with a flurry of slashes, each hammer blow of his sword upon Barley’s shield flowing smoothly into the next. The pegasus seemed surprised by the sudden change of pace, slowly shifting backwards and away from the rain of sword strokes.

The tercel tracked his hoofsteps. Left, right, left, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Right.

He punched the top of the shield full force with his off-talon, driving the rim into Barleys eyes. The stallion cried out and lost grip on his gladius, eyes clenched shut.

Left.

Theod darted around to Barleys left, lunging with his sword. Again, the pegasus brushed it aside with his wing, not needing to see to defend against such an obvious attack. But that was not Theods goal.

He dropped his sword and wrapped his arms around the stallion’s midsection, his lame leg stopping him from dodging out of the way and allowing his wing to be pinned against his side. Barley’s other wing flailed uselessly, unable to reach around his shield to get at the griffon.

Theod strained and lifted, pulling Barley off his hooves and bringing them both to the ground. Barley lay there stunned for a mere moment before he found Theod’s claws at his throat.

“Do you yield, sir?”

Theod was dumped unceremoniously on the wooden floor of the barracks. His back was a bloody mess, cut deeply by the whip. Barley had taken the tool for himself. An additional punishment for humiliating the pegasus.

The legionaries that carried him retired from the room, leaving him in the half-light that filtered through gaps in the roof. Aella walked over from where she leaned against her bunk, a wet cloth and a bucket in her talons. She winced as she looked his injuries over, holding the rag apprehensively as she tried to figure out where to start cleaning the wounds.

“...B-Bad?”

The hen swallowed and dipped the cloth in the bucket again. “I do not know, I can't make out where one begins and the other ends…”

Tapfer rolled out of his bed and walked over. Taking the rag from Aella, he wordlessly began wiping the clotted blood out of Theod’s feathers. Gretus leered at the injured tercel from his bunk, but remained where he was.

Hoofsteps approached, and Aella and Tapfer snapped to attention. Gretus leaped out of bed to do the same before the pegasus was fully in the room.

“Ave, Legatus.” Aella said, saluting.

Theod groaned as he tried to pull himself to his feet, feeling his wounds splitting open and fresh blood seeping into his coat.

“Stay down, Theod.” Pruina said firmly, returning Aella’s salute. “As you were.”

The pegasus removed his helmet and rested it in the crook of his foreleg. “Despite your disobedience on the field today Theod, you showed exceptional skill. Each of You. Theod and Aella, your skills at arms are beyond that of your peers. From what I understand, Tapfer has proved himself quite able with mechanical things, and with the ballista. Gretus, your defence is exceptional, vital to holding a formation in battle.

“Henceforth you, and the others that I choose, will be tutored personally by the best of my legionaries, and myself. Leadership, reconnaissance, tactics. I learned much the same thing in my time in the ranks, as a Frumentarius. Do you know what that is?”

“A Frumentarius is a logistics officer sir, tasked with gathering food, materials and other supplies while the legion is in hostile territory” Aella said automatically.

“Almost correct. We started as simply grain-carriers. But after a time, the leadership realised that the skills that we used could be put to work gathering intelligence, sabotaging our enemies, and winning friends. That is the secret part of our role, and one of the things that you will be tasked with.”

Tapfer spoke next, half raising his talon uncertainly. “Sir this Frumentarius thing… Will it be dangerous?”

Pruina raised an eyebrow. “Is danger and death in battle not the goal of a griffons life? Or is that all bluster? There will be danger, yes, more than serving in the rank and file. This is why I am only selecting those who have the skill necessary to survive. But with that danger comes reward. Chance to take leave, access to the officers mess, perhaps even an early honourable discharge if you serve dutifully.”

The assembled griffons were all silent, considering what Purina had said.

The stallion donned his helmet again, smiling warmly at the hybrids. “Rest for now. Let your wounds heal. Your training will be hard, and I need you to be ready.”

The Living God

Vigild shivered, the ache in his wings becoming more troublesome as the air became colder. He had been on the wing since dawn, his warband flying in a flock behind him as they made their way towards Angenholt. The light of the setting sun behind him was weak, its thin rays struggling through the craggy peaks and into this harsh mountain realm.

The great mountain itself now loomed before him, and the lights of the city promised a soft bed and warm hearth.

Far below, the districts and boroughs of the great city spread, clinging to spurs and resting in the chasms of Angenholt’s flanks. Smoke rose from every chimney, and great flocks of griffons flew every-which-way on their business. Lining the lowest part of each gully and valley were workshops and forges, eagerly consuming the iron drawn from the bones of the mountain, their bellows and drop-hammers powered by the hot springs that rose miraculously from the rock around the highest of peaks.

Vigilds eye followed the broad roads that lead up towards the summit, filled with carts and wagons of all kinds winding their way towards the higher districts. There, a thin frozen mist hung in the air where the mountain winds did not scour the streets, and the halls of nobles and great families stretched high towards the sacred peak.

Vigild dipped his wing and dove, leading his warband down towards a high square bordered by towers and battlements. No griffons flew higher than that point on the mountain, the gusting winds too treacherous to allow it.

The young tercel touched down on the icy cobbles, his talons slipping for a moment before he steadied himself. His warband did the same, eager to rest after a long journey. A group of guards detached themselves from the shadows at the base of the walls and marched towards Vigild.

One, dressed in the red livery of a clan Vigild did not recognise, spoke first. “What business have you, lowlander?”

Vigild pulled the amulet from around his neck and held it out towards the tercel. Seeing the striking talon embossed upon the silver, the guard dipped his head in a bow.

“Of course, my lord. The hall of Magnus lies at the top of the temple district. Only those chosen may pass there. Your warband must find quarters in the mountainside district.”

Vigild nodded and motioned to one of his favoured lackeys. He could deal with that.

Leaving his warband, Vigild began his solitary climb towards the temple district. On the other side of the walled square the great buildings of nobles flanked him on both sides, leaning in closer and closer over the street, their faces turning in to display the finery of their carvings and ornamentation.

Slowly the mansions and halls began to fade away, replaced by the clustered shrines and mausoleums of great heroes as the walls of the temple district loomed high ahead. Here he joined other pilgrims, all climbing the icy road towards the peak in silent contemplation.

Most stopped at the walls, laying talons on the freezing stone, as close to the home of the gods as their station would allow. Vigild marched silently through the great gates in the wall, the warrior-seers parting before him as they saw the amulet around his neck.

The arched hall through the walls seemed to stretch on forever, lined by great firepits that could swallow most of the buildings of Darkwood whole, and just kept the biting cold at bay. The visages of the gods peered down at Vigild from the columns, inspecting the insect that dared to come to their realm. The skulls of seers long since passed stared vacantly ahead from their places in the walls, towards where the light of the outside world shone again. Vigild felt as if he were suffocating, the shadows crowding around him as the path narrowed.

Suddenly the space opened up into a massive plaza, the natural shelf on the mountainside supposedly the place where griffonkind was first moulded by the gods. Here even the temples clinging to the inside of the wall seemed to shrink back in reverence to the peak, the summit of the world, and the place most sacred to all griffons. All the temples save one.

A great hall stood alone on the plateau, carved of grey mountain rock, its triangular arches and buttresses reminiscent of ancient tombs found throughout griffon lands. Vigild found himself drawn towards it, his eyes following the tales inlaid in gold on the rock, of heroes and warriors from the dawn of griffonkind carving out a place for their people.

Suddenly the great oak doors of the hall loomed before him. Vigild laid a talon on the wood and hesitated just a moment, then slipped inside.

The whole hall was filled with noble griffons, all huddled together and speaking in hushed tones. Vigild pushed through the crowd, half-listening to their murmured conversation. It was much warmer here, the air still and thick with the smell of incense. Braziers full of hot coals stood on the flagstones at regular intervals, between the tall pillars that stretched up to where the roof was hidden by a smoky haze.

Vigild pushed through the huddled tercels and found himself standing before a massive table, which he had to stand on hindlegs to peer over. The cloudstone surface had been painstakingly carved into a map of Dioda, spread out as if the viewer were flying high above it. Mountains, forests and valleys had been shaped across it, and small trickles of water showed the paths of rivers and streams. Resting all across it were small figurines, all busts of pegasi and griffons in marble. Casting his eye over to where his homeland lay, Vigild was stunned to see a perfect image of his father set atop Darkwood Valley, every scar and line on his face represented in the pure white replica.

Tearing his eyes from the map, Vigild looked up towards the end of the hall. There, on a high dais overlooking the congregation sat a massive throne of black, glassy stone. Pelts of beasts stranger and more monstrous than Vigild could recognise were draped over its hard, faceted surface. The wall behind it was festooned with weapons, rune-etched swords, great axes and drake-hunting lances. In pride of place above the throne itself hung a massive golden sword, easily longer in the blade than Vigilds wingspan and too huge for any griffon to be able to heft.

“Does he really hope to awe us with pageantry?” Vigild asked himself.

“Do not speak ill of our host, whelp, lest he hear you.” A nearby tercel hissed.

Vigild rounded on him, puffing himself up to his full height, ready to strike first if his honor demanded it.But he never got the chance, as the thunderous boom of the great doors opening froze him in place. All heads turned towards the portal, suddenly silent.

There, silhouetted against the outside world was a massive figure, easily twice as tall as any tercel in the room. It advanced, nobles and warriors backing out of its path lest they be crushed beneath his talons. His golden brown pelt was flawless, not showing a single mark or scratch which would betray a scar, and the ash-grey plumage of his head and neck caught the light like raw iron.

Magnus.

He scanned the crowd before him, a confident smirk upon his beak. A strange wind seemed to follow him, catching the threads of smoke from incense and curling it around his form. He passed around the map and close to Vigild, the young tercel craning his neck to look up at the griffons face. His breath caught in his throat as Magnus met his gaze, just for an instant. His eyes seemed to shine with the depth of ages.

Vigild trailed in the massive tercel’s wake, feeling drawn to that mighty being as he proceeded towards his throne, all eyes fixed upon him.

He stepped up onto the dais and turned towards the congregation. Rearing up, he extended a talon towards the open doors of the hall, and with a motion of his fingers they slammed shut with a blast of freezing air.

“My chosen sons. Welcome to Angenholt,” Magnus purred.

Vigild could feel Magnus’ baritone voice deep in his chest, like the beat of a war drum. He felt small and weak before him, falling to his haunches as he gawped up at the sculpted perfection that was this colossus.

“My children,” Magnus spoke. “Your Chieftains, your Lords cower before the Pegasi. They fear their armies, their swords, and their discontent. They surrendered your honour, your freedom and your kin to the prey-beasts that dare to challenge their betters. They are not worthy.

“I have watched over griffonkind since its infancy, since your ancestors fought to claim this land from the monsters of the wilds. I have watched since time immemorial when my children ranged from sea to sea, hunting and warring and multiplying. I have watched the greatest of heroes in their final moments, commending their souls to Valhalla.

“I have heard your suffering. I have seen the shame you endure. I have heard your desperation. In my winds and in my words, I warned the pegasi what was to come, but they are a cruel, honorless race. My patience does not share in my immortality. Soon, you warlords shall take the fight to the pegasi, and drive the Cirran Empire back to cower in their walled cities like cattle in a pen.”

He extended a talon towards the map, and the bust of a pegasus lifted from the map and into his grasp, carried by an unnatural funnel of air. He held it between thumb and forefinger, holding it where his audience could see it. Vigild recognised its likeness from the coins struck by the Cirrans. Haysar, the emperor who enslaved griffonkind and stole his mother and then his brother from him.

“It is time for griffonkind to break its shackles,” Magnus continued. “In a few short weeks, my plan will come to fruition and the great war will begin. But there is work to be done first. We must show your kin that even the most downtrodden of my sons can reclaim their honour. Vigild, Grigori, Aurel. Step forwards.”

Vigild rose to his feet and came before the foot of the throne, as did the other tercels called. They were both as young as Vigild, barely old enough to take the oath.

“I grant to you this duty- take your warbands to the pegasus hamlet of Viridi. There, hundreds of griffons toil as slaves to the pegasi. Free them, tear the walls of the villas down, and return my children to their homeland. They shall be worthy of Valhalla.”

Vigild bowed before Magnus, quaking as the others were. Raising his head, he could see the Herald in the shadows behind the throne, a knowing smile playing across his beak.

“And to you, my warriors, great nobles and cheiftains,” Magnus continued. “A trial. The honour of leading this war shall fall to one of you, as it fell to one of you in the Dawn War. You shall compete in a tourney to win this prize, and all griffonkind shall know your name! Go now and prepare, my sons, tomorrow you fight!”

The crowd cheered their assent, the hall ringing with their cries. Vigild heard none of it, only the voice of his living god.

Ideals

“Auxillia! Forward march!” Pruina barked in his accented Gryphic.

As one the assembled griffons stepped off, marching on their hindlegs. Armour polished to near-perfection glinted and shone, and freshly painted shields were held by their sides. Theod marched in the front-right of his century as Aella, Gretus, Tapfer headed their own units.

Theod almost couldn't recall how long he had been at the camp. The training, drill and lectures seemed to have simply become routine, days blurring into weeks in a constant pattern of legion life.

Pruina had made good on his promise of higher-order training. Aside from tactics, language and command, he had personally tutored his chosen few in the things expected of a Cirran officer off the battlefield. Theatre and art, history and politics, wrestling and flying racing.

Standing in a line along the right of the parade route were a series of makeshift banners made from blankets, followed by small idols of Cirra’s gods upon plinths, ending with an icon of Emperor Haysar, gazing placidly into the distance. The centuries marched past, heads turned to face them and arms raised in salute.

Come the day of the Summer parade they would be replaced by the resplendent silk and gilt banners of the imperial legions, senators, priests and finally the Emperor himself.

Aella could scarcely contain her excitement when they were told the news. The honour of parading before the Emperor clearly appealed to the hen and her Canii kin. Others had been less enthusiastic, but discipline kept them from expressing this openly.

Theod was uncertain how he felt about it. Perhaps he would know when he looked into the eyes of the pony who had subjugated his people and taken him so far from his home.

“Auxillia, right turn!” Pruina shouted. Without missing a beat the marching griffons turned and marched away from the banners and into where the marshalling grounds of the imperial palace would be on the day of the parade. There the whole assembled force of Cirras legions would stand for review

“Halt!” Pruina shouted. The Auxillia stopped smartly with a crash of stomping paws. “Cadets, fall out on me! March!”

Theod turned sharply and marched over before the Legate, halting in line with his friends.

Pruina clicked his tongue and scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Better. But we only have a few more weeks until the summer festival to get up to standard. Aella, take them around once again.”

Aella snapped to attention and saluted the pegasus. “Ita Legatus.”

Pruina returned the salute and sat back on his haunches to observe.

“Alright.” Aella said. “Cadets, fall in! Auxillia, forward-”

“No!” came a voice from the crowd. “I will not honour their gods again. Never!”

“Who said that?” Aella shouted, marching down the line of assembled griffons, casting a withering glare as she went.

“I did.” Verstohlen spat, taking a few steps out of line. He threw his shield upon the ground and turned back to the assembled Auxillia. “They order us to commit blasphemy! We have betrayed our war-god, and now they order us to grovel before icons of the prey-beasts instead of our ancestors-”

“I did not give you permission to break ranks, legionary!” Aella barked, advancing on the tercel

“Of course you are in favour of this, lapdog!” Verstohlen snarled, rounding on the hen. “You and your traitorous kin would give your own daughters to the Cirrans.” He sneered with a sly smile.

Aella’s noble features twisted into a mask of fury. She reared up to strike the tercel, the demeanor of command forgotten. Theod rushed over and stepped between them, placing a talon upon Aellas shaking fists. They were shaking with rage.

“Touched a nerve have I, lapdog?” Verstohlen laughed. A few of the Auxillia suppressed chuckles. Verstohlen spread his arms. “I am no lapdog- and neither are most of you.” He said with a pointed glare towards the white-coated Canii amongst the Auxillia. “I will not submit now, or ever to those that should be meat on our tables, or their pets! No more!”

There was a rumble of hushed assent amongst the Auxillia. A few of the Canii looked to eachother for support. They were afraid. Theod glanced over at Pruina. His face displayed not a trace of emotion.

“What would you do, Verstohlen?” Theod called out, raising his voice so the rest of the griffons could hear him. “Betray the oaths sworn by you and your father? Bring down the legion on your hearth and home?”

Verstohlen opened his beak to respond, but Theod cut him off.

“You are an idiot.” He said. “Your tribe fight in the shadows. Stealth and ambush and cunning are the tools of your trade, because you are too weak to face your foe in a straight fight.”

Verstohlen snarled, a few of the Auxillia made quiet jests to their fellows.

“You know there is no shame in hiding from an enemy you cannot defeat. We cannot defeat Cirra. The Dawn War proved that. So hide your hearts behind a lapdogs mask, and do as they wish- for now.” Theod pulled himself up to his full height and glared down at Verstohlen. “Now fall back into line, before all of us suffer for your disobedience.”

Vershohlen looked back to the Auxillia for support. None moved. His resolve failed, and he slunk back into line, recovering his shield as he went.

Theod turned back to Aella. She was still shaking, and there was fire in her eyes.

“Are you alright?” Theod asked quietly.

Aella scowled at Theod. “That worm! You should have let me gut him!”

“Get a hold of yourself. You are an officer and a noble. You should not be so weak that his words anger you like this.” Theod whispered.

“Enough.” Pruina said, his voice firm and measured. “Gretus, Tapfer, keep things under control here until Barley arrives. Aella, Theod, come with me.”

---

Theod sat outside of Pruinas office, waiting. He hated waiting. The muffled conversation between Aella and the Legate seemed to drag on into eternity. Outside the sun was beginning to set.

The door to Pruinas office suddenly swung open and Aella emerged. She did not pause or acknowledge Theod as she left. Her eyes were red, and the plumage on her face was ruffled strangely.

“Theod.” Pruina called from inside.

The tercel stood and entered the office, closing the door behind him. Pruina sat behind a simple desk, writing a note in a small book which he then slotted back into its place on the shelves behind him.

“Aella,” Theod began “Is she-”

Pruina silenced him with a raised hoof. “We have spoken on the matter. She has explained herself. There will be no more discussion on this.”

The pegasus stood and walked over to one of his cabinets, retrieving a terracotta jug. He placed it on his desk and carefully poured two cups of wine. He sat down on his chair and sighed, rubbing his brow, then taking a sip from his cup. “Sit, please.” He said, motioning at a chair leaned against the wall.

Theod pulled the chair over in front of the desk and settled on it as Pruina began to speak again.

“You handled Verstohlen well.” The stallion began. “You could have let Aella beat him, could have let him be executed for treachery, but you talked him down. Why?”

“Why?” Theod frowned. “If one of us is a traitor, all of us are. Stallions like Barley, they probably wouldn't hesitate for a second to turn on us if they got the chance.”

Pruina pursed his lips and leaned back in his chair, staring off into space. “What do you want from the Auxilla, Theod?” He asked.

“I… do not know.” Theod replied.

Pruina raised his eyebrows at the griffon, taking a sip from his cup.

“I was taken from my home with no warning, right on the day I was to become a tercel, and told to decide between captivity and the Auxillia. I didnt really have much time to think about it” Theod said plainly.

Pruina sighed. “Not an ideal circumstance, I understand. If I could have done it on any other day, I would have.”

The stallion ran a hoof through his mane. He looked tired, the lines of early ageing showing plainly on his face.

“My whole life has been dominated by war.” He said softly. “I joined the legion so young I was practically a colt. Spent years posted to border areas trying to keep pegasi and griffons from killing eachother, then the Dawn War. All those years fighting, all those deaths, just to keep things as they are.

-When Haysar closed the doors of the temple of Ofnir, that is when I realised what I wanted most in the world, and what I want from the Auxillia.” Pruina said. “Peace.”

Theod thought as he took a drink from his cup, feeling the warmth of strong wine in his breast. “I… Think I want peace as well.” He said finally.

“And how would you go achieving peace?” Pruina asked.

Theod paused to think, swirling the wine in his cup. “War comes from hate. I had this idea as a fledgeling that as long as you fought honourably there wouldn't be any reason to hate.”

“Go on.” Pruina prompted, leaning forwards in his chair.

“If… if you only fought those that had wronged you, didn't hurt innocent people or lump them in with your enemies then those people wouldn't have a reason to fight you. That somehow if you had a reason, the people who supported your enemies would forgive you.” Theod raised his cup to his beak, draining it.

“It is a shame that the world disagrees.” Pruina sighed.

The stallion steepled his hooves and looked over them at Theod. “In all my time fighting against and working amongst griffons, I noticed something. A difference of mentality. It seems to me that each and every griffon seeks individual glory, each pulling their own way.”

“You say that like it is a bad thing.” Theod said, taking the jug and refilling his cup. The warmth of good drink was rare in the camp, and he was determined to enjoy it while he could.

Pruina smiled. “It can spur you on to do great things, but you struggle against your own people as much as your goal. Pegasi were once a lot like your kind. We spent as much time fighting eachother as we spent fighting your people. For a hundred years we were forever on the verge of being pushed into the sea. That all changed with Roamulus. In one lifetime we went from a scattered web of warring cities into an empire.

-Though my ancestors chafed against the bonds of empire, their descendants realised its potential. They gave up the quest for individual glory and set to work as parts of a greater whole. With no wars between pegasi wasting blood and effort we built our cities, cultivated the land and forced our borders out to where they now lie. Now after four hundred years we have subjugated griffonkind as well.”

Theod rubbed the back of his neck with a talon, casting his eyes across the mementos and books that sat on the legates shelves. “My father said we were lucky, with the subjugation that is. He said that Cirrans live under the worst tyranny. That you could not resolve affairs of honour by battle, or fight against your chieftain no matter how they have wronged you.”

Pruina sighed and nodded. “It is true, we gave must give up some liberties for the sake of the empire.”

“If the empire takes things from you. Your warriors, your weapons. Why support it?” Theod asked.

“Because it makes us safe.” The legate answered. “We do not need to waste time or effort fighting our neighbours over petty slights, or dealing with the upheaval of a warlord claiming rule over some minor patch of land. Our children grow up without the fear of conflict, and our citizens need not arm and train themselves simply to keep a hold on their possessions. You lived the life of a noble, but even your luxurious and comfortable life rested on the edge of your father's sword. Just think of how it is for your simpler tribesmen who dont have the protection of high station.”

Pruina looked up at Theod, holding his gaze. “Your people are where we were four hundred years ago. A hundred petty warlords wasting precious blood in a hundred petty squabbles. If the empire can stand for just a few generations, if just a little of the Cirran mindset can seep into your people, then perhaps we can have peace. Perhaps life could be better for all.”

Theod leaned back in his chair. He could see what Pruina meant. He had no count for the number of squabbles that his father had been forced to quell within and without his tribe. Personal power grabs, brawls between a few dozen warriors over a broken promise, brutes and bandits taking what they wanted by force. Perhaps the docile nature of Cirran life was worth a try.

The Tercel scratched his chin. “I think I see what you mean.”

Pruina rose from his chair. “I want you to trust in me, Theod. In the work that we do. Trust that whatever we do, we do for peace.”

“I… I shall try.” Theod said.

---

Vigild arched his back and stretched his wings as best as he was able, his confinement preventing him from dispelling the ache of inactivity from his limbs.

The Herald had forced this upon him, and the other young warlords who he was supposed to share this glory with. Travelling in a barge along the winding river that carried meltwater from the mountains all the way to the sunset sea in Cirra. The cargo, a tithe of iron and alpine timber, was bound for Stratopolis and the armouries of Cirra. It gave the necessary cover for three warbands of griffons to sneak into the heartland of the empire.

The hold of the barge was small, dark and damp, and had become much more unpleasant since one of Aurels tercels had thrown up from seasickness. Vigild wished that he could beat the lowborn again for it, but all of their warriors were needed for their task.

“Upstart!” he commanded, calling the tercel he had savaged weeks before in Darkwood. He was still bound and bandaged, and Vigild was able to find some satisfaction from making his former rival his personal servant.

“Your bidding, lord?” He mumbled, careful to not disturb his cracked beak. It would heal in time, but scar would be there for life.

“Fetch me wine- and ask the crew how far we are from Viridis.” Vigild ordered. The upstart bowed and backed away, disappearing between the crates of iron ingots.

Vigild could hear Aurel and Grigori talking on the other side of the ship. He had grown tired of their company quickly. They had the airs of a noble living a soft life, granted everything that they desired in the manors of Angenholt. Their voices grated, pale and bland compared to the memory of Magnus.

The young warlord reclined again, recalling the thunder of his voice, the feeling of his presence. He dreamed of returning to him victorious, an army of his liberated kin behind him. The herald had seemed pleased by Vigilds devotion when they spoke. The strange tercel could at least hold a conversation that wasn't gossip or tales of noble hedonism, despite his insistence on holding onto the mystery of his relation to Magnus.

The upstart returned, clutching a carafe which Vigild snatched from his grasp. He took a long draught and wiped his beak, letting the taste of Cirran alcohol wash over him. He turned his gaze back upon his servant. “Go oil my mail again, and my sword. If they get rusty from this damp you will pay dearly.” He spat.

The upstart bowed and disappeared again, leaving Vigild to steep in his thoughts.

Unchained

The Heartlands of Cirra were very different to the deep forests and mountains of the Griffon lands. Plains and fields stretched as far as the eye could see, criss-crossed with low walls and hedges. The roads had worn down over centuries into low ditches and covered over by trees, forming tunnels of green that granted relief from the heat of midsummer.

Viridis was only a day's march from the river, and the lonely roads the Herald lead the warband down were empty. Now as the shadows stretched out and night grew near Vigild could see the town before him.

It lay in the depression between two hills, white-walled houses in neat rows around a market square filling the valley floor. Orchards and vines climbed the gentle slopes on either side of the town, wrapping around to the head of the town where a great villa stood vigil. Surrounding this villa were dozens of lesser wooden buildings, partially hidden amongst the edges of the orchards. If he looked carefully Vigild could pick out figures moving about the town or relaxing outside their homes. It looked peaceful, tamed. A perfect Cirran town.

Vigild sneered. It would not be peaceful for long.

He turned and walked back into the thicket where the warband was resting. The warriors spoke in hushed tones and fidgeted. The excitement of the coming raid put new energy into weary limbs and minds.

The Herald reappeared from the shadows, sheathing his sword as he walked. “There is no garrison in the town, or beyond it. We may proceed as you wish, children of Magnus.” He purred. “This will not be easy, but the living god would not give his sons a task they could not overcome. Our captive kin serve the old legate who owns the great villa.”

Grigori spoke first. “We should leave most of our warriors here, go and get a closer look at these slaves.”

Vigild and Aurel agreed silently and the Herald smiled. “I shall remain here, and bring help if you call.”

Without another word Vigild, Grigori and Aurel walked from the woods and took to the air. They flew low over the orchards towards the great villa, trusting the gloom of dusk to keep them hidden.

The tercels set down a short distance from the wooden huts and moved in as quietly as they could in their armour to an overgrown garden plot that hid them from view.

Peering over the weeds Vigild was struck by the size and grandeur of the villa. It was easily twice as tall as his father's hall, and built not from whitewashed bricks but pure white stone. But it was not a fortress like the homes of Angenholt. The open balconies and windows filled with billowing cloth spoke of a gentle life free of cares that would see walls thrown high and windows barred.

Vigild pulled his eyes away from the villa and down towards the squat wooden huts that surrounded it. Dozens of griffons were lined up outside the huts, each being shackled at the door and ushered inside by a pair of pegasus overseers who stood flanking the doors. Vigild could make out rings of shiny keys around these stallions necks. Surely the keys to the slaves’ shackles.

The slaves were a pitiful sight. They were thin and small, seeming to struggle to hold themselves up after a day of labour at their master's command. Their plumage was rough and dirty, and the older ones amongst them bore the scars of many beatings. Only the few hens seemed to have any weight on them at all, and they sat with fettered fledgelings by their sides.

“They are almost as scrawny as you, Vigild.” Aurel teased.

“They are in no state to fight.” Grigori whispered. “And there are fledglings amongst them! We cannot march them back to safer lands.”

Vigild felt his ire rise. “Magnus gave us this task. I will not fail him. We will find a way.” Vigild hissed, removing his chain coat and dropping it on the ground. “I will go and find some way to release the slaves. Then we attack.” With that Vigild pushed through the hedge and hurried to where the slaves were congregating

The tercel slunk over to the very end of the line, thinking feverishly of some way to get a hold of one of those sets of keys without raising the alarm.

“You!” A mare snapped in gryphic, pointing at Vigild with her hoof.

He froze. Was he discovered?

“Y-yes mistress?” Vigild said, putting on the air of the broken slave and facing the pegasus without meeting her gaze. She was tall for a pegasus, and wore a white silk dress that complimented her stormy coat. A set of keys like those the overseers wore hung from a cord around her slender neck.

“Where is Alem? I need my preener.” The mare demanded.

“He is away on an errand mistress.” Vigild lied, eyes fixed on the keys.

The mare sighed theatrically. “Fine. You will do. Come!” She said.

Vigild hesitated for a moment and the mare stomped her hoof impatiently. “Come! Do not fret, I will make sure you get back into your proper place. But first, I must look my best for tonight!” She said, trotting off with a spring in her step.

Vigild followed behind her, keeping his posture hunched and his eyes low. She led him through the villa and up to the second floor, passing the rooms where pegasus servants laboured over cooking pots or relaxed in the cool of the evening. None paid him any notice.

The mare shouldered open the double doors to what Vigild presumed to be her bedchamber, richly decorated and filled with finely made furnishings and expensive draperies. A pair of jewellery boxes sat open on the floor, filled with enough gold and stones to buy the whole darkwood tribe, and the silk dresses carelessly thrown about the room were doubtless just as expensive.

The pegasus sat before a bronze mirror and took a brush in her hoof, beginning work upon her mane to untangle the sky-blue locks. She opened her left wing and look back at Vigild reproachfully. “Well? Get to work!” She snapped.

Vigild took her wing in his talons and began to preen her flight feathers. He ran his beak down the length of each feather, carefully grooming each one. The dust upon them tasted sweet, as if she had rolled in icing sugar.

As he moved his head to reach each feather properly, Vigild searched the room until his eyes settled upon an iron ring full of keys sitting amongst slender bottles of perfumes.

Vigild continued to preen, playing the docile slave. He felt his ire rise as the mare prattled on about the mundane affairs of her socialite friends. The struggles of her life amounted to who was trying to bed who, while all around her Vigilds people suffered. It disgusted him.

He reached her shoulder and opened his beak, savouring the moment.

He bit down on the joint. Hard. A talon clamped over the pegasus’ mouth muffled her scream as bone cracked and ligaments tore. The blood in Vigilds mouth was sweeter than her feathers. He pulled the mare against his chest and looked down into her tear-streaked eyes, licking the blood from his beak. She would never be able to fly again. If she lived, that was.

The mare went limp and fell from Vigilds grasp onto the the rug, staining it with her blood. The young warlord stepped over her unconscious body and took the keys from the table. Turning back, he regarded the twitching mare. She had a fine figure for a pegasus. Vigilds eye traced the line down her neck, her back, her rump. There were so many ways that she could pay for humiliating Vigilds kin.

A knock at the door made Vigild jump. A voice calling out in Cirran. Vigild jumped onto the table and scrambled through the window, sending bottles of perfume clattering to the floor. As he jumped out into the gloom, Vigild heard the scream of a maidservant. He was discovered.

Gliding on his outstretched wings, he landed heavily on the roof of one of the slave shacks. He dropped down and slipped inside as shouts rose up all around the villa, overseers swarming out in search of the murderous griffon.

Vigild leaned his back against the door, letting his eyes adjust. There were a dozen slaves in the room, all shackled by their talons to stout posts that were surrounded by hay bedding. Of their faces, Vigild could only make out their fearful eyes. Their hushed whispers almost drowned out by the shouts of overseers storming between the huts. They would betray him in an instant if the pegasi asked where he was.

Vigild reached out to take the shackled talon of the nearest tercel, but the slave snatched it back as if burned.

“Easy brother. I am Vigild, chosen of Magnus. I am here to free you.” Vigild whispered. The slave did not move, holding his shackled talon against his chest.

“Do you not want to be free?” Vigild hissed, glaring at the shaking excuse for a griffon before him. “All of you! You have suffered long, endured indignities that would make your ancestors weep, and you would refuse liberty at the threat of another beating?”

The slaves exchanged silent glances. One amongst them spoke, his voice hushed and trembling. “We cannot be free. Our master here flays ten alive when one tries to escape. There is no hope, no victory against Cirra.”

“And so you die in here, broken and shameful? How will the gods judge you, your honour when you come before them?” Vigild snarled.

The slave glared back at Vigild. “I was a warrior when the war came. I stood before the walls of Nimbus. I did all I could, and the gods will recognise that.”

“All you could, except die with a fire in your heart and blood in your mouth!” Vigild spat. “My warriors are coming. Enough tercels to turn this town into a charnel house. Your master will certainly see you dead before he sees you free. Will you cower in here like whipped dogs, waiting for the prey-beasts to come and slaughter you? Or will you fight alongside them? Risk an honourable death for a life of freedom?”

They growled in assent. There was a spark in their eyes not entirely drowned out by the dread on their faces. The slaves crowded around, holding their talons out for Vigild to unchain them. In a few moments their shackles were lying in a heap on the floor.

Vigild froze. Voices outside, shouting in Cirran. With a sharp crack the door was flung inwards, a pair of pegasus overseers storming into the room. The slaves retreated to the far wall, heads bowed and talons shaking. Frail resolve broken by the sudden arrival of the pegasi.

The bigger of the two advanced on Vigild, his eyes fixed on the bloody mess on the tercels face and a sword in his teeth. He was not used to griffons fighting back. Vigild struck the pegasus across the face, sending him reeling towards the corner with the cowering slaves.

“Fight! Fight now or die like trapped rabbits!” He yelled.

Vigild’s sudden shout seemed to shock the slaves into action. They attacked in blind panic, wildly lashing out with their claws and snapping with their beaks. The first overseer disappeared screaming into the gloom, set upon by a dozen ravening slaves.
The second pony froze, horror etched across his face. Vigild leaped upon him and tore at his throat with his bare talons, not stopping until the stallion's blood poured out onto the dusty floor.

Shouting for the slaves to follow, Vigild rushed outside and leaped over the heads of a trio of shocked overseers. He heard their shouts turned to screams as the slaves swarmed over them.

Vigild ran from hut to hut, unlocking shackles and rousing the spirits of the slaves, gathering the mob behind him building momentum. Pegasi ran terrified in every direction, not stopping to offer resistance as they sought safety in the villa or in the town below. Vigild found himself carried in the wave of frenzy that possessed the liberated griffons, their voices ringing out in one great howl of righteous fury.

With the shacks empty, the former slaves turned their attentions on the villa. The servants and overseers cowering within tried to barricade the tall doorways and wide open windows, but to no avail. The wave of frenzied griffons swept over them, blood and feathers befouling the pure white stone as the killing began in earnest.

Reluctantly, Vigild reined himself in. He had done his part, and now the slaves could satisfy themselves with those terrified prey-beasts that had so arrogantly perched themselves atop their backs.

The young warlord staggered punch drunk to a windowframe, only now noticing the sword-cuts on his arms and sides. He laughed in spite of the pain. In the town down below, he could see the tercels of his warband rampaging through the streets, pillars of black smoke and lines of fleeing pegasi marking their presence.

Vigild started at the sound of talons striking the tiled floor behind him as the Herald landed. The inky tercel sat down next to Vigild and watched the events below.

“Its beautiful.” Vigild said. “How quickly they reclaim their spirit.”

“It is in their nature, as all the children of Magnus.” The Herald replied.

Vigild idly probed one of the wounds in his arm with a claw. It was not too deep, and would heal well enough in time. The sting helped focus him again.

“So, what now?” He asked the Herald

The black tercel chuckled. “We let the slaves feast, and celebrate. Indulge any impulse that comes to their mind. They have been without good food too long, and need the meat. Grigori and Aurel will ensure that the townsfolk give their share as well.” He purred. “For now, I have no commands for you. Go, walk among your people, and join in their revel.”

Vigild pushed off the window and turned back into the Villa. “Of course, Herald.” He said, moving towards the staircase, and the room of the socialite mare he had mauled. “But first, I have some unfinished business to attend to...”

The Revolt pt 1

Theod flew at the head of his century, near a hundred legionaries armed and armoured for battle. Behind him, the other centuries spread into a great V-formation, their armour shining orange in the setting sun. Ahead, Pruina and his staff flew in their own century, charting their course through the heartland of Cirra.

They had flown most of the way, leaving most of their supplies in favour of speed. Each griffon only carried their armour, weapons and mess kit. Food, tents, tools and other encumbrances abandoned in the pursuit of speed. They were largely unnecessary in the heartland of Cirra, the inhabitants relinquishing barns and sheds to quarter the strange griffons who flocked through their land.

They had been at mess when the news arrived. A slave revolt in Viridis, and so close to the Day of the Empire parade too. The Emperor had decided that the day was too important to pull any of the true legions out of the parade and so the fledgeling Auxillia was called upon to put down the revolt.

Aella and the other Canii had been bitterly disappointed, robbed of her opportunity to parade before the emperor. Others were eager at the prospect of putting their training into practice. Theod just felt worried.

Up ahead, the legate tipped his wing and dove towards the highway, the Auxillia following as one to land in formation by the sides of the road. Theod broke off from his century and trotted between the piles of debris left by fleeing ponies to where Pruina stood, Aella, Gretus and Tapfer following suit.

The Legate doffed his helmet as they approached, waving Barley away to inspect the Auxillia one more time.

“That, down there, is Viridis.” Pruina began, waving a hoof down towards the ruined town. “The Frumentarii have confirmed that the slaves have mostly kept to the town and the surrounding hamlets, and they do not think that there are any bands roaming elsewhere at last check. They have fortified the town, blocked streets, barred windows and spikes placed everywhere.” Pruina said, uncapping his canteen and taking a deep drink.

“When do we attack Legatus?” Theod asked.

The Legate wiped his mouth with a forelock and returned his flask to its pouch. “Immediately.” He said. “Any time to rest may lose us the element of surprise.”

“Legate, there is an advantage to be had if we attack from the air.” Aella pointed out.

Pruina shook his head. “If the slaves have fortified the streets, they intend to defend the town. They will not come out in the open to meet us, and we will be forced to land in scattered groups, too easy to pick off. We have the advantage by hoof. Or paw, as the case may be.”

“You speak as if they have a strategy, Legatus.” Theod said, adjusting the strap that held his Gladius.

The stallion pursed his lips and paused a moment, staring off at the town. “I know Legate Oak. If he drilled and ruled his slaves as thoroughly as he did his soldiers, it is unlikely they revolted without some interference. Interference this deep in Cirra requires a lot of skill and influence.”

Gretus snorted, making Theod jump. He could almost forget that the tercel could speak from time to time. “More than slaves?”

Pruina nodded. “Quite likely I think, but we have four hundred of Cirras finest here, plus my staff. We can handle whatever else has come to Viridis.”

The legate pointed down towards the main street, leading through the abandoned town to the market square, then up towards the stately villa that dominated the top of the settlement. “We will march down through the road, Auxillia first and Cirrans second. I will march at the front with Theods century. Keep your troops together and follow any orders I give exactly. With luck, this will all be over before sunset.”

---

The centuries marched down into the valley in an extended line, drums and shouted commands announcing their presence. Theod felt his chest tighten as the white-washed walls of the town approached, dread overwhelming any excitement he felt at the prospect of a fight.

The town of Viridis was in ruins. The streets were filled with all manner of possessions, food and clothes and furniture scattered about by panicked residents or the slaves who set upon them. Spatters and pools of blood lay on the ground here and there along with chunks of fur and feathers. There were few bodies, brightly coloured pegasus coats marred by their torn and ruined flesh.

The smell was what troubled Theod the most. Rotting blood, foul and metallic, much different to when the butchers bled game that his father hunted. As they passed a burned out store the smell of burned hair joined the mix, causing some of the auxillia to gag.

Silence prevailed save for the sound of shifting armour and Theod had to resist the temptation to peer into every window he passed. His sense of dread grew with each step. Surely the slaves had to be somewhere up ahead.

Suddenly the space opened up into the market square Pruina had pointed out. It was mostly empty, the carts and stalls that had once filled the space had been shoved aside and piled into the side street exits of the plaza. On the rooftops Theod could see the sharpened poles intended to keep airborne troops out scattered haphazardly around.

Pruina halted the line with a raised hoof and spoke briefly with Barley, motioning up the main street and towards the villa. The centurion nodded and led his century off to one side, allowing the rest of the Auxillia to file into the square in their line. Pruina marched over to Theod and pointed up the main road again. “Barley’s century will form the rearguard. Lead the line up the road towards the villa. If they aren’t here in the town, the slaves are probably up there.” He said.

Theod nodded, his mouth dry. Pruina gave the tercel an encouraging smile and moved to the rear of the century to join Aellas unit.

“Auxillia, forward march!” Theod shouted, setting the formation of hybrids in motion again, forward into the upper end of the town.

Here the character seemed different to Theod. Perhaps it was his nervousness getting to him, but it seemed more menacing. The buildings leaned in over the street, leaving only a thin line of bright daylight running down the centre, and all the garishly coloured signs dangling from yardarms felt like forest boughs cutting off escape. The side streets here were also barricaded, filled with piles of furniture and lashed with ropes.

“Sir! Above!” One of Theod’s auxillia called out. Theod looked up in time to see a thin griffon silhouetted against the sky hurl something down towards him. He sidestepped and with a crack a ceramic tile shattered where he had been standing.

From above there arose a desperate, angry cry and more projectiles began falling, followed by animal howls and condemnation of the traitors in cirran armour. The Auxillia were surprised by the sudden appearance of the slaves, and holding their shields above their heads they began to push backwards blindly and against Theods shouted orders.

From the rear arose a feral noise and shouts of alarm. Amongst the clash of weapons, the Auxilla at the rear began to push forwards into the street. In the middle a terrible crush formed, shields pinned down in the midst of the mass leaving helmeted heads open to the assault from above.

From the rear there were more urgent shouts of panic. Theod spun and craned his neck to try and see over the mass of Auxillia. The pegasi were fleeing, taking to the air and disappearing over the rooftops.

Pruina appeared from the crush, pushing his way between the Auxilla. He turned before them, ignoring the rain from above and drawing breath as if to speak. He did not get the chance. A ceramic tile burst upon his helmet, driving a great dent into the polished steel. The Legate staggered a few steps and fell silently, blood running from his eyes and nose.

Theod baulked and ran forwards towards the legate, holding his shield up to ward off the falling masonry. The pegasus was moaning lowly and twitching in his legs. Theod scooped him up and turned back towards the mass of panicking griffons.

They were trapped, surrounded sides, behind and above. The only way was forwards.

“Auxillia!” He barked with all the authority he could muster. “Forward! Up towards the villa!”

The Auxillia seemed to be shocked out of their panic and began to charge up the street, shields held high and all pretense of formation abandoned as they dragged themselves out of the ambush.

Theod ran with the mob, unable to stop or slow lest he and the legate be trampled underfoot. As they exited the confines of the street Theod lead the Auxillia up through the great doors of the old legates villa, where hopefully there was some safety.

Away from the slaves the flight of the Auxillia began to lose momentum, terminating in the open courtyard of the Villa. They stood panting heavily, some bleeding from wounds on their heads or arms.

Theod looked down at Pruina. His helmet had fallen off somewhere in the mad dash. The dent in the steel was mirrored by another in the stallions skull. He yet lived though, a low moan escaping his lips with each breath.

“Aella! Tapfer! Gretus! Where are you?” Theod called into the crowd, and was answered by the appearance of the snow white hen. Her left arm dangled uselessly by her side, shoulder shattered. Gretus followed in her wake, fretting in rapid fire Cirran that Theod could not understand and trying to fashion a sling out of his tunic.

Aella saw Theods concern and shook her head. “Brick, shield wasn’t in the right place. I can still fight.” Her eyes fell upon Pruina and she gasped. “Gods above!”

Theod laid Pruina down as gently as he could. “We need to get the Legate somewhere safe, and get the legionaries back into fighting order before they try to join up with the slaves.”

Aella looked over her shoulder back towards the town, where the screams of those auxillia too slow or injured to escape echoed up the hill. “I don't think the slaves will let them.”

The beating of wings made Theod jerk his head skywards to see Tapfer dropping into the courtyard, shield discarded and Cirran scorpion in his talons. The tercel looked at Aella, then Theod, then the Legate, noting their grim faces. “Gods above, is he-… Do you think we can talk them into surrendering?”

Theod looked back through the doorway. The slaves were advancing up the hill in a great mob, shouting and waving weapons. On the flanks were griffons that were definitely not slaves. Chain armour and swords shone blood red in the setting sun, and the strength of their frames was apparent compared to the emaciated and sinewy slaves.

“They have a damned warband with them.” Theod said, frantically looking around the courtyard. They were walled in on all sides by quarters for servants and guards, all showing signs of fighting. “We can't make a run for it, even if we get clear we will be decimated for fleeing.” He thought aloud.

“This is just like when Tacitus was trapped in the Nimban arena, during the first civil war.” Aella mused.

“Excellent.” Theod said “How did Tacitus get out of the senate?”

Aella fell silent, her expression grim.

“He died.” Gretus rumbled.

Theod peered over the heads of the Auxillia, inspecting the courtyard more closely. On the sides and the entrance wall all the doors and windows were open, simple barricades tossed aside and spattered with blood. They were simply too open to be defended.

Aella pointed up towards the area opposite the main entrance. The walls were more decorated, and the windows, shuttered and barred, had resisted the slaves. Shattered doorframes had not. “We might be able to hold that place, put the Auxillia inside and on the balconies.”

Theod nodded and stood tall. “Auxillia!” He shouted, getting the attention of the frightened griffons. “Our enemy is stronger than we expected, and we are cut off from our instructors. But we are better armed and better trained than any mob of rebels. We will defend the far side of the courtyard, first and second floor! Follow your centurions and stand firm! We are getting out of this yet!”

The mob began to resolve itself again, the faces of the griffons telling Theod that they were glad to at least have some direction. Tapfer led his and Theod’s centuries up the grand staircase and into the ruined quarters of the villa’s owner, judging by the finery of the decoration, while Theod carried the injured Legate as carefully as he could. The first room was a large dining room that filled most of the second floor, the tables and lounges tossed about and torn by the fighting that had taken place. In the corner there was a staircase that led down into the first floor where Aella and Gretus were turning a sizeable library into a series of chest-high barricades.

Theod ducked into the second room of the top floor, a bedroom with lounges, wardrobes and a large bed ruined with blood and covered in strips of hide. An old stallion, dead and flayed from the neck down was nailed to the headboard, the contortion of his face showing the agony of his demise.

Theod gingerly laid Pruina down on an unsullied corner of the bed and rummaged through a nearby wardrobe, hoping to find something to clean the Legate up with at least.

“I thought as much.” Pruina murmured, making Theod nearly jump out of his skin. The tercel turned and sat beside the pegasus who was blearily looking up at the flayed stallion.

“The old bastard was far too stubborn to cut and run.” Pruina said with some effort. “What is the situation?”

“We are trapped Legatus.” Theod reported, a note of desperation creeping into his voice. “Barley has abandoned us, the slaves have a warband with them and our position is not going to be defensible for very long.”

Pruina lifted his head, gritting his teeth in pain. “Barley wouldn't cut and run. He knows the penalty. He will be back as soon as he is able.” The pegasus looked to Theod with bloodshot eyes. “You must hold here as long as you can. That is my order.”

The Revolt pt 2

The very last rays of light were fading when the slaves began to sing. They had been marshalling for a while, gathering up burning torches and scavenged weapons in preparation for the attack. The morale of the Auxillia was holding, discipline or fear of the slaves keeping the centuries together. But it wouldn't be long until the slaves attacked. If the Auxillia panicked, their defence would fail, and they would all die in agony.

Theod walked along the second floor balconies, peering through windows as he went. The warband griffons had spread out amongst the slaves, trying to work them up to the task of attacking the Auxillia. One small band remained together, perched in treetops between the town and the Villa. There were so many slaves. Perhaps as many as six or seven hundred. Enough for a village in their own right.

Tapfer was standing in a richly decorated bedroom turned charnel house at the corner of the building, staring out the window and fiddling nervously with his monstrous Cirran ballista. He looked away as Theod approached, nodding in acknowledgement before turning back to the window.

“I don't like it.” Tapfer said, shifting back and forth on his paws restlessly.

Theod frowned. “Waiting for it?”

“No, no, not that” Tapfer said. “It's just… can't we ask them to surrender? Do we have to just come here to kill them?”

Theod was taken aback. “They rebelled, we have to. We were ordered too.”

“Can you blame them?” Tapfer said, rounding on Theod. “Made to work every day, treated like livestock, no choice in how they live their lives!”

Theod took a step back, concern crossing his features. “Tapfer…”

Tapfers expression softened, casting his gaze to the gore-soaked rug on the floor. “You’re a noble, it must just seem natural to you to have griffons bowing and scraping and doing anything you ask. But I know what it's like to be on the other side of the lash.”

“So those scars, on your back…” Theod said softly.

“All from my owner. I tried to pull his attention away from the others, got most of their punishments for them. I belonged to Aellas family, as did my parents, and their parents before them. Can't be a proper Cirran family without a few slaves to do your dirty work.” He spat.

“I would look out of my window at night and wonder what it was to be free, to have some choice in how my life went. There were times when I wanted to risk everything just for a taste.” Tapfer sighed, sitting back on his haunches. “When Pruina came around looking for volunteers, I was mucking out gutters near where he was speaking. All those highborn, signing up to make their families proud. He said that they would take anyone who came to them-

“I hopped down from the roof, walked over and no sooner than I signed my name to the scribes roll then Gervas showed up. Started screaming in my face, demanding to know why I had left my task unfinished. Promised me the thrashing of a lifetime. Then Pruina just… stepped in front of me. Said that I had given myself to Cirra, even if I was not my own to give, and as such my slavery was null and void.” Tapfer laughed sadly. “The look on his face… gods he was furious. Didn't want to spoil his daughters chances in the legion by making a scene of it though, even if he could have probably taken me back.”

Theod was quiet for a while, looking out the window with Tapfer. “Was it worth it? Drawing your masters ire?”

Tapfer gave a hollow laugh and nodded. “Any pain I took saved another. It was worth it. I can't help but feel that I abandoned them though… the ones I left behind. I just left them to him.”

Theod hesitated, then placed a talon on Tapfers shoulder, not knowing what to say.

“We should get back to the others. Not long now.” Tapfer said, shouldering his oversized crossbow and walking back to the Auxillia’s defences, Theod following close behind.

Behind the barricade the griffons sat in near-silence, some sleeping fitfully or reading things scavenged from the library below. Theod could tell they were nervous, but they were at least trying to hide it from each other.

Leaving Tapfer to inspect his Century, Theod went down the stairs to the former library. Aella sat atop a bookshelf, her armour stripped off to free her injured arm. The shoulder was badly swollen, and her arm hung in a sling that Gretus had devised. Seeing Theod’s questioning look she spoke up. “Gretus is tending to the Legate, making sure he is comfortable.”

“I meant to ask about your arm.” Theod said.

Aella shrugged, and winced at the pain in her broken shoulder. “It will heal quickly. The God’s Gift has always been strong in me.”

Theod nodded, averting his gaze from the injury. His father had the Gift strongly as well, and never seemed to be hurt for more than a few days. He had told the legend after he was wounded in a duel. The god of creation had made griffons last, and liked them most of all, for they fought and quarreled constantly with even their closest kin. But he had despaired when he saw his favourites dying out from their love of war. Resolving to fix this, he gave them a spark of his divine vitality. Because of this Griffons rarely fell ill, and injuries that would kill or cripple a lesser race being would heal in time. In some it made them stronger too, but in a tercel like Eboric it was hard to tell whether that was the Gift or his sheer bulk.

The Auxillia sat to attention one by one, then Theod noticed it too. The chanting had risen to fever pitch, and warhorns were blaring.

“Good luck, Theod.” Aella said, taking up her spear in her good talon.

Theod nodded in reply, mouth suddenly dry. He rushed upstairs, meeting Gretus coming the other way with the Legate draped over his broad shoulders. He was right to bring him, it was unlikely the bedroom would stay clear for long, and the wounded Cirran would die there.
Upstairs, Tapfer was urging the Auxillia into ready positions. He barged his way to the fore, and peered out over the tops of the barricade. The armoured griffons were standing atop the roof of the Villa, looking down into the courtyard.

They motioned to the slaves outside, urging them in, and so they came. The slaves rushed the Villa in an unruly mob. Barricades left over from the first assault were bowled over as the sickly looking griffons swarmed into the courtyard from windows and doors every side of the building.

Shouts arose from the ground floor as the first slaves tried to force their way into the building. Theod could hear barricades creaking and protesting beneath the yells of desperation and pain from the first wounded. On the second floor the slaves were more cautious, emerging from the apartments and rooms that backed onto the balcony and staying out of arm's reach of the Auxillia. Their faces showed a fiendish glee that made Theod’s stomach turn.

A few of the armoured griffons dropped down to the balcony, opening bags strapped to their bodies and removing clay jars. They came close to the Auxillia’s fortifications, touching burning matches or torches to these jars while staying safely out of reach. Then the closest warrior let fly.

The pot flew through the window past Theods head and shattered against the far wall, lamp oil instantly catching ablaze. They intended to burn the Auxillia. More pots were tossed into the room, breaking on the shields of Auxillia or finding their mark in furniture and barricades. The air began to fill with cloying smoke and the armoured warriors stood back with the slaves, laughing and taunting the Auxillia.

“Aella! Tapfer!” Theod shouted. “Push out into the courtyard, now!”

Not waiting for a response, Theod pushed between the coughing, spluttering griffons under his command and wrenched the barricaded door open. The slave on the other side showed his shock for the moment before Theod struck him full in the face with his Gladius. The other slaves recoiled, forgetting their bravado for a moment. The armoured warriors amongst them did not.

The first to reach Theod bellowed, froth clinging to his beak as he swung a sword almost as tall as himself. Theod raised his sword to parry, but the force of the blow knocked him off balance. He moved with the impact to stay on his feet, barging into another warrior who tried to drive an iron spike into his throat.

Tapfer was the next out, leveling his grotesque crossbow at the brute with the greatsword. He fired, the bolt caving in the warriors breastplate and causing him to tumble from the balcony. He stepped towards Theod and swung his weapon as a club, belting the warrior trying to stab Theod across his helmeted head.

The Auxillia followed Tapfer out, pouring from the burning building and putting the slaves to flight or the sword. The armoured warriors withdrew back to the rooftops, stalking along the tiles and glaring daggers from helmets fashioned into the snarling maws of beasts and monsters.

Down in the courtyard Aella and Gretus’ centuries had pushed through to the centre, trying to get away from the burning section of the Villa. Gretus stood over the form of the Legate in the heart of the mass to prevent him from being trampled, feet planted and unmoving. Aella was stuck in the crush on the gateward side, spear almost useless in the claustrophobic conditions.

The slaves harried the Auxillia from all sides, shrieking and attacking wildly with spears, hammers and knives. The Auxillia were stronger, armoured, and their discipline was holding despite the lack of formation. But they could not step out of line without being dragged down and butchered by the mobs of slaves. Time would see them worn away to nothing.

Theod glanced down at the dead warrior at his feet, blood leaking from his beak. In a bag tied to his chest were a half-dozen of the oil pots and a pair of greasy matches.

“Tapfer, take the Centuries down to the main gate, cut off escape from there” Theod ordered.

Tapfer paused in the middle of winding his crossbow. “The slaves will just go through the other sides of the Villa, and we’ll be surrounded again.”

“I know. I’m counting on it actually.” Theod replied, cutting the bag from its fastenings. “Go, before the actual warriors think to counter us.”

Tapfer nodded and motioned to the Auxillia, directing them towards the staircases that sat where each wing of the building met the entranceway. The griffons filed off quickly, the few slaves left on the upper floor fleeing before them.

Alone on the top floor, Theod took the matches to the burning curtains, setting the greasy cord smouldering and spitting. He held them in his beak, doing his best to ignore the taste of rancid tallow. The armoured warriors noticed his isolation and took their opportunity, dropping back down onto the balcony and advancing on Theod.

Theod broke left and sprinted towards the first warrior, counting on speed to get his first hit in. He collided with the tercel, bashing him across his helmeted face with the edge of his gladius. As the warrior recoiled, head tipping back, Theod rammed the sword up under his chin and dropped him in a spasming heap on the floor. Another warrior was on Theod in a moment, rushing at him and wailing in fury at the death of his comrade.

Theod felt a hard blow to his stomach before he could react, shattered scales pinging off his armour. Winded, the next blow crashed down on his helmet, dazing him and forcing him to his haunches. Through his spinning vision, Theod spotted the bag of oil pots carried by this warrior, its fastening open.

He took one of the matches from his beak and jabbed it into the bag, then rose and grabbed the warrior around his armpits. Theod grunted with effort and heaved, and the warrior tipped to his side towards one of the open windows. As the tercel fell, talons outstretched to try and grab the window frame, Theod punched the bag of pots.

The warrior erupted into flame, screaming and clawing at his armour as oil from the now shattered pots soaked him. Theod gave him one last shove into the building where his burning plumage immediately set light to the wooden floor.

Theod could not stop to catch his breath. He ran down the balcony, lighting and tossing jars through windows until he reached the entrance wing. Smoke seeped through the tiled roof and out of windows behind him as the flames took hold, and Theod could see the slaves shying away from the burning building.

Down in the courtyard Tapfer had led his Auxillia through the mob of slaves to cover the entranceway in a pincer movement from both staircases. Some slaves were breaking off from the far side of the courtyard at the urging of the armoured warriors, moving through the building to encircle Tapfers troops from the other side.

Theod glanced to his sides. A few armoured warriors on each, advancing warilly after seeing the fate of their predecessors. Theod mounted the railing and leaped out over the courtyard, beating his wings to let him cross the gap and land on the other side. He grabbed the last few pots and lit them, tossing one into the open door before him.

As Theod turned to see to the others, an armoured warrior swooped down from the sky above the courtyard at reckless speed. They collided, tumbled through the door and into a dining hall that filled the second floor of this wing.

The warrior clawed wildly at Theods face, talons squealing as they raked his helmet. Theod grabbed him by the wrists and kicked him off.

Theod pulled himself to his feet, grabbing his remaining jar and searching frantically for his sword. The armoured warrior also rose, slowly, growling like an animal. His helmet was of a different make to the others, spiked and cruel where the others wore bestail fanged things.

Theod hurled his last pot at the warrior, who swatted it aside with his free talon, the vessel shattering and igniting on the wall behind him.

“Traitor.” the armoured warrior spat, his voice strangely familiar. “Slave of our enemies and murderer of our kin. You shall not see Valhalla!”

The warrior leaped at Theod, swinging his longsword in killer arcs. With no sword of his own Theod was forced back, trying to dodge the blows as they came. More than a few found their mark and scales broke off Theods armour to fall like golden hail.

No way to win this fight. Theod turned and ran, leaping out of a window. He heard the warriors howl of delight at having his quarry flee as he hit the ground and ran, hoping to make it to the entranceway.

Theod glanced over his shoulder as he rounded the corner. The tercel was swooping down and almost upon him, sword held out to spit his prey. Theod threw himself to the ground to avoid the point and was battered as the tercels outstretched wing struck his helmet, sending it clattering across the ground. The warrior landed roughly, kicking up a puff of dust. He snarled and rounded on Theod, sword raised to deliver a killing blow. Theod closed his eyes.

But the blow did not come.

Slowly opening them again, Theod saw the warrior stood frozen, hesitating. His sword hand was shaking, and his breathing was suddenly ragged. Without a word the warrior turned and took to the air, disappearing into the cloud of smoke that enveloped the Villa.

Theod pulled himself to his feet and looked around. Three of the wings of the Villa were burning furiously now. The armoured tercels and slaves that were outside the structure had scattered to the treetops and huts that surrounded the building, seemingly unsure what to do.

Theod limped towards the entrance, only now noticing the injuries his pursuer had inflicted upon him. The few Auxillia that stood in the doorway recognised Theod and waved him over, voices lost in the din of the ongoing battle in the courtyard. Tapfer stepped out of the mob and met Theod, looking him over.

“Lost your helmet.” Tapfer said. “And your sword. Barley is going to be furious.”

Theod laughed, perhaps a little too hard. The stress of battle was taking its toll on him.

“I’ll find you a spare.” Tapfer said. He motioned to the burning Villa, the acrid clouds of smoke rising from three of the four sides filling the courtyard and blotting out the sky. “...Why this?”

Theod pulled Tapfer aside, peering over the ranks of the Auxillia.

The slaves and a mob of luckless armoured warriors in the courtyard were well and truly trapped. Flames leaping from windows and clinging to the balconies drove them towards the centre of the courtyard. The only wing not turned into an inferno was the entranceway, and that the Auxillia had pushed into and held. Theod could see Aella and Gretus standing in the heart of their units, having linked up with Tapfer’s troops.

“Most of them are trapped in here, cant fly out with the smoke and fires. the rest are out there.” Theod said, motioning to where the warriors stuck outside the villa had begun to rally into a mob once again. “They will try to break their friends out. We have to hold them or we won't have a chance against these numbers.”

Tapfer sighed and drew his Gladius, passing it to Theod. “Use this, I’ll stick with the crossbow.”

Theod nodded, taking the sword and swinging it experimentally. “Let Aella and Gretus know what is happening. I will help hold the gateway.”

Tapfer acknowledged the instruction with a dip of his head and disappeared into the mass of armoured Auxilla as Theod returned to the gateway. The fighting would be at its worst here, in the open arch, and so that was where he was needed most. The rest of the wing could be held by the Auxillia sheltering within.

Standing shoulder to shoulder with the hens and tercels of the Auxillia, Theod watched the mob of slaves and warriors charge up the hill towards them and braced himself.

Their charge lacked impact thanks to the slope, but the slaves piled up against the Auxillia’s shield all the same, and Theod had to attack to keep himself from being dogpiled. As the first blows were struck the fighting began again in earnest.

Different to the rapid duels he had fought before, Theod had an opportunity to take in what was happening in the crush of the melee. The sickly sweet stink of blood that reminded him far too readily of ripe meat, the screams of the slaves who died on his sword. Their desperate eyes pleaded mercy from already fatal wounds and their grasping claws sought anything to hold as comfort in their final moments. A few bawled openly on the ground, clutching their entrails and screaming for their mothers as they were trampled by heedless comrades.

His heart was racing and each beat was like thunder to the ache that built behind his eyes. The way his sword shook as it passed through skin and sinew and flesh made him sick. The stones beneath his feet became slippery with spilled blood and piss from terrified griffons.

Theod could scarcely tell how long he fought for, muscles aching and protesting, lungs burning with smoke and fatigue. The Auxillia around him began to fall one by one, exhaustion letting the slaves ram knives and spears home in their bodies. More stepped forwards to replace them, but Theod remained. He felt his body finally begin to fail him, vision swimming as he looked up to the clear sky on the other side of the archway.

Not clear.

A dozen trumpets sounded, clear notes cutting through the din of battle, and a dozen flights of armoured pegasi descended from on high. A signal rose from the armoured warriors in response, a horn blow signalling the retreat. The ones outside threw off their armour and took to the sky, scattering in all directions as fast as their wings could take them with breakaway groups of pegasi giving chase.

The slaves inside and out wailed in despair, realising that they were being abandoned. A few tried to flee, but were not strong enough to keep up with the stronger tercels, and were mercilessly cut down. The rest threw down their weapons, or died desperately trying to clamber over the Auxillia or pegasus legionaries that landed to surround the Villa.

As the slaves were herded away by the new arrivals, Theod got a closer look at them. They were old, weathered stallions and mares, in old but obviously well cared for armour. Veterans drawn from the surrounding countryside.

Theod fell back onto his haunches as the Auxillia began to cheer, hefting exhausted arms skywards to give thanks for their deliverance.

A crested helm, sticking out over the top of the mob moved purposefully in the direction of the gateway. Centurion Barley, scowling at the dead and dying griffons that were piled four deep in the archway. He mounted the pile and looked down at Theod, panting and exhausted at the fore of the Auxillia.

The stallion’s sour expression changed as he looked the tercel up and down. Eyes noting the gouges in his scale coat, the blood splattered across his features. The panting, trembling weakness that comes from one's first taste of combat, where death is but a single mistake away.

Barley nodded, just slightly, and marched on.

Trying Times

Vigild staggered as he landed in amongst the trees. His breath would not come, his eyes swam with black spots. The young warlord pulled off his helmet and squirmed out of his armour, yet the iron bands around his chest did not relent.

He fell back on his haunches sucking in air but feeling no relief. Images flashed through his mind. His brothers face imposed upon all of them.

His brother in the armour of the enemy.

It could not be. It simply could not. Theod was a hostage in far away Stratopolis. Theod would never betray his people to fight for the Cirrans. The Cirrans would never allow hostages to risk themselves like that.

But it was him. He knew no other griffon like he knew his brother, and there was no mistaking it.

Vigild groaned between gritted teeth, tears in his eyes as he dug his talons into his head. His brother was still back there in amongst the battle, a battle that his warband was certain to win.

He stood and turned back towards the battle. If he was fast enough he might be able to find Theod again in the crush, get him out of the slaughterhouse the Villa was to become again. Perhaps convince the others to spare his brother, even though Vigild had been the most strident to kill all the traitors as the Cirrans approached earlier that day.

The warlord spread his wings, then froze, his blood running cold once again.

Great formations of Cirrans filled the sky over his head, swooping down towards the battle. The warriors outside the Villa cut and ran as the brightly-coloured pegasi split into groups to hunt and kill the griffons.

Vigild let out an involuntary cry of despair. The slaves were dying. All of them. Their screams echoed up the valley clear as if they were standing right before him. Some of the warband griffons were strong enough to outrun the pegasi, leaving their comrades to die fighting in feeble last stands.

The warlord sank to the ground once again. His head was swimming as he tried to grasp what was happening. He put his talons to his face, digging the points into the soft flesh beneath his eyes and suppressing the wail in his heart down to a keening whine.

Vigilds sword, the symbol of his loyalty to his tribe, lay in the dust before him. He reached out to grab it, but hesitated.

He had failed. Failed the living god. Failed his warband. Failed the slaves he had come to liberate.

He did not deserve that blade. Not to wield it in battle at least.

Vigild picked it up gingerly and held the edge to his throat. It was cold against his skin, its razored edge drawing warmth as easily as it would draw blood.

“And what do you think you are going to do with that?” The Herald growled, arriving seemingly from nowhere as was his habit.

“I- I failed. I fled battle in the face of the enemy.” Vigild forced out, failing to put a false conviction into his voice. “I do not deserve-”

“Deserve?!” The Herald hissed, his voice filled with venom. “You dare speak to me of what you deserve? You belong to the living god. Your life is not yours to take!”

Vigild stood stunned by the sudden fury in the Heralds voice, talons shaking on the grip of his sword. “I—”

“Silence!” The Herald spat, making Vigild shrink away in fright. “Put that damned sword away. You will be punished for your actions, but that is for the Living God to decide himself.”

Vigild let his sword arm drop, the blade falling into the dust once again. He bowed his head and fell back on his haunches, hoping to hide the tears in his eyes.

“Why did you run?” The Herald demanded, contempt dripping from his voice. “Do not dare lie to me.”

“My brother was amongst them.” Vigild mumbled. “I fought him, I nearly killed him. If he hadn't lost his helmet, I would have killed my own brother.”

“Your brother, the hostage of Cirra?” The Herald asked.

Vigild nodded.

The Herald fell silent long enough that Vigild looked up to check if he was still there. The ink-black tercel had a dagger in his talons, toying with it as he thought.

“Most interesting.” He purred, reversing the knife and sheathing it again. “We must rally the survivors and make haste for the river. If we are lucky we can escape while the Cirrans butcher the slow ones.”

The Herald began to move off, but turned to glare at Vigild once more. “Come. You are necessary.” He ordered.

Vigild looked down at his sword again. He could not leave it, even dishonoured as he was. The tercel retrieved the sword and wiped the dust from its blade. He would have to wait to see if he could redeem himself. The small hope did not stop the ache in his heart.

Another slave was dragged to the block, weeping and struggling against the talons of the Auxillia that held him. Verstohlen wielded the axe. At first it had cut cleanly, but after the first two dozen it had blunted, and now he had to finish the job with his knife. This slave did not have the mercy of unconsciousness from the shock.

It took six blows to shatter the bones of the slaves wings, and a moments work with the dagger to cut them loose. The severed limbs were tossed onto the growing pile beside the tercel and the slave was dragged towards the growing field of crosses that lined the road into Viridis for the final, torturous part of his punishment. Not even the dead were spared crucifixion.

Theod stood and watched. It was his duty as an officer to oversee the punishments. The clear relish with which Verstohlen went about the grisly task made Theod feel sick to his stomach.

To sever the wings of a griffon or pegasus was among the worst things that could be done to an enemy. To deny them the sky, to cripple them for life, and if some ideas were true deny them their way to the afterlife. Few griffons let themselves live long enough for their wings to fail them.

Barley approached from behind Theod and sat beside him, watching. The stallion had taken charge after his timely arrival, reorganising the Auxillia and setting his veterans to work recovering what remained of the towns deceased for burial. Despite the extra troops, none had slept that night. Keeping the slaves under control required them all, and the punishment required the light of dawn.

“Battle isn't the hard part.” Barley said softly. “Fighting and killing, thats fucking easy. They try to kill you, you stab them back... It's what comes after that tests a soldier.”

Theod frowned, regarding the Centurion with sleep-bleary eyes. Was that an admission?

Barley pretended to not notice Theods unspoken question. “The Legate wants to speak with you. I’ll see to it from here.”

The tercel nodded and moved off, grateful to turn his back on the scene at the block. He found the Legate down where the town met the orchards around the Villa. It was peaceful there by comparison.

Pruina sat before the pile of stones that server to honour the fallen Auxillia. The names of the eighty-six fallen legionaries etched into it in Cirran characters were still visible through the clinging pyre-ash that piled all around the marker. The Legate did not notice Theod, so the tercel stood and watched him a moment.

His head injury had left him frazzled, but just being able to stand after a blow like that was impressive enough. The old stallion ran a hoof over a copper banner-top, eyes downcast and mournful. It depicted a talon clutching at a horseshoe, and carefully picked out in Cirran script upon its surface were the words “First Auxillia Legion”.

Pruina sighed and leaned it against the pyre-stone, the words lost and buried in the ashes.

Theod coughed into his talon to alert the Legate to his presence. Pruina looked around, confused for a moment before his eyes focussed on Theod.

The stallion smiled at him weakly. “Ah, just who I was looking for.”

Pruina pulled himself to his hooves and turned his back on the pyre-stone. “I have already told the others, just you left. I’ll let you relay this to the Auxillia amongst yourselves. We have most certainly missed the parade now, too far to go and too little time to do it. Not to mention the ruination of so much of our equipment…” The stallion trailed off, eyes becoming unfocused.

Pruina shook his head and cringed at the pain it caused his injured skull. “Gods- I keep forgetting to not do that... I have petitioned the Emperor to have you parade for him and the senate directly a few weeks hence. A reward for faithful service. In the meantime, we will rest a few miles from here, at a Bath complex owned by an old comrade of mine. Not easy to persuade him to let griffons into his exclusive spa, but he owed me more than a few favours.”

The Legate sat down unsteadily, pre-empting the clear weakness in his hindlegs. “You must have questions.”

“The warriors who set off the rebellion-” Theod began.

Pruina shook his head and winced. “None allowed themselves to be captured. No clues as to where they are from as of yet, not even makers marks on their armour. The slaves know nothing as well.”

Theod nodded. Though he was now a servant of Cirra, he had not lost the affection of his kind. To see a tribe punished on top of the deaths of the slaves, and the warriors, seemed too much for justice.

“I heard of how you took charge of your fellows when I was indisposed. That the Auxillia was not simply routed is a great achievement.” Pruina said with a weak smile.

“I have heard how Gretus saw to my protection during the fighting, but if not for you we would all be dead. I owe you a personal debt Theod. I shall see it repaid. Now go, get some rest. We will set off tomorrow.” Pruina said firmly.

Theod saluted and walked off down the hill towards the encampment set up in the shadow of the orchards between town and Villa. Only now did he feel the effects of a day and nights labours. He felt numb. Exhausted. The realities of what had happened were lost on his sleepless mind, save for flashes of memory that made his coat bristle with momentary fright.

The tercels stride became a stagger, and then a stumble as he neared the officers tent. He shed his ruined scale coat glad to be free of the weight. The stink of sweat and dried blood hit him in a wave, snapping him back to reality for a moment.

He looked himself over for unnoticed injuries, but there was no way to tell his blood from that of slaves. The ache of his exhausted body masked the pain of cuts and bruises.

Theod shuffled over to one of the cots set aside for Pruinas chosen few and slumped over it. He closed his eyes and tried to let sleep take him. It did not come.

The flashes of memory returned to plague him. The feeling of his sword meeting flesh, blows striking his armour. Each glimpse of a screaming face jerked him from the veil of sleep, his exhausted body reacting to a threat long since passed. He gritted his teeth and buried his filthy face in his bunk, hoping that he could weep and let the terror leave him, but tears would not come either.

It would be days before he could sleep easilly again.

Craven

It was hot. So very hot.

Vigild’s beak was dry. He had no canteen, and under the punishing summer sun of Cirra no distance could be marched without thirst digging its claws into the throat. Even the grass was turning dry and brittle across the vast plains of the Cirran heartland. A dull ache throbbed behind the tercels eyes, promising true misery if they did not stop to dig for water soon.

They were all running now, which made Vigilds own flight more bearable. He still cringed at the memory of it. As if some serpent had settled in his breast to remind him of the revolt as it squeezed his heart.

Vigild spared a glance back over his shoulder at the remainder of the warband. They had lost many, and those who remained seemed tired and pained as Vigild was. Or perhaps it was shame that made them hang their heads against the burning Cirran sun.

Grigori whistled through his beak a hundred paces ahead, waving the warband frantically towards a small grove of trees that sat beside the road.

The whole warband broke into a stumbling run, kicking up dust and tufts of dried grass as they hurried to the cover. Vigild joined Grigori in standing at the edge, in the mix of sun and shade that best served to hide an observer.

Overhead another mob of pegasi flew east. Some wore armour, others civilian clothes or nothing at all. Thankfully they had not spotted the griffons or the cloud they had kicked up in their sudden rush, and continued onwards towards whatever Legion camp they sought.

Grigori shook his head. “Eight today. More than yesterday and it's only just gone noon.”

Vigild did not answer, following the flight of the pegasi until they were lost in the glare of the sun. He wished that the warband could take to the skies and be out of Cirra faster, but if they tried they would be found immediately. Now that war was brewing, that meant death would be certain.

Grigori harrumphed and moved into the shade of the grove, directing a few of the tercels to start digging in the ground there for water. Vigild sat among the other tercels, resting as the worst of the day wore through.

“I saw you, you know.” A voice said over Vigilds shoulder.

The young warlord turned to face the voice. The Upstart stood at his full height, an inch or two greater than Vigild. He had shed his bandages, and though the crack in his beak was still a raw red it had come good.

“I saw you run from the battle. Before the Cirrans arrived. While the fighting was still good.” The Upstart continued.

The other warband griffons murmured amongst themselves. It was a serious accusation, and a challenge.

Vigild snarled and reared up on his hindlegs, the Upstart mirroring the motion. “You dare speak to me this way Upsta-”

The Upstart struck him across the face with a talon, raking the flesh of Vigilds cheek with his claws. Vigild held a talon up to the wound, stunned momentarily.

“My name is Adal!” the tercel bellowed. “-and I will not be slave to you any longer!”

Vigild threw himself at the Upstart in a blind fury, and the two rolled across the dusty ground clawing, biting and tearing at eachother as tercels scattered to get out of their way. Feathers and chunks of fur were left in the wake of the duo as they savaged eachother like beasts.

A talon grabbed Vigild roughly by the neck and hauled him off Adal, a tuft of plumage still in his beak.

“Enough!” barked the Herald, pitching Vigild back across the ground.

Vigild was on his feet again in a moment. His chest was heaving and his blood ran like molten iron in his veins. Not even the withering glare of the Herald could cow him now. The Upstart, Adal had no right to insult the honour of his betters in that way.

Adal pulled himself to his paws. He had come off worse this time as he had in the last. But his cracked beak was still grimy with Vigilds blood. He growled at Vigild, low and animal, his hackles raised.

The Herald stepped between them, raising his talons in a placating gesture. “Be at ease. Do not waste your wroth against your own people while a greater war looms.”

The other warriors clustered around more closely now that the brawl did not threaten them. Aurel and Grigori stood together in silent judgement.

They have no right to judge me. Vigild thought. The pampered nobles of the Holy Mountain got his bile up almost as much as the Upstart. They had not suffered the indignities that their actions caused to their kin further west. They did not know the humiliation, the pain of Cirra breathing down their neck. It was rumoured that the great noble houses even took Cirran gold.

“Is it true? Did he run?” Grigori asked, his tone like ice.

The Herald turned to Vigild, looking him up and down. Fresh blood and dust in his coat mingled with the soot and grime of the battle at Viridis. “We all ran.” He said finally.

“You know what he means.” Aurel snapped. “Did he run during the battle? Is Adal telling the truth?”

The Herald was silent, seemingly considering his options. It was the first time Vigild had seen him hesitate. “He did.” The Herald said. “But it was not cowardice that sent him from the field. I am sure of that. Instead it was the bond that unites griffonkind that pulled him.”

Grigori fumed, clearly unhappy with that answer. “He quit the field and yet we still allow him amongst us? I have known tercels exiled for less.” He spat.

The Herald glared at Grigori now. “The Living God will decide his punishment. Not you. Not I. But he will be punished for this. You have my word.”

“Must we waste Magnus’ time with this? The great war looms and all efforts must be turned against Cirra.” Aurel said.

“The Living god does not lead in this war. Doubtless he has given that honour to the greatest of his warlords. He does not join in any war, but sees to the spirit and conviction of his armies.” The Herald replied. “It is his purpose to see to things such as this, and to judge those who stand at the gates of Valhalla.”

Aurel shook his head and walked away. The entertainment now concluded, the warriors returned to their rest or the muddy puddle at the bottom of the hole they had dug.

Vigilds surviving warriors, those who he had gathered in Darkwood, now stood by the Upstart. He was alone.

Hope

Theod could not move.

He couldn't do anything, couldn't feel anything. But he could see.

Right in front of him, pressed up against his beak was a face. Verstohlen’s dead eyes stared back at him. Unblinking. Hollow.

Theod did not know how long he lay there, unable to move, unable to look away. He could feel the sun on his back, heating through his plumage and into his cold flesh beneath.

He wondered if he too was dead. Thoughts seem to pass through his mind like guttering candlelight. As he tried to grasp each one it slipped away, dim and intangible in the fog that filled his whole body. Perhaps his inglorious death had denied him Valhalla and he was cursed to feel his body rot, shot through with worms and tree roots until the time of ending.

He coughed, spitting up a thick gobbet of phlegm. It tasted curiously like wine, and in his wondering why, Theod remembered that corpses did not cough. Or breathe.

With tremendous effort the tercel rolled himself over, dislodging the body at his feet. The motion made his head swim and it took an age for his eyes to be able to focus on the clouds drifting serenely by above.

Slowly sensation began to return to Theods body. An ache filled his whole body, similar but much stronger than when the Manticore had stung him all those months ago. The scar itched madly, but he couldn't summon the strength to scratch at it.

Theod lifted his head slowly, squinting against the bright light. He was laid atop a pile of griffonic bodies in an irrigation ditch, some distance away from the fine buildings they had been celebrating in. The Auxillia filled the channel for a hundred paces, bodies tangled and plumage disorganised as they were tossed in. Quicklime had been tossed across the top of the pile to control the smell, but no crows had come to pick at the grisly feast yet.

The tercel cocked his head to the side. He thought he heard something. He waited a while and again a low groan drifted up from the pile a short way from him.

Theod dragged himself towards where he thought he heard the noise, another groan urging him on towards a white-coated body lying on its side atop the pile. He reached out and rolled it towards him, the body gasping at the surprise.

Aella looked past Theod, eyes unable to focus on him. The tercel placed a talon on her cheek and hushed her. “Its okay, its just me, Theod.” he said softly.

Aella swallowed and gagged. “We… we were-”

“Betrayed.” Theod said, wiping a string of drool from Aellas beak.

“But we are still… alive.” She slurred

“We are.” Theod replied, casting his eye down the heap of bodies. They had survived, somehow. There must be more. He peered over the edge of the ditch towards the villa complex. He could see pegasi milling about here and there, no doubt servants from the aborted feast or other guests.

“Stay here a while. Rest and keep quiet.” Theod whispered to Aella.

The tercel began to search. It was slow and laborious, his body still weak from the poison, but someone was sure to fall upon the grave soon in search of trophies or souvenirs. Time was short.

Theod made certain to check each and every griffon, shifting bodies to reach the bottom of the pile and make sure that none were missed. Gretus lay near the top of one pile, a short way away from Aella. The taciturn griffon had enough strength to drag himself from the pit, and attended to Aella with all the care he could. Tapfer was among the worst affected of the survivors. He was buried right at the base of the pile, nearly smothered by the weight. Barely able to keep himself breathing, the only sound he made were strained moans.

As the sun reached its zenith no more than thirty Auxillia lay recovering in the shade. A few Theod knew by name, but most were as strangers to him.

They were distraught, some weeping bitterly for lost friends or the mere closeness of their own death. Red-rimmed eyes looked to Theod as he returned and in them he saw a glimpse of their hurt.

They had come so far from their homes, all of them. Most already felt that they betrayed their people by serving Cirra in the Auxillia at all. Then came the battle at Viridis, where so many spilled the blood of their kin to cement their bond with the Emperor. Now at their triumph that same emperor had turned on them. Murdered them.

The peace and gentleness of their surroundings seemed to mock them. The sun was warm and soft, and the sweet smell of fresh cut hay mixed with the stench of voided bowels and vomit drifting up from the ditch. The twisted bodies, frozen in the spasms of their death were dreadful to look upon. So much promise lay there, dead and waiting for rot. The hope that perhaps the Empire could have become something greater in their union.

Theod pulled himself away from the morbid scene, focussing his attention on the living. Bleary, bloodshot eyes remained locked on Theod, wretched and filled with despair. But also expectation. With a shock, Theod realised that they still looked to him to lead.

Theod stood before the survivors, swallowed the stone that seemed to have formed in his throat, and spoke. “We have been betrayed.” He began “Pruina killed us. I saw it in his eyes.”

A few of the Auxilla had to look away at that, unable to contain a fresh upwelling of despair. Pruina had been like a second father to some in the past few months. Consoling, encouraging, offering the sympathy that the likes of Barley would never give. To have someone they looked up to like that be the instrument of such murder cut deeply.

“Most of us are hostages, taken from our families to secure their loyalty. Our betrayal can only mean that war is on the horizon between Cirra and all of the Griffon tribes.” Theod continued. “Nowhere in Cirra will be safe for us. We must go home.”

One of the Auxillia, Palus spoke up. “All of the legions will be on the move, we can't just head for the border and hope for the best!”

A ripple of disquiet passed through the survivors, and Theod raised his talons to calm them again. “We will have to keep to the fields and forests, walk rather than fly to avoid being seen. But we need a destination.”

Aella pulled herself to her feet, Gretus fussing in rapid-fire Cirran at her sudden movement. “My father is loyal to Cirra and they do not question him.” She said carefully, her speech still slurred. “If we go to the hall of my father he will keep us safe, keep us hidden until the war is over.”

The pale-coated Canii made up more than half of the survivors.They seemed happy with this idea, eager to return to the embrace of their people. But there was no doubt the griffons from more distant lands would long to be home as well. Theod wanted dearly to be at the hall of his father again.

Theod looked over the crowd. Again the tired, pained eyes of the survivors looked to him as leader. He had to make the decision, for good or ill. He ran a talon through his plumage. It was gritty with the quicklime that had been tossed across his back in the rushed mass burial.

“Aella is right in what she says. The Canii are our best chance for getting back to our homes.” Theod began. He did not mention the possibility their homes may not exist after the war. They needed hope now, even if it was false. “We have a long journey ahead. Cirras legions, our enemies, will be all around and we will have to avoid them the whole way. We are hurting. We are few in number. We are afraid. But we will survive this. I have lead you through the danger at Viridis. I will lead you through this.”

Theod looked to the Auxillia, searching for their response. Their eyes were still filled with hurt, still wracked with the after-effects of the poison. But there was hope there too. That would be enough.

A Cruel Fate

For eight days Vigild had been the outsider of the warband. Eight days of silent glares. Eight days of being the furthest from the fire. Eight days of clinging to the Herald in hopes of preserving his miserable existence.

The humiliations of their retreat compounded themselves over those days. The warband had been forced to sneak on their bellies past Cirran raiding parties who patrolled the border lands in expectation of fighting to come. They had lain silent in stinking bogs as columns of carts drawn by straining legionaries made their way over bridges and dikes. They had slipped unnoticed past a great legion camp that had sprung up at the mouth of one of the numberless valleys that led into the Griffon lands.

The Herald had led directly through most of this time. His unerring ability to detect danger had saved the warband more than a dozen times. Now they had finally made it to the embrace of their homeland.

They parted ways wordlessly not long after. The Herald separated from the pack of warriors with Vigild in tow. He could feel the glares and spat curses burning into his back as the warband farewelled the coward in their midst.

They walked a while in silence, crickets chirping in the long dry grass that had built up over the summer.

A short way from the warband the Herald spread his wings and took to the air, leading Vigild up and away. A wind built behind them as they climbed, stronger and stronger. As the Herald levelled off his flight the breeze became a gale. Vigild fought to steady himself against the sudden gust, wings straining as he tried to stay with the ink-black tercel.

It was not a natural wind, it was too narrow, too strong. A thin line of sky lanced forwards, parting the thin clouds into swirling ribbons as it carried the pair forwards. If Vigild strayed too far to one side or another the turbulence raked at his wingfeathers, threatening to strip them bare.

It was strangely silent in amongst the current. Hills, mountains and forests drifted by beneath them as they soared faster than any wing could take them. Here and there, the tiny lights of villages shone warm against the cool carpet of moonlight.

Vigild found himself wondering what those griffons far below were doing. Feasting to the memories of those long gone, spending a quiet moment with a lover, calming fledgelings frightened by dreams. He felt a pang of homesickness at that. He had been so sure when he stormed out of Eborics hall, left his father to wallow in his misery. Had he known the fate that his journey had, perhaps he would not have rushed away so recklessly.

They flew for a long time. How long Vigild could not say, but as the first hint of dawn crept into the horizon the wind stopped as swiftly as it had arrived.

The Herald searched the valley floor below them, and spotting a light in the midst of a clearing, banked into a spiralling dive.

The light grew larger as they descended, resolving itself into a camp of dozens of large tents. A tall fence of thick cloth had been hung around the edge to keep out drafts of cold air and a number of large fires studded the site like a constellation around a great central bonfire. They landed in one of the gaps between the tents and the Herald wordlessly lead the way towards the centre of the camp.

This was not a war camp, it was certain by the fine quality of the tents and the furnishings that were visible from their open flaps. Instead it had more of the air of a palatial retreat for a great hunt. Nevertheless, there were warriors here. Each went about in a suit of superbly crafted armour, blades and barbs extending from the articulated plates that mirrored the wind-scoured flanks of the greatest mountains. Every part of them was covered, save for the lower half of their beak and two narrow slits for their eyes. These warriors bowed as the Herald passed, making space for the tercel.

Vigild stuck close in the Heralds wake. This place felt different to the great hall in Angenholt. There were no raucous nobles here, nor warriors of the more savage stripe. The whole camp was as silent as a tomb.

They emerged into the centre of the camp, where a great many of the armoured warriors were assembled. All sat in silence, still as statues, and staring fixedly at the bonfire that sat at the heart of the clearing.

Silhouetted against that bonfire, his back to the griffons, was Magnus. The giant lounged across a pile of rugs and furs that served in place of his throne. The pair approached the Living God, Vigild feeling his skin prickling at being so uncomfortably close to the tercel. Mercifully they stopped just out of the Gods reach.

The Herald bowed low, almost putting his head to the dirt and Vigild copied the gesture. “My Lord.” The Herald purred.

Vigild could see only his talons as Magnus stood and faced the Herald. He sat heavily and spread his wings to catch some of the warmth of the fire on his back. “My Herald. Stand.” Magnus said.

As the Herald rose from his bow, Vigild reluctantly did the same. The sight of Magnus still took Vigilds breath away. The sheer presence of the Living God seemed to fill the whole world now that he was not bounded in by the hall of Angenholt.

He wanted to bask in that presence, burning as hot as the bonfire at his back. But Vigild could not meet his gaze. Every time he tried to raise his head, look upon the face of Magnus, shame wrapped its talons around his throat and forced him down again.

“What news of Viridis?” Magnus asked, lifting one huge talon to pick idly at his teeth.

“My Lord-” The Herald said, a hint of nervousness creeping into his usually even tone. “-we were defeated.”

Magnus cocked his head to the side. “Did I hear rightly? My fine young warriors defeated in such a simple task?”

“Unexpected happenings my Lord.” The Herald replied. “The slaves were freed and the town put to the torch. Many of the prey-beasts died at the hands of your liberated children, and a great many more fled in terror. We held place for two days to let them feast as they would need the meat to be strong enough for the journey. By all that I knew, we were more than a week’s travel from any Cirran legion. But at sunset of the second day, one appeared. One most unusual, my Lord.”

Magnus lowered himself onto his belly, resting his head upon his interlocked talons. “Go on.” He prompted.

The Herald now turned to Vigild. “Tell him what happened. The full truth and nothing else.” The tercel warned.

Vigild’s hide prickled as he tried to speak. He opened his beak and a strangled noise was all he could produce. The full attention of Magnus was almost unbearable.

“T-they attacked as soon as they arrived-” Vigild managed to say, stumbling over his words. His talons were shaking. “We had enough warning to set an ambush in one of the streets. While the slaves and our warriors were preparing, Aurel, Grigori and I went to see this army.”

Vigild stopped, struggling to find the words. He could feel the Living God’s irritation pressing down on him, and he had to avert his eyes once again to continue. “We saw five centuries. One of Cirrans, four of… griffons.”

Magnus frowned. “Griffons?” He asked, confused.

Vigild nodded. “Griffons in Cirran armour, marching in the Cirran style, with Cirran weapons and banners. Grigori wanted to talk to them, try and persuade them to join us. I wanted to kill them. They had come with weapons drawn into the town, and were serving the prey-beasts with no lash at their backs. We returned to our ambush-”

“Spare our Lord the tactical minutiae.” The Herald hissed. “Tell him what happened when you attacked the second time.”

Vigild swallowed hard. “They hid, we attacked. Burned their hiding place and let the slaves rush them. One broke from cover, killed my warriors and set light to the other parts of the building, trapping our attack inside. I went after him myself, chased him down. He lost his helmet and I…”

He trailed off. He almost could not bear to say it. The young tercel wiped at his face to try and banish the tears that were creeping into the corners of his eyes. “-I saw my brother. Theod. He was taken by the Cirrans as a hostage, and I found him fighting in their ranks.”

Magnus was silent for so long that Vigild chanced a look up at him, just to make sure he was still there. The Living God stroked his chin thoughtfully, brow furrowed.

“That… is unexpected.” the giant said finally. “Yens. Did any of my servants know of this?”

The Heralds feathers ruffled, as if irritated by what was presumably his name. “No, my Lord” He replied, stressing the honorific. “We had rumours that some of the tribes were sending warriors to Cirra, but not on this level. The prey-beasts never bothered to train the Canii.”

Magnus then did something that Vigild would not have predicted. He smiled. “They always have something new, some innovation that makes each war worth the while… but this. I would have never expected this. Trying to use my own sons against me…”

The giant stood and began to pace, a shiver of excitement passing through his frame. Vigild scrambled back to avoid being trodden on as he passed. “I shall have to face these warriors myself, see how Cirran discipline works for greater creatures than pegasi…”

The Herald rose to his feet as well. “I shall send for my agents. They will be easy to find if the Cirrans put them anywhere near the front.”

Magnus nodded, not bothering to look at his Herald. The glee that filled the Living God unsettled Vigild. It did not have the feel of any happiness Vigild knew. It was the joy of murder, the scent of a berserker.

The giant suddenly rounded on Vigild, all traces of joviality gone in an instant. “Now… for you.” He purred.

This time Vigild could not look away. He stood pinned like a shrike’s quarry, limbs trembling in terror as he met Magnus’ gaze.

The Living God reached out with a talon, placing the point of one claw as big as a dagger beneath Vigilds chin. “You ran.”

Magnus leaned down until his beak almost touched Vigilds. The young tercel could feel the warmth of his breath, hear the rustle of his plumage. He felt faint, but still he could not look away.

“You ran in the face of an enemy. A traitor to me and all my children.” Magnus said, his voice loud enough that Vigild could feel it in his chest. “The gates of Valhalla are closed to you, and your kin shall bear the shame of your weakness for as long as any remember your name.”

Vigild felt traitorous tears forming once again. He tried to speak, defend himself, but his voice had fled him.

Magnus sighed like a disappointed father, stroking Vigilds head with his talon. “But… I am not entirely without mercy. I shall offer you a chance. A chance to serve me.-

“Make no mistake, this is a punishment. Your name will be remembered by none, and your whole span shall be spent in direct service to me. You will have no love, no glory and no fame. Serve faithfully and die well as I command, and you shall see redemption and the gates of Valhalla. Will you serve?”

Vigild finally felt the spell of Magnus’ gaze fall from him, his body returning to control from that state of utter terror. He dropped upon his belly, face down in the dirt, and abased himself before the Living God.

Respite

The Auxillia walked. That was all they had done for so many days.

Slowly trudging eastwards, hiding in hedgerows and following goat tracks. Theod lead the way as best as he was able, but they were lost. They had their goal in reaching the griffon lands but where they would actually arrive was out of Theod’s control. Cirra was almost totally unknown to him and the even Canii amongst the survivors had little actual knowledge of the country.

It was not easy land to cross unnoticed. It was well cultivated, dotted with large farms and villages. The hedge-lined roads and groves of trees gave cover from the air at least.

The Auxillia were much weakened. Theod could see it in the shuffling feet, their hunched shoulders, their downcast eyes. Every days march was punishing for them after the effects of the poison. Theod could not deny, he felt it as well. A gnawing weakness that clawed at his bones and sapped the warmth from him when he tried to sleep at night.

Aella moved up beside him, bumping his shoulder with her wing to get his attention.

“We need to stop for the night.” She whispered, glancing back at the strung out line of griffons that trailed along the path.

Theod nodded silently, and pointed to a thicket of tall bushes a short way off. “There will do.” He said, too exhausted himself to search for a good place to rest.

The Auxillia shuffled on and into the cover of the thicket. It would keep the wind out at least, but the plentiful firewood lying about amongst the leaflitter was useless to them. It was too risky to make a fire and draw attention to themselves.

The griffons settled in as best they could, forming into small groups. Though they spoke no words Theod could see the kinship amongst them. The simple comfort of being with someone they trusted amongst the horror and pain of recent days. He longed for that comfort himself, but Theod could not let any weakness show. He had to be the rock on which all rested. If he weakened, if they lost their faith in him, they would all surely die.

“Theod.” Gretus grunted, making Theod jump.“Two have fallen ill. We need warmth and food tonight if they are to be able to move tomorrow,” the grey tercel said, ignoring Theods reaction.

Theod sighed and ran a talon through his plumage. “I will see to it. Go with Tapfer and set the watch for the night.”

Pushing his way out of the thicket Theod scanned the skies, spotting a smudge of smoke against the clear blue. He headed in that direction. There would be a charcoal burner, maybe a village. Something he could steal.

Crossing two hedgerows the tercel found himself in the midst of a forest of blankets and clothes. The grass underfoot was neatly trimmed and smoothed flat and cords tied to stout posts ran in ordered lines from one side of the field to the other. Each of these lines was loaded down with laundry drying in the warm afternoon air.

Theod smiled. A few missing blankets would surely not be noticed for a while.

A shadow fell across the sheet to the tercels left, and he froze. He heard a soft voice singing in Cirran. The sound of hooves pressing down on green grass. A mare. The tercel began to back away slowly, resolve suddenly failing.

The shadow stood upon its hindlegs, reaching up. Before Theod could react the mare pulled out the peg that held the blanket, leaving the griffon exposed. She spat out the peg as she dropped to the ground again and her eyes fell upon Theod. They widened, a sharp breath filling her lungs.

She was tall and thin, pink in colour from the tip of her mane to her fetlocks. No mark or scar tarnished her. She had lived an easy life, a peaceful life.

If he was fast enough he could be on her before she screamed, tear her throat out with his talons or beak. Theod tensed ready to pounce, heart pounding.

He couldn't.

Her eyes looked so much like those of the slaves. Sudden, animal fear. He had spilled so much innocent blood; any more and he might drown in it. Theod closed his eyes and waited for the scream.

It did not come.

Theod kept his eyes clenched shut, hearing the hoofsteps of the mare draw close to him. She tapped him with a hoof upon his shoulder. “Are you… alright?” She asked in Cirran.

The griffon opened his eyes, meeting the gaze of the pegasus. She cocked her head to the side and gave a kindly smile. “Are you lost?”

“Uh - no, I-” Theod began, stumbling over his Cirran.

“Oh! I remember you!” The mare said, suddenly excited. “You were with the Auxillia a few days ago!”

Theod did not reply, and the pegasus continued. “My father and I stood by the road to watch you pass, it made him so happy to hear about how you saved Viridis. Please, come speak to him, I’m sure he will be overjoyed!”

The mare gave him a playful shove and pranced off towards a house in the distance. Theod followed slowly. He was not sure from where this luck had come, but he was glad for it.

The house was not like the grand villas of the estates he had seen, nor was it a square utilitarian block like a military barracks. It appeared to have been built, then rebuilt many times, with all manner of stones and bricks. A stallion sat upon a simple chair in the sun outside the building

The stallion was older than any Theod had yet seen. His face was deeply lined, his eyes partially clouded by cataracts. His coat, once blue, was now shot through with grey and the plumage of his wings looked ragged, if well groomed. He cocked his head as the mare opened their gate and ushered Theod in.

“Garland-” he began in a voice that sounded like falling gravel. “Where in Cirra did you find that? Surely no-one here is rich enough.”

The mare trotted over to the stallion and rested a hoof upon his shoulder. “No father, he is not a slave. He is one of the Auxillia!”

The stallion frowned at Garland, then pulled himself from his chair and walked over to the griffon. He peered up at Theod with his failing eyes. His lips moved silently as he thought, then his wrinkled face split into a wide smile. “Ah yes!

“Fine work you and yours did. Fine work!” The stallion chortled, pausing to give a wheezing cough. “Cirra owes you a debt, hybrid. I am Marble, served in the fifteenth legion way back when.”

Theod dipped his head in a half-bow to the wizened pegasus. “We… did what we had to.”

“Are there more of you?” the mare asked. “Surely you can't be out here on your own.”

Theod opted for truth. They were discovered anyway. “A fair number, over in that thicket. We are settling down for the evening.”

“The trees? No, no, that won’t do.” The Marble grumbled. Can’t have you sleeping rough, gods know I did enough of that back in the day. You will stay in the barn. Fresh hay and a roof is much better.”

Theod bowed his head again. “Your kindness is much appreciated.”

Marble threw back his head and laughed. “So polite too! Gods above they must have worked hard on you. Garland, go talk to Lilly and Anvil, see what grain they can spare for bread.”

Garland nodded dutifully and trotted off around the cottage. Marble squinted at Theod and frowned. “Well? Go get the others!”

---

“You realise they could just be lying to us. Getting ready to betray us.” Tapfer snapped. “Hell, they could lock the door and burn the barn down around us.”

The Auxillia murmured their agreement. The whole affair did not sit well with them. Theod could hardly blame them.

“I think we can trust them, at least for tonight.” Theod said, talons raised to try and placate the tercel.

“You want us to just walk right back into the arms of those- those murderers!” Tapfer shouted, teeth bared.

“Think for a moment would you?” Theod snapped. “They saw me and me alone. They did not panic, and they were not at all nervous. They must not know that we were ordered murdered.”

“Surely they know about the war.” Aella said.

Theod sighed and ran his talons through his plumage. “They may. But they may well think we are on our way to fight for Cirra. We can't spend another night out in the cold, or without food. We should accept this for the blessing that it is and move on as early as we can in the morning.”

The Auxillia seemed uncertain, nervous glances exchanged but none willing to speak up.

“Theod is right” Gretus rumbled. “We need this. If we say no, they may suspect something.”

Theod dipped his head to Gretus, grateful for the support. He turned back to the mass of griffons “You have all followed me this far. Please, trust my judgement.” He said to the Auxillia at large

Begrudgingly the griffons accepted. Most seemed nervous about the idea. Tapfer was fuming but unwilling to part with the group.

“If we die from this I will piss in your mead in Valhalla.” He grumbled, thankfully quietly enough that none of the others could hear.

Garland met them at the cottage. The mare was almost vibrating with excitement. Theod could tell she was full of a million questions. He had seen small foals much the same when townsponies gathered around their caravan before.

“Most of my Legionaries cannot speak Cirran. Aella and I can though.” Theod announced. Better to keep them seperate from the excitable pegasus just in case.

The mare seemed to deflate for a moment, but perked up again. “Well, we’ve got the oven warmed up. Let's get you set up in the barn!”

Garland lead the way around the cottage and towards an equally long-lived barn, thatched roof thick with moss and walls patched with whatever came to hoof. Marble stood in the doorway with a pitchfork in his hooves, turfing hay out across the floor. He waved them in and the Auxillia gratefully took up spots on the floor.

A few moments after the Auxillia had settled a small group of other pegasi appeared at the door, carrying with them jugs of small beer, loaves of doughy bread and some cheese which they passed out amongst the griffons.

The Auxillia gratefully dug into the simple meal with as much relish as they had the feast days before. Hunger overruled any suspicions they might have held. They kept silent throughout the meal. Few words had been exchanged in a long time.

Marble squinted at the assembled griffons, scrunching up his face. “They seem in poor spirits.”

“They are tired.” Theod replied.

Marble snorted. “Bah, I know nerves when I see them.”

Theod felt his heart flutter at that. Tapfer tensed where he sat, pausing mid-bite.

The stallion shook his head sadly. “I’ve been to war. Seen what it's like. You’ve all seen combat and know whats coming. Only fresh colts out of training are eager for it. I don't blame you.”

He rested a hoof on Theod’s arm, unable to reach the griffons shoulder. “It's not an easy thing, to go to war. I don't think fighting is in anyone's nature. Best to just get it done with and go home, lest you miss the sweeter things in life.”

The aged stallion trailed off at that, glancing over to where Garland chatted excitedly with Aella, the hen plaiting her mane. There was comfort in that simple thing, it seemed. A quiet conversation, a full belly, a warm place to sleep.

Perhaps, if they were lucky, the Auxillia would be able to return to those simple things. A life beyond war.

“There is wisdom in that,” Theod said finally.

---

Tapfer woke Theod, shaking him hard. “Get up!” he hissed. “The Legion is here!”

Theod’s mind was clouded by sleep for a moment before Tapfers words sank in. Fear hit him with a wave of adrenalin and he scrambled to his feet and over to the door of the barn. He peered through the crack and saw Marble standing outside his cottage speaking with another pegasus.

A pegasus in legion armour.

“Get everyone up. We have to leave right now.” Theod said to Tapfer, not looking away.

He rubbed his sleep-blurred eyes and looked again. The yard on the other side of the cottage was full of Cirran legionaries. They had shed their packs and stood around in loose groups, chatting.

The barn had only one exit, and it was in full view of the pegasi. There was no way they could outrun them in their current state. The Auxillia were up now, silent and terrified. All eyes were on Theod, and the sensation made his skin itch when it mixed with the horror brewing in his belly.

A crack sounded through the barn and Theod whirled around, nerves set singing with terror. There was a pair of pink hooves protruding from a hole in the wall at the back of the barn. Theod pushed his way through the Griffons and leaned down to see Garland looking back at him.

“Help me open this up!” she hissed.

“You’re… helping us?” Theod asked.

“Yes and hurry up! I heard the legionaries talking, it won't be long till they ask my father if he’s seen any griffons. He won't betray the legion, not ever, so you have to go now!” the pony whispered, shoving at the boards on either side of the hole to try and open it wider.

“What did they say?” Aella said, grabbing at a board and heaving at it to widen the hole.

“They were talking about an order to kill any griffon they find, all of them. Said something about parties being sent out to find villages in the borderlands and make sure every single one was dead.” Garland said, pulling back from the widening hole and letting the griffons work.

Theod felt his stomach turn at that. Had the Cirrans truly decided to kill everything they came across? Surely not, for they had loyal servants among the tribes as often as they had sworn enemies.

The hole was now large enough for a griffon to squeeze through. Theod motioned for Aella to take the lead. “Go, I will be the last one through.”

The hen nodded, disappearing through the hole, followed quickly by other griffons as they crowded around. Theod extricated himself from the mass and ran to the door. He peered through the crack.

The Cirrans were moving towards the barn. The whole unit moved in a loose group, helmets donned and weapons drawn but clearly not expecting a fight by their lack of formation. Perhaps they thought Marble was deceiving them. Glancing back at the slowly thinning crowd at the far end of the barn, Theod realised they would not be through fast enough.

The tercel rushed over to one of the stalls along the wall and dragged out the broken chest of drawers within, dropping it in front of the doors to the barn. He repeated the process a few more times. Grabbing bits of lumber, tools and sparse furniture and piling them against the doors to barricade them.

Just as he laid the last piece the door shook, a Cirran on the other side trying to push it open. Theod returned to the crack between the doors and met the eye of one of the pegasi who recoiled and shouted in alarm.

Theod looked back over his shoulder. Almost all the survivors were through. They only needed a few more seconds. The door shook as pegasi tried to force it down, and Theod pressed his back to the ricketty timbers, praying that they would hold.

Five griffons remained inside the barn. Four. Three. The creaking of the door quieted and Theod plainly heard a barking voice from the other side.

“They are in there. Windshear! Goldhoof! Fetch fire and burn this thing down!” the Centurion outside bellowed.

Theod pulled himself away from the door and rushed over to the hole, shoving the last Griffon through. He took a moment to check they had everyone. The barn was empty save for leftovers of their meal the previous evening sat in a bundle in the middle of the floor. He scooped these up and jammed himself through the hole in the barn wall, cutting himself on sharp splinters as he squeezed through.

Garland waited on the other side, and checking behind Theod, she shoved a box in front of the hole to cover it over.

“Follow the path down to the gulley, then keep underneath the thorns. They won't be able to see you there.” Garland whispered, pointing a hoof down a narrow goat track. “The others are already there. Go!”

“What about your father? When they realise we are not in there-” Theod stopped himself before he could say any more.

Garland chewed her lip nervously. “He’ll be fine, I’m sure of it. Now go!”

Theod gave a silent nod of thanks and fled down towards the gulley. He spared a glance back to Garland as he ran. She sat on her haunches, looking up at the plume of smoke rising from her father's barn. She wept, perhaps from the shock of the morning, or the betrayal she had committed by letting the griffons go free.

The tercel turned and ran.

A New Beginning

Vigild’s new armour felt strange upon him. It was perfectly fitted, each articulated plate sitting just so on his body. The padded jack beneath was equally fine, made from soft black fabric and copper-tipped ties that secured the segmented suit. The barbed and edged surface seemed to reach out and grab at things whenever he moved about, hooking him on the flaps of the tent or items of furniture.

His new helmet sat in his talons, the narrow eye slits glaring up at him. It covered the whole of his face like the others, save for the lower half of his beak. The spikes and bladed fluting on its side would keep an enemy from leaping upon him, and its thick metal would turn aside any weapon Vigild could conceive of.

He did not like it much.

It went beyond the restricted vision and the way it hampered his breathing. It was similar to the one he had before, his ancestors’ helm, but different. It had no marks of individuality about it, identical to every other one of Magnus’ Oathsworn. That was the point he supposed. No glory to those shamed in the service of the living god.

The flap of the tent was jerked open and Vigild hastened to shove the helmet onto his head. He was not permitted to be seen without it except by his fellow Oathsworn, and had been warned to take care even when in the seclusion of Magnus’ camp.

The Herald slipped inside, silent as always. The black of his clothes had a significance that Vigild had only realised upon swearing to Magnus. It was a mark of shame, like all the others of the Oathsworn. He wondered what the tercel had done to end up serving in such a way, esteemed among the ashamed.

The ink-black tercel looked him over, silent for an uncomfortably long time. “One of us now.” He said finally.

The Herald flowed over to the small table that rested up against the centre pole of the tent and poured himself some wine from a silvered carafe. He drained it in one gulp, and poured himself another.

Vigild tapped his fingers upon the ground, making his gauntlets click. “You said that it was understandable that I ran, back in Virdis.”

“Understandable does not mean right. To refuse battle in any way is a crime in the eyes of Magnus.” The Herald replied.

“So… what do I do?” Vigild asked.

“You do whatever Magnus says, whether the words come from his beak or a more senior Oathsworn. You will learn in time which of your fellows is a commander.” The Herald said, leafing through a small stack of letters that he produced from the folds of his uniform.

Vigild sat for several minutes, driving himself to distraction with his own fidgeting. “Your name is Jens?” He asked finally.

“Will you cease your attempts at small talk!” The black tercel snapped. “You will address me as Herald and only as such. Our names are for the Living God, among ourselves we earn titles or insults as your fellows see fit.”

Vigild was indignant. “You flew me gods-know how far across Dioda in one night, dumped me at the feet of a god and then throw me into this metal cage-” He rattled the plates of his arm as emphasis. “-and now you wont even honour me with some simple courtesy!”

The flap of the tent opened once again and another tercel entered. He was armoured identically to Vigild, of average build for an adult but far longer in limb. The Herald gave the new arrival a glance. “Clubfoot, thank the damned ancestors. Take this one, he is your concern now.”

The new tercel, Clubfoot, looked Vigild over. Vigild could see around the edges of his helmet his plumage was an unusual green hue when he lifted his head.

Clubfoot glanced at the Herald, who was busying himself scrawling with a charcoal stick. “You give me the stripling? He isn't even full-grown.”

Vigild bristled at the slight. “I was made a warrior not three months past!”

Clubfoot laughed softly. “Sixteen is barely old enough to run water to the wounded. You thought you could be some great warlord? Should have waited another ten years to get some meat on your scrawny bones.”

Vigild stepped forwards, seeing red. He reared up and raised a talon. Clubfoot struck him faster than Vigild could see and sent him sprawling across the tent floor. The tercel turned and opened the tent flap. “I’ll see what I can make of him, Herald. The Living God rarely chooses poorly. He has spirit at least.”

The Herald nodded. “Thank you, brother.” He spared a glance at Vigild, picking himself up and steadying his ringing head. “I’m certain he will prove entertaining.”

“Follow, whelp!” Clubfoot commanded.

Vigild trailed after the tall tercel, blinking as daylight assaulted his eyes. The light was interrupted momentarily as a shape flew overhead, followed by three others. Griffons in bright colours and trailing banners announcing noble allegiance. They swooped over the tapestry fence enclosing the camp and dropped out of view. Looking back up the valley Vigild could see many small groups of similar griffons, all flying towards the camp or back where they had come from.

“Messengers.” Clubfoot said. “Magnus does not command the war himself, but his warlords all seek his advice and patronage.”

Clubfoot led the way down the neat rows of tents towards the edge of the camp. Vigild could not help but try to peer in as they passed, but all were fastened shut to give the Oathsworn a chance to go about unarmoured. Still, he could not quiet the voice of curiosity that railed in the back of his mind.

“Why does the Herald not cover his face? He is one of us isn’t he?” Vigild asked.

Clubfoot sighed. “The Herald is a special case. Magnus needs a mouthpiece, someone who his servants can know and trust. It's hard to trust a mask. So he goes about, bearing his shame to the world. Not that any of them know.”

“They do not know?” said Vigild

Clubfoot reached the fence and began to walk along its perimeter, heading for a large tent that served as a gatehouse. “No one outside of our covenant knows that it is a punishment. They assume it to be some great honour. Do not take that illusion from them.”

The tall tercel pushed his way through the flaps of the gatehouse tent and Vigild followed in behind. Eight of the Oathsworn stood by the door, leaning on spears or long swords. The rest of the tent was furnished with benches on which dozens of messengers sat awaiting an audience. Clubfoot walked past them, ignoring their attempts to question him and out into the field beyond.

A small encampment had sprung up overnight, clinging to the edge of Magnus’ opulent tent city. Where the camp at Vigild’s back felt like a grand hunting party, this was a war camp. The tents, where there were any, were small and made of oiled hide rather than dyed canvas. Small groups of warriors crowded around cooking fires or games of dice, keeping a close eye on mobs from other tribes. None had seen fit to armour themselves yet, but Vigild noted that no tercel was far from his weapons.

“I am going to speak to Chief Hadvar of the Gutones.” Clubfoot said, approaching a slightly larger tent that squatted in the centre of one of the mobs of warriors. “You will wait outside.”

With that the tall tercel disappeared inside, and left Vigild in the company of the warriors. He turned and faced away from the entrance, sitting back on his haunches.

The young tercel could feel the eyes of the warriors upon him. Sizing him up, assessing him. His armour was impressive to them as much as Vigild, but he could not help but be unnerved by the griffons that stared at him with open curiosity. Judging by the markings that many tribes scored into their flesh, some of them were more than a century old.

One, a wiry tercel with greying plumage sidled over to Vigild. “Is it true then? You lot serve the Living God directly?”

Vigild swallowed, thankful that his helmet hid his nervousness at the probing of the venerable warrior. “We do.”

“Well then,” the tercel said, crossing his arms. “Perhaps you can tell us something of him? Our chieftain has met with him, and swears up and down that he is a divine being. But none of us have been graced with his presence.”

“What do you mean?” Vigild asked, a note of uncertainty creeping into his voice.

“Is he truly a god? What proof have you?” The warrior demanded.

“I… have seen him do impossible things.” Vigild finally said. “Move things without touching them, call up winds to do his bidding.”

The tercel harrumphed. “You do not sound so certain.”

Vigild shifted, trying to settle his armour more comfortably. Every warrior was staring at him unblinking. “It's not about what he can do. It's… what he is.”

The warrior cocked his head to one side, and Vigild continued. “I met with him a month or so ago, at the peak of Angenholt. I doubted, as you do, because what I had heard from rumours seemed to be too great to be true.”

Vigild felt his heart race with equal parts fear and exhilaration as he recalled that first meeting. The surety of a true believer overturned his nervousness as he spoke. “He is awe-inspiring in a way that goes beyond the physical. His form is mighty, but to stand at the centre of his presence is like staring into the sun. It is… not something that is easy to put to words, but every moment of it I both wanted more and feared I would be burned away.”

The tercel looked Vigild up and down again, assessing him. Vigild held his gaze this time.

The older tercel nodded, seemingly satisfied. “You speak well enough, perhaps there is some truth to it.”

Suddenly the flap of the tent jerked open and Clubfoot stormed out, a fretting tercel wearing a fine tunic following close behind him. Vigild stood and looked questioningly at the Oathsworn.

“Change of plans.” He growled. “We are going to kill some damn fool noblegriffon.”

The Long Road

Mountains. Finally, mountains loomed over Theod, rising from mere bumps on the horizon to scrape the heavens as they drew closer. Now they crossed one of the great spurs of these mountains, cloud-wreathed and snowy despite the heat of the lowlands that stretched out endlessly to the west.

Crossing the mountain in this way would not have been Theod’s first choice. The cold alone could kill the weary and hungry Auxillia, not to mention the treacherous slopes and chance of beasts prowling the flanks.

They had been forced to come here because it was difficult. The Legion had found their trail not long after their escape. Clearly it had not taken them long to realise that the griffons weren't in the barn anymore. Or Garland talked.

They were dogged in their pursuit, and more than once the Auxillia had been forced to flee in the middle of the night or scatter in all directions. They had lost three more to the blades or arrows of the legionaries, and two to simple exhaustion.

The freezing winds and dense clouds that wrapped the heights of the mountain gave some protection to the fleeing griffons. Theod hoped that once they crossed into the next valley the Cirrans would lose track of them, and perhaps they could rest a while.

Tapfer trudged through the snow on Theod’s right, returning to the line of bedraggled griffons as his time as lookout ended. He nodded to Theod as he fell in, and Theod replied in kind. He peeled off from the line and walked up the slope a way, lifting his head against the stinging icy wind.

He could not see far within the cloud bank. Climbing out of the drift-buried gully was more out of habit than actual advantage. He could only just make out Gretus at the fore of the line, ploughing through the snow with his typical single-mindedness.

Theod squinted back the way they had come. Dark shapes were moving in the mist back along their path. His mouth went dry. Not for the first time Theod wished that he still had his oath-sword. Or even his legionary gladius. Steeling himself, Theod pushed back through the snow towards the shapes.

The shapes resolved themselves into three pegasi as Theod drew nearer. They were wandering, seemingly aimlessly. Though they were mere paces from the Auxillias trail they had somehow not spotted the churned snow.

He had to lead them off somehow.

Theod reared up on his hindlegs, scooped up a fistful of snow and pitched it at one of the pegasi. It struck them in the helmet, and they turned, spear pointed at Theod.
The pegasi came at him, swords in teeth shown in eager smiles.

Theod turned and ran away from the Auxillias trail, downhill. If he could just lead them off and lose them in the mist, they might be safe. The snow grew thinner as he ran, suddenly terminating in a drop that forced Theod to skitter to a stop.

The mountainside dropped away in front of him, sheer and rocky. Theod turned back. The Cirrans were hot on his heels, gleeful hate in their eyes as they raced to be the one to gut him.

“This is a terrible idea.” Theod muttered, then threw himself backwards off the edge.

The cliff sped away from Theod as he fell. The legionaries followed close behind him, leaping from the rock in an effort to be the one to bag their kill.

Theod extended his wings and rolled the right way up. He did not attempt to slow his descent, but skimmed over the rocky scree slope. Boulders and ledges loomed out of the clouds before him, forcing him to jink and dodge.

Now Theod sincerely wished that the Auxillia had focused more on airborne combat. He had to go with what his father had taught him.

Theod risked a glance back and saw the lead pegasus just off to his left, moving fast enough to catch him with his spear. The griffon banked hard and rolled, flaring his wings to try and dump some of the speed he had gained.

Through the black spots dancing in his eyes, Theod saw the pegasus drift back in front of him and flare their own wings, slowing so quickly it seemed they had stopped.

Theod instinctively lashed out with a talon at the pegasus as he whipped past.The claws scraped off the pegasus’ helmet and Theod felt at least one of the points break on the metal. Something struck his palm and he reflexively clutched at it. The haft of the spear.

Theod pulled it close to his body, coming face to face with the legionary. She was an older mare, and her eyes showed only rage. Theod jammed his free talon into her face, gouging at those eyes and making her scream. The pegasus lost her grip on her spear and Theod kicked her away. She hit the rushing mountainside and left a red smear against the stone.

Another arrow flew past Theod, followed swiftly by a second that struck him in the rump. He stifled his cry of pain and tried to focus on not becoming a pulped mess on the mountainside. The clouds parted suddenly, opening up as they hit a layer of warmer air. Now they were at the treeline.

Theod stuck as close to the slope as he dared, the trunks of trees coming close enough to his wingtips to ruffle the feathers. The slope became far less steep here, and Theod was forced to follow the line of a dried stream as he and his pursuers shot down the mountainside. He risked a glance back over his shoulder.

The archer was the closest to him, staying out of reach of Theods stolen spear. Long-range shooting was impossible against the wind, so he had settled for trying to core the griffon up close. Behind him, the swordspony lurked, saving his energy.

Experimentally, Theod jinked to one side. The archer followed him slowly, trying to stay in his slipstream and being buffeted by the sudden gust at the edge of his wake.

Theod spread his wings, slowing himself slightly and allowing the archer an opportunity to line up a shot. A dead pine loomed in front of him, and the tercel prayed to whatever god would listen as he waited for the last possible moment, and then dodged out of the way.

The branches raked at his belly as he sped past, cutting whip-thin lines down his stomach. The archer following him was distracted and unprepared. He smashed into the trunk full-force.

Theod looked back to see the last pegasus powering towards him, his eyes filled with fury and grief for his lost comrades. He was closing fast.

The griffon beat his wings hard, trying to get his speed back. He knew he could not beat the pegasus in a straight-line race of acceleration. Nor could he dodge out of the way of the much smaller and more nimble flier. To roll over and try to thrust with his spear would just see him smash into some unseen obstacle.

Another bank of cloud reared up in front of Theod, its ephemeral bulk piling up against the mountainside.

Here, maybe, he had a chance.

As he punched through the cloud bank Theod pulled up and beat his wings as hard as he could. He felt the tendons strain and burn, his joints creaked dangerously and the feathers of his wings felt as if they were being plucked out. He swung the haft of his spear blindly into the path he had been following moments before.

The spear was wrenched from Theods talons as the last legionary struck it. It fell alongside the pegasus, seeming to drift away in a corona of blood. Silence fell.

---

Theod found the Auxillia a few hours later. After stopping to rest his wings he managed to struggle into the air and fly along the length of the spur until he spotted them once again, resting by the side of a paved road that ran along the valley floor.

He landed badly, stumbling and falling into the dirt. Tapfer came to his side, helped him up. His face was grim.

“What has happened?” Theod asked, breathless.

Silently Tapfer led Theod past the Auxillia. All faces were turned to the east. Aella seemed to be on the verge of tears, her talons shaking.

Theod looked up and saw what unsettled them so.

The whole sky down the valley was filled by a vast black column of smoke. It stained the very clouds a ghastly black. The milestone by the side of the road read ten miles to Konighorst.

A Warning

Pruina did his best to block out the noise of the Legion war camp. It filtered through the oilcloth walls of his tent and into his office, disturbing the peace that he preferred to keep when at work. Despite the loss of the Auxillia, he was still a legate, and legates had to help lead the legions into war.

He felt the ache of old age settling in his bones in this place. The cold air that had invigorated him as a young stallion in the Frumentarii now made his joints ache and throat burn. Barley, ever obstinate, did not seem affected by it, though he was a few years Pruina’s junior.

The stallion’s journal lay open on the table in front of him. It was a habit he had kept up from his youth, and was filled with old secrets wrapped in codes known only to the Frumentarii. In time he hoped to send it back to Stratopolis and to the great library, where some novice might decode the truth of the stories he wrote within and learn of the many hidden things he had done. It was said that a secret weighed in the soul like lead in a saddlebag. To dispose of them into silent, reliable paper made their lives easier.

Pruina lifted the pen, but found he could not put it to the paper. To commit to mere words what was happening seemed insultingly inadequate.

The Emperor had lost his mind with warlust. Not the frothing insanity one might see in a griffon berserker, but the cold madness and murderous intent of a dagger.

The legions had all been mobilised, and young pegasi drafted on a scale never before seen. They would all be needed. To try and exterminate a species as warlike as the griffons, a species nearly as numerous as the Cirrans if the Census was to be believed, would be an undertaking on a nightmarish scale.

They had already begun at that grisly task. Pruina had the scenes of massacre in the small villages of the hinterlands seared into his mind. The deaths of warriors he could understand, and the murder of whole families is something that he himself had done more than once. But to put innocents to the sword wholesale was beyond him. He could see clearly in his mind's eye the bodies hacked and ruined, the severed fingers of fledgelings lying in the grass where they had tried to shield themselves with their hands.

Pruina swallowed hard. He would need strong drink tonight if he were to manage sleep.

A hoof knocked upon the wooden screen that separated Pruinas office from the others in the command tent.

“Enter,” he called, returning the quill to its inkwell.

A mare walked around the screen, clad in armour that marked her out as a serving member of the Frumentarii. Pruina recognised her immediately by the deep red of her mane and coat. “Ah, Ruby. It has been a very long time.”

Ruby gave Pruina a small smile. “Promoted to legate and you still can't get your own office?” She asked.

“Resources are tight, and it's supposed to foster cooperation apparently. Mostly it just sees my best ink go missing,” Pruina replied. “But given that you are in armour, I am guessing this isn't just a friendly visit.”

Ruby raised a hoof to silence the stallion and looked back around the screen to ensure they weren’t being listened to. Satisfied, she moved in close to the desk, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I am here to deliver a warning, sir.”

Pruina frowned. “Legion warning, or Frumentarii warning?”

Ruby swallowed nervously. “I risk everything by telling you this, but I can’t just leave you out to dry. The higher-ups are making inquiries. Those Auxillia of yours, the ones you put down? The brass thinks they might still be around.”

Pruina held a carefully practiced neutral look. Just enough concern to make one think you were on their side, but not enough to land you firmly in a trap if there was one. “What proof?”

“They got reports of sixteenth legion elements encountering griffons way too deep in Cirran territory. A few dozen at most, unarmed and fleeing east.” Ruby whispered. “They confirmed the death of every slave in that region, and then went through the grave at Viridis. A lot of missing bodies.”

Pruina said nothing. His mind was racing. If his spontaneous act of mercy had seen the griffons survive, the Frumentarii at large were now on his trail.

Ruby glanced back over her shoulder and laid a hoof reassuringly on Pruinas. “I won't ask you for anything on this. Gods know I’m already in far too deep without a mandate. But I needed to let you know the net you are tangled in. For old times sake.”

The mare stood back from the table and retrieved a sheaf of reports from her bag. She placed them on the desk. “Here is my excuse for coming to visit. Good luck sir.”

With that she turned and marched out swiftly, rejoining the traffic of the war camp.

Pruina sagged in his chair, burying his head in his hooves. “Gods above” He murmured. “I may have made a mess of it.”

Konighorst

Konighorst was in ruin.

They had ran the whole way down the highway, the Canii rushing along heedless of the danger and forcing the rest to keep pace. Now they stood in dreadful silence at the marble arch that formed the entry of the town.

Theod could make out the shapes of marble-clad buildings in the heaps of rubble, traces of the effort of a generation in the broad paved avenues running in arrow-straight lines through the devastation. A town, a city bigger than Theod had ever seen, heart and soul of the Canii tribe. Once said to be the equal of holy Angenholt, now it was simply gone.

This was not like Viridis. That place had merely been sacked. Here in Konighorst everything had been deliberately and systematically destroyed. Pillars toppled, roof beams sawed through, rafters set ablaze and now lying smouldering on the blackened ground.

Trembling and ashen-faced, Aella led the way once again. She picked her way down the debris-strewn street. Theod trotted after her, trying to get her attention, but she stayed silent.

The hen lead the way down what was once the main street, upturned merchant stands paving the way towards a grand marble arch that somehow remained untouched amongst the devastation. Beyond it was the market square, a broad open space so similar to the one in Viridis.

Hundreds of dead lay strewn upon the flagstones, stagnant pools of clotted blood choking the gutters. At the gates, great piles of dead heaped up where they had frantically tried to escape. There was no order to the slaughter in the square. Old lay entangled with young. Hens fallen across the dismembered remains of tercels. White plumage mingling with lifeblood on the stone.

Amongst the carnage, planted in the middle of the plaza was a bronze-topped banner with a pennant reading LEGIO V.

Grimly, Theod noted that only a few had weapons, and none wore armour. They had been taken completely by surprise. The Auxillia trailing behind filed into the square. A good number of the Canii amongst them had come from this city and the sight caused them to cry out in dismay. They scattered amongst the fallen, searching for friends and relatives but praying that they were not to be found.

Aella continued to walk forwards, as if in a trance. Theod looked back to Gretus for aid, but he was frozen in place, horror etched across his normally stoic face.

Theod chased after Aella, following her across the plaza.

She crossed the whole expanse, treading upon griffon corpses as if she did not notice them. Then she stopped and sat at the foot of one of the piles of smouldering rubble that ringed the square, weeping silently. As he came to her shoulder, Theod saw the body of an older tercel sprawled upon the mosaic-decorated stairs, his severed head resting neatly in his lap.

Aella put her talons to her head, digging the points into her skull and staining her plumage with beads of blood. Theod reached out to comfort her, but suddenly she threw her head back and howled in pure, animal pain.

“We were loyal! Always loyal!” she screamed, rearing up on her hindlegs. “We did everything for them, and- and now this!”

The hen rounded on Theod, teeth bared and eyes filled with hate. “We turned on our people, made enemies of all the other tribes. We fought their damned wars and worshipped their gods. We opened our homes to them when they marched by and now they slaughter our people!”

Theod cringed at the noise. “Please, Aella, you have to stop shouting.” He hissed. “There might be some still-”

“If they are here let them come! I will water the grave of my father with their filthy blood!” Aella snarled.

The noise of shifting stone made them both freeze. A tile sliding over toppled masonry. As one they looked to the source and saw a hunched, scrawny tercel. He was filthy and reeked like an outhouse, but unmistakably bore the pale plumage of the Canii.

His beak worked silently for a moment as he tried to force words out of a parched throat.

“I did not think any would come.” He finally croaked.

The Auxillia sat in what once was an amphitheatre, the stepped rows of seating being one of the few places both hidden and not filled with rubble. The tercel they had met had led them there, and as the sun began to set survivors slowly filtered in.

Each was filthy, hungry and terrified, not daring to speak except for hushed whispers. The Canii amongst the Auxillia began to grieve when they found none of their kin or friends amongst those wretched hens and tercels that congregated on the sound of Griffon voices.

Theod pulled himself from the huddled group of Auxillia and sought out the first tercel they had found, who squatted at the edge of the theatre with the others, ready to dash back into the safety of the town at a moments notice.

The young tercel bowed his head to the older one, sitting at what he hoped was a respectful distance. The survivor looked fearful still, so Theod spoke as softly and gently as he could. “What happened here?”

The other griffon was silent for a while, his beak working soundlessly as he tried to remember speech again.

“I was in the kitchen when the Legion came.” He croaked. “Cooking meat for my master. He took his wife and his children out to greet the Cirrans, and left me there- but I could see through one of the windows.

“They marched into town, and most everyone came out to meet them, because we are… were their friends amongst savages. They were given gifts, bread and wine and flowers. The whole lot went up into the market as if they were going to parade, and all followed. I lost sight of them then.”

The tercel’s face twitched involuntarily before he continued. “I-I could hear them though. Their commander shouted something, and then there was screaming! Such screams! I saw griffons try to run or fly out of the square, but the Cirrans hacked them down!

“It all went quiet, then the Cirrans started moving out into the streets. They came into the villa, covered in blood. The other slaves were herded into the larder and I heard them screaming, but I hid!” The tercel hissed. “I crawled into the latrine, and they did not find me. T-they found the others hiding in other places. Stabbed them or kicked them until they died. Then they started destroying everything.”

He swallowed hard, his whole body shaking at the memory. “I hid in the shit and the dark until it all went quiet, and a day besides. Heard patrols coming through, digging in the rubble to try and find anyone they missed.”

“How long did you hide?” Theod asked as gently as he could, though the tercel still flinched at his words.

“Four days. Had to risk sneaking out to get water, then three more. Then it is today” The slave replied.

Theod nodded in acknowledgement, standing slowly to not startle the tercel. The few Auxillia, and perhaps three dozen survivors of the Canii. Old and young, slave and noble.

Theod ran his talons through his plumage. The survivors were all scared witless, weakened by their time hiding. Getting the Auxillia anywhere was challenge enough, and they were all fit in spite of their attempted poisoning.

Yet, he could not simply abandon them to their fate, Theod resolved. The Canii would have to come with the Auxillia, for better or for worse, or they would all starve crawling like vermin in their hiding places.

They had a chance, perhaps, if they made for the hall of Theods father. In the last war it had been left untouched, to deep in the forest to find easily. Theod just had to hope that it had remained that way

Theod picked his way down the tiers of stone steps towards Gretus, who was trying to comfort the inconsolable Aella. “Gretus. Do you know the way to Darkwood?”

Of Noble Blood

The night was cool and damp, the dew settling in the grass seeping into the gauntlets and padding of Vigilds armour. Other Oathsworn stalked through the woods alongside the young warrior, silent and eyes towards the flickering light ahead.

Vigild scowled under his helmet. Clubfoot still had not told him what he intended to do here. He had simply marched into camp, gathered a dozen oathsworn and struck out for the forest, growling something about a hostage.He guessed that it was something to do with the noble Clubfoot had talked to before rushing off so.

Moving with the band of much older and more experienced warriors Vigild felt oddly exposed. When he lead his own warband almost all young amateurs. Now he had to contend with tercels stronger, wiser and more experienced than him. Despite the insistence that the Oathsworn was a brotherhood without honour, the young tercel felt the impulse to try and set himself above his peers. He certainly could not best them in a fight, so he would have to settle for simply being more bold.

Clubfoot raised a talon, signalling silently. The other Oathsworn clustered in around him and Vigild followed suit, standing at arm's-reach from eachother wherever the trees permitted. Ahead the light resolved itself into a war camp. It was small and meagre compared to that of Magnus, a few canvas tents strung up between trees, pathetic sputtering fires made from twigs and green wood.

Moving as quietly as their armour permitted it was easy for the Oathsworn to creep up on the occupants, their faces all turned into the fires and no guards set. They were deep in Griffon lands, safe from enemies creeping up unannounced.

Or they would be, if they had not made an enemy of Magnus.

The warriors of this camp all sat upon the ground around their fire, drinking and jesting in the boisterous way of griffons on the eve of war. They were unarmed and unarmoured, dressed only in cloaks or simple tunics to ward off the cold. The one Vigild guessed was the leader sat upon a cut log, a golden cup in one talon and his hindlegs resting upon the back of another tercel bound tightly in ropes.

This bound tercel was probably the hostage that Clubfoot had grumbled about, marked as a tercel of some importance by the gold jewelery that hung from his neck and the rings upon his talons. His face was bloodied and bruised beneath his plumage and the ropes that wrapped around his body tied him securely to the log-chair he sat in front of. A goblet had been left just outside of his reach, a mocking imitation of a honoured guest.

Clubfoot led the Oathsworn into the camp without breaking stride, marching them right up to the edge of the ring of firelight as the resting griffons shouted and scrambled to grab weapons. The Oathsworn slowed to a halt, Vigild craning his neck to see over the shoulders of the warrior in front of him as Clubfoot bowed to the leader of the warband.

“Who are you that disturbs Magnus’ truce?” Clubfoot asked. “You who makes war and takes hostages when the Living God demands that you face the enemy of our people.”

The griffon sitting upon the log swung his hindlegs off of the bound tercels back. “I am Engir, and I do not make war though I fight it.” He replied, sneering at Clubfoot. “This whelp before me insulted my honour and drew his sword upon me. I am blameless in taking him as a… less than willing guest.”

“Your guest is under the protection of Magnus. Release him.” Clubfoot said evenly. There was no need for threats, or aggression. The presence of the Oathsworn were threat enough.

Engir scoffed and drew his sword, placing the blade against the captives throat. “Go to hell.”

Vigild saw the tercels arm tense, the muscles showing through his coat as he began to draw the edge through flesh. Noone else moved, too slow to react. He lunged forwards, leaping over the back of the tercel in front of him and crashing into Engir.

All hell broke loose around Vigild as Oathsworn attacked Engirs warriors, gauntleted talons meeting finely-honed sword edges. Logs scattered from the fire as tercels struggled all around, yelling and shrieking in their eagle-high voices.

Vigild saw none of it. His world was reduced to Engir and his hostage. Flickering light cast mad shadows as the younger tercel tried to hold the sword in place, keep it from spilling the captives blood. Engir snarled and lashed out with a talon, its tips squealing as they raked at the metal of Vigilds helmet.

Blood dribbled from the hostages neck and he struggled against his binds, desperate to get the edge away from his throat. Vigild couldnt hold Engirs talons in place. He just wasnt strong enough. He needed leverage.

Reflexively Vigild grabbed the blade in his talons and wrenched it away. Engir snarled and tugged, the edge biting into Vigilds palms down to the bone in a moment. The young tercel cried out in pain but held firm, gripping so hard that he was afraid he would cut his own fingers off. His blood ran freely from the deep cuts and soaked the captives feathers.

The hostage went wide eyed as he saw the injuries Vigild inflicted on himself in grabbing the sword. Engir was less impressed. He pushed forwards hard and drive the tip of the sword into the gap in Vigilds armpit. Again the younger tercel screamed in pain.

A talon swung over Vigilds head and impacted on Engirs face, the points of each claw digging into the soft flesh and piercing one of the tercels eyes. Now it was Engirs turn to scream, and he dropped his sword as he clawed frantically at the talon digging into his skull.

Vigld fell backwards, half-sobbing as the incredible pain in his talons hit home. The hostage scrambled as far from the log as his bindings wound allow as Clubfoot pummeled Engir with a rock taken from the fireside, holding him in place with the talon gripping his ruined eye socket.

Engirs warriors were either dead or surrendered, and all the Oathsworn showed injuries from their struggle. Vigild pulled himself over to the hostage and laid a bloodied talon upon his neck, drawing an indignant yelp as he felt to see how deep the cut was. Only minor, thank the gods.

Vigild slumped to the ground and lay a while, staring up at the sky and trying to keep tears from his eyes as blood continued to flow freely from his talons, and the wound in his armpit. He held them up and inspected them in the dull glow of scattered embers. Was the great flow of his blood truly worth trading for that of the hostage?

Clubfoot finally tired of brutalising Engir and stood back. He motioned for one of the other Oathsworn to untie the hostage and turned his gaze upon Vigild. “How bad?” He asked

Vigild sat up, gingerly avoiding putting his talons upon the ground. “I… still have all my fingers.”

Clubfoot nodded, apparently satisfied. “You did as an Oathsworn should. Don't let it go to your head.”

Vigild had to stop himself from laughing at the absurdity of it. He might have just crippled himself in his masters name and all he got was a half-hearted accolade. He slumped a little and gritted his teeth against the pain.

The hostage, now freed from his bonds strutted indignantly past Vigild to spit upon the groaning heap that was Engir. He scowled about the camp, ignoring the Oathsworn that set about looting the dead tercels, until his eyes settled upon Vigild. There, there as a hint of gratitude.

Maybe he could still turn this to his advantage.

Darkwood

Vigild stumbled through the flaps of one of the tents of Magnus’ camp, Clubfoot’s talon upon his shoulder to help guide the way. He had not lost enough blood from his injuries to cause him much trouble, but the pain made him dizzy and nauseous nonetheless. If anything, thirst was his greatest concern, and he paid little attention to Clubfoot as the tercel barked out an order into the tent.

The inside was heavily furnished compared to the other tents of the camp, with shelves and chests shoved up against each other wherever there was room. Bags and bunches of dried plants hung from the wooden spokes that held the roof up.

An aged tercel sat hunched over one of the chests, looking up from his books as Clubfoot entered. He harrumphed and set about extracting himself from his sitting place as Vigild was directed over to a large and worryingly bloodstained table in the centre of the room.

Clubfoot pushed Vigild down onto his haunches as the other tercel dragged himself from his chair. He looked the younger tercel over, seeming almost concerned for him.

Vigild opened his beak to question, but Clubfoot silenced him with a shake of his head. “The Surgeon will fix the problems you made with your talons. Don’t expect too much of this treatment.”

“Not valuable enough to save?” Vigild asked, pain letting his resentment bubble to the surface of his mind.

The older tercel chuckled. “Oathsworn are meant to die. If we spend too much time patching you up, you won't get the redemption that Magnus offered you.”

The Surgeon shuffled over towards the pair, muttering to himself as he settled across the table from Vigild. “Lay your talons upon the table. Those first.”

Vigild did as he was told, resting his talons palms-up to show the deep gashes where Engir’s sword had bit deep.

“You have done a lot of damage.” the surgeon said, turning away and selecting a bag from the shelf against the tent canvas. He unrolled it across the table, revealing a dizzying array of blades, pins and other tools.

“Can you fix it?” Vigild asked, nervously eyeing the racks of glinting blades and saws with undisguised dread.

“I can, I think. No griffon alive has cut as much flesh as I, or mended half as much.” he replied.

The ageing griffon reached into a pouch he wore and withdrew a pot of something green and foul smelling. He dipped his talons into it and then pushed them into the twin cuts on Vigild’s palms. The pain was exquisite as the tercel spread the paste along the length of each gash, taking very little care to be gentle.

“Do try to sit still.” The surgeon grumbled. “Your twitching makes it all more difficult.”

A shout sounded from outside the tent, and a hen poked her head inside. “Clubfoot. Magnus wants you.”

The Oathsworn sighed deeply and stood to leave. “Do whatever the surgeon says.” He grunted, and then disappeared out the flap of the tent.

Vigild gritted his teeth and did his best to stay still as the surgeon took out a needle and thread, and set about drawing the wound back together.

“What do I call you?” He asked, looking for something to distract himself from the feeling of it.

“Todesangst.” The tercel said, not looking up from his work.

Vigild suppressed a whimper as the needle hit a particularly sensitive spot. “They let you have a name?”

“It is not my first. Like Clubfoot, I earned my name.” Todesangst replied.

The old griffon worked fast, Vigild noted. A small saving grace as he tugged at the thread holding his right hand together, then moved on to the left. “How does a doctor earn a name like Agony?”

“I took it from a tercel who was being… uncooperative.” He said simply. “Physician is the second half of my duty to Magnus.”

Vigild blinked away the tears in the corners of his eyes as Todesangst started on his left talon. “Is Magnus angry with me? He called for Clubfoot, but not me.”

Todesangst sighed and shook his head. “If he were angry, you would be there. The best thing to be around Magnus is ignored.”

Vigild frowned. “What happens if Magnus notices you?”

Todesangst cracked a thin, sharp-looking smile. “You see a lot more of me.”

---

The Auxillia journeyed once again.

Now Gretus led, cutting a path across the griffon lands with no regard for mountain or stream or forest. They had taken to the air now, ignoring the chance of encountering a Cirran patrol. They had to reach Darkwood before the Legions did.

Their number seemed small now compared to those refugees that accompanied them. A few dozen soldiers leading many dozens of hurt, hungry and scared Canii across the griffon kingdoms.

The Auxillia had done their best to help those survivors of the razed town along the way. Carrying a few meagre possessions for the weaker ones, and sending out small parties to hunt or fish as they crossed the mountainous borderlands. Still, many were lost. Nearly a third of the Canii who decided to come with the Auxillia simply fell behind and disapeared into the wilderness.

Each and every loss made Theod’s heart ache. But they could not stop. Stopping meant death, either by starvation in the empty wilderness, or by Cirran patrol.

As the days passed the landscape became more and more familiar to Theod. The types of trees, the colour of the stones, and the songs of birds were closer to what he remembered.

As the band settled down atop a cliff for another evenings rest, Theod took a moment to check on his friends. It seemed odd to call them that, going from strangers from strange tribes. But it seemed wrong to call them anything else now.

Aella was silent, barely acknowledging Theod as he came by. The death of her father had cut to her core and she kept as quiet as Gretus. Tapfer put on a brave face, trying to coax smiles or weak laughter from the others, but Theod could feel the simmering fury beneath the jovial mask. He hated Cirra true, but it seemed he hated his own people almost as much for the servitude that had been forced on him.

Theod ignored the rabbits cooking over their campfire and joined Gretus at the cliffs edge. The tercel was simply staring at the setting sun, his thoughts locked behind stoic walls that Theod could not see through.

They sat a while in silence, watching as the last rays of light struggled between the mountain crags. Then something struck the young tercel. Theod recognised this place. The shape of the mountains, the clearings and glades where he had once hunted and trained, and the clearing of Darkwood Village. Its thatched roofs were still visible, intact and unburnt.

He leaped to his feet and shouted for joy. “We made it! We’re here!”

The resting griffons looked up bleary-eyed, but as the notion sunk into their exhausted minds they too rose to their feet and celebrated in what little way they could.

Theod could scarcely wait, and the promise of a roof and a meal reinvigorated the refugee band. They abandoned their camp without a moment's hesitation, and as one they took to the air again, racing towards Darkwood.

They covered the distance in what seemed like no time, racing for the clearing at the edge of town. They landed as a ragged mob, laughing and smiling for what seemed like the first time in an age. This fell away as swiftly as it had come.

Darkwood seemed deserted as the Auxillia led the way in. Defences had been thrown up, walls of sharpened wood and clusters of stakes protruding from roof beams. But of the townsfolk, Theod could see no trace.

His heart shrank. The legions would not have left the village intact, but if his tribe had fled they would have taken those supplies the Auxillia desperately needed with them. But the cooking fires had been stacked with fresh wood, and the granaries were barred and locked as they usually were.

“Where is everyone?” Theod said to himself.

As soon as he voiced that question, all hell broke loose. Griffons covered in blue warpaint poured out of buildings and hidden places, howling and screeching like wild beasts as they descended upon the band.

“Auxillia!” Theod cried “Form up!”

Instinct took over for those survivors, pushing their way to the edge of the group and forming a protective wall with their bodies. They had no weapons, no armour, no shields. But Theod would be damned if he came this far to not put up a fight.

The young tercel pulled himself to his hindlegs. Aella was on his left, Tapfer on his right. He bared his teeth and snarled, preparing to sell his life as dearly as he could. A trio of warriors with glinting blades rushed towards him, murder in their eyes.

Then a cry went up, mighty and terrible as only a warlord could be. “Stop!”

The warriors came to a screeching halt, mere feet from the ring of Auxillia. Theod could hear their ragged breathing, see the foam in the corners of their mouths. A huge warrior pushed his way through the throng, other griffons moving from his path until Theod looked upon his scarred and red-plumed face.

“My son…” Eboric whispered, eyes searching Theods face. Suddenly he rushed forwards, snatching up the young tercel and clutching him to his breast, tears of joy streaming down his cheeks. “My son has returned!”

Reunited

It took Eboric a long time to release Theod from his embrace. He had never seen such a display of affection from the tercel in all his years. Theod could almost feel Aella avert her eyes from the scene, the pain of losing her own father still fresh.

Eboric looked his son up and down and smiled. “You have grown. Stronger than when they took you.”

Theod could not make words form in his beak at first. Finally they had made it. The weeks of ceaseless marching, the terror, the deaths of those left behind. It was all worth it now. “We have come a long way.” He forced out, trying to keep tears from his eyes.

Eboric extended one massive arm towards the crowd still encircled by his warriors. “And who are these?”

“They… we were the Auxillia.” Theod said. He saw the question written plain across his father's face, so he continued. “The Cirrans were trying to build a griffon army from hostages and volunteers. I thought it might be better than being caged like a normal hostage.”

“We learned what they taught us, fought for them. But they betrayed us, poisoned us like cowards. A few survived somehow and we fled east towards the Canii. They too were betrayed. A few of the survivors joined us and we made the long journey out here.”

Eborics expression turned grim as he noted the state of the Auxillia. Their dull coats, ribs showing through, haggard and gaunt faces. “We will do what we can for them.” he rumbled softly. “But perhaps you would have been better served to leave them.”

Theod looked back at the fearful faces of his friends, the refugees, the Auxillia. “How could you say such a thing?”

Eboric sighed deeply. “You have always been focused on honour. I understand. It is a fine thing. But if you have come from Konighorst then you have journeyed many days. Maybe many days shorter had you left the weak behind. You could be with the hens and fledgelings now, safe and away from this place. But you are here now and the prey-beasts are at the gates.”

“So you would have just abandoned them to die?” Theod asked

Eboric waved to his warriors and they put down their weapons, each turning to return to their own business. “Better that some survive than none.” He rumbled.

Aella moved clear of the mob and bowed before Eboric, looking up into the tercels eyes. “I am Aella, daughter of Gervasius. We met not too long past. These Canii are my people and it is my duty to protect them. I beg that you let us rest here a while.”

“I remember you.” Eboric said. “I was to marry one of my sons to you to bring friendship between our peoples. We have some food left, and many beds. You all may stay as long as you can.”

Theod turned away and looked to the buildings of the village. They were fortified, but seemed dead. There was firelight only in a few. Drapes and furniture had been taken from them, and only warriors gathered within. “Where are our people?”

“I swore oaths with the chieftain of Verstecktholm.” Eboric said, showing the cut on his palm where he had bled to cement them. “He is leading the hens and fledgelings away while I delay the Cirrans. We are to join them later.”

“Why not go with them?” Theod asked

Eborics face turned stony, tracing the line of his scabbed hand with a claw. “Better that some survive than none.”

---

Pruina set down amongst the rubble of Konighorst, Barley not far from his side.

He had been here not so long ago, admired its neatly organised streets and clumsy if enthusiastic adoption of Cirran architecture. Now it was so much loose stone and scorched wood.

“They could have at least left it standing as a camp.” Barley grumbled. “Good lodgings are hard to come by this far east.”

Pruina ignored his old friend and set off towards where he had been told to meet. Part of the stallion hoped that their king, Gervasius, had survived the razing of the town. He did not hold out much hope, but if the Emperor's temper cooled with time then there was at least a small chance the Canii would be able to return in strength. Though, he realised with a pang of guilt, the tercel’s only daughter had joined the Auxillia. Aella probably still lay at the bottom of that ditch.

As the pair passed a high wall of fallen stones, Pruina spotted their goal. A few pegasi stood in a circle around a pair of cowering white-coated griffons. Frumentarii from what Pruina had been told, but judging by the bright sheen on their armour they had only just been elevated to that station.

A stallion broke from the group and saluted Pruina, then pointed a hoof at the filthy, half-starved griffons. “We pulled them from the rubble, Legate, but they don't speak any Cirran it seems.” The stallion said, sighing with exasperation. “You speak their barbarian tongue, can you show us how an old hand interrogates these vermin?”

Pruina nodded silently and left Barley to chat with the Frumentarius as he advanced on the griffons. They looked up at him with undisguised dread, tears cutting lines of white through the grime of their former hiding place.

“P-please lord, we-” One began

Pruina shifted his wings, making the blades hung from the outside edges clatter menacingly, cutting the wretch’s pleading short. He took no pleasure in this, and they were already properly terrified. Best to go straight for the throat. “Where are the others hiding.?” He snapped in griffonic.

The pair looked at each other. “Sire, we dont-”

“Where?!” Pruina shouted, making the griffons flinch and throw themselves onto the ground.

“They hide sire, wherever they can. Us who were too weak to go with the others.” the other whimpered. A hen, Pruina guessed by the tone.

“And where are the others, the ones who were strong enough?” Pruina asked.

“A group of other griffons came through. All different tribes, but no weapons. They took the ones who wanted to go and went east sire, that is all we know!”

Pruina frowned. “Who were they, this other group?”

They looked at each other again before answering, the male speaking softly. “They were lead by one called Theod. Called themselves the Auxillia-”

Pruina lashed out with his wingblades, catching the tercel across his throat and sending a flood of red down his chest. The hen screamed and tried to scramble away, but was stopped short by an armoured hoof to the skull.

Pruina lifted his bloodied hoof from the twitching carcass and spat.

“Just insults. Find any others and put them down. The Legions just can't be trusted to dig through the rubble properly.” He said with feigned disdain, turning away to hide how pale his face had gone.

The Auxillia lived, it was certain now.

And when his commanders found out he was certain to suffer.

---

The Auxillia gathered before the hall of Eboric just after dawn, shivering in the cool morning air. A night of rest in actual houses had done them good, as had the bread and meat that Eboric’s warriors had given them.

Theod was glad to see them smile again, see hope written plain across their faces. He had spent the night by the fireside with his father telling stories of their time apart. Eboric had never much bothered with such conversation, preferring to brood in menacing silence. Perhaps now he had proved himself his father was more willing to hear. Or perhaps the strain of war had cracked his normally stony facade. Either way Theod was glad for it.

Aella came and sat by Theod’s side. She made a show of busying herself with a cloak she had found, changing the placement of the brooch before speaking.

“You’ve done well.” She said.

Theod raised an eyebrow at the statement, and the hen chuckled. “I don't mean it like that. If I had been in charge after Konighorst, we would still be there. Or be dead. We might not have saved everyone, and it has not been easy. But I wanted to thank you for it.”

As Theod opened his beak to respond the great doors to Eborics hall swung open. The huge tercel emerged, dressed in his armour and Huscarls trailing in his wake. He acknowledged Aella, then pointed off to the west where the valley ended. “My warriors have seen Cirrans flying down into the valley. A proper warband come to burn this place. You do not have long left before they will be here, I think.”

Theod nodded, standing and glancing back towards the valley mouth. “You could still come with us.” He said

Eboric slowly shook his head, a rare smile on his face. “We have to slow them down. Fight one small skirmish or two, buy you some time. We will follow on as fast as we can.”

A cry went up from the edge of town, sudden and fearful. Warriors echoed it until it reached the Great Hall. “They are here!”

Warriors scattered, rushing into houses and gathering up weapons. Each building was a fort to take, with few entrances. A good place to kill many pegasi.

“You need to go. Now.” Eboric growled, drawing his sword and swinging it to loosen the muscles of his shoulders.

Theod looked to his Auxillia. Rested and full, but still weak. “We can't outrun them.”

“Then hide, or fight. But when I say run, you run.” Eboric said flatly, turning back towards his hall.

Theod led the Auxillia in behind his father, slamming the doors shut behind them.The Auxillia armed themselves as best they could from the hall, borrowing spare knives or breaking furniture to make simple clubs. Anything was better than nothing. Pushing his way through the now crowded building, Theod joined his father by one of the shuttered windows and watched as Legionaries formed up at the edge of the town.

Four centuries judging by the banners, marching on hoof with their huge shields and gladius. He could see the bloodlust written plain upon their faces, their eagerness to put anything and everything to the sword.

A few Cirrans broke from their units and took to the air, clutching lanterns in their teeth. They went straight for the thatched roofs, avoiding the murderous spikes to drop the lamps contents onto the buildings. Burning coals scattered onto dry straw and caught light almost immediately, flames leaping up in their wake.

The warriors inside rushed out. Some had not the time to put on their armour and carried only spears and shields. Eboric snarled as one of the lanterns shattered on the roof of his hall, and stormed out. “Warriors! To me!” He roared, his Huscarls scrambling to form a protective shieldwall around him.

Theod led the Auxillia from the burning hall and joined the crowd gathering around Eboric. If they were doing as Theod had been taught, the Cirrans would have already surrounded the town. The safest place to be was in the shieldwall.

Smoke rose from the town in great choking clouds, turning the morning sunlight feeble and gray against the firelight as the Cirrans came forwards. Eboric’s warriors shouted and beat upon their shields, and were drowned out by the chanting of old Nimban war songs. Theod kept the Auxillia as close as he could. He could feel their fear, their frustration.

They had come so far, only to be caught here of all places. Now they had to fight the legions, or die.

The closest block of Cirrans broke formation and rushed towards the circle of griffons. Whooping with youthful enthusiasm they surrounded the warriors and the fighting began in earnest.

Theod could not see past the warriors around him, but he heard the cries and shouts. The voices of pegasi rang high in pain and anguish as their eagerness met the strength and skill of much older warriors. The young tercel looked to his companions. Gretus stood at Aellas side, still as a rock amongst the jostling movement of the circle. Tapfer was on Theod’s left, a look of acid hatred etched into his features as he gripped a dagger in white-knuckled talons. The rest of the Auxillia held a line as best they could, protecting the Canii refugees with their bodies.

The tumult died down suddenly with the blare of a horn. The Pegasi pulled back into their block, dragging wounded or dead comrades as Eborics warriors jeered at them.

Another century moved up to take the place of the first. These were more experienced legionaries, Theod could tell. They betrayed no emotion but contempt. As they came close they pulled into a testudo with shields overhead. Theod wondered why for the briefest moment before a ghastly whistling filled the air.

A sudden storm of arrows fell upon the griffons. Points tore into unarmoured flesh, or bit deep into bone bringing cries of anguish and pain. The Auxillia suffered greatly. Few had shields to heft above them to protect themselves.

The moment the volley ceased the Cirrans charged into the griffons, holding their formation and pushing through the shieldwall. The group began to split apart as the Cirrans cut and stabbed their way through griffon flesh.

Eboric led his Huscarls forwards with a roar and his warriors parted to let him pass. They checked the advance, discipline meeting raw savagery. The shieldwall began to open up as Eborics warriors moved around the flanks of the Pegasi.

Theod looked back to the Auxillia. Many were wounded, some fatally so. They clutched at the arrow shafts protruding from their bodies with pale faces and red coats. Tapfer was nowhere to be seen.

“Aella! Gretus!” Theod shouted over the din of battle. “Get the Auxillia back in line! Keep them safe!”

Not checking to see if they had followed his command, Theod rushed off into the melee. He was instantly lost in the confusion. Warriors pushed forwards and back in a chaotic mess. Blood and chunks of flesh made the dusty ground into a foul morass, and the terrible screaming and yelling blotted out even the clash of arms.

Theod heard a familiar cry in the din and forced his way towards it.

Tapfer was caught in the midst of the crush, blood flecked across his coat and a bloodied table leg in his talons. He swung it own over his head, smashing it into the upturned face of a Legionary over and over. The Pegasus was already dead, held up only by the pressure of the bodies around him. Yet Tapfer continued to attack in a frenzy of mindless hate.

Theod barged through to Tapfer and grabbed him by his neck, hauling him back against the tercel’s screamed protests and rage. The Auxillia formed up around him as he tried in vain to calm his friend. Only up close could Theod see the tears running through the blood sprayed on his face.

The third unit of Cirrans advanced, spreading out to protect the flanks of their comrades and wrap around Eboric’s warriors. As tercels found themselves surrounded their will broke. The ordered shieldwall became a dozen split and scattered groups, each surrounded by the merciless swords of Cirra. The Auxillia formed their own pocket, fighting desperately to keep the Cirrans at bay.

Theod hauled himself to his hindlegs to look over the melee.

Eboric was isolated and alone. All his huscarls lay dead at his feet, but yet he fought on, wounded a dozen times. A pegasus leaped at him, thrusting a spear into Eborics thigh. The legionary lost his head to a sweep of the tercel’s sword for his effort. Another tried his luck, and another, and another. They rushed and piled in on him, the chieftain roaring his defiance even as he was dragged down.

Theod cried out in grief and anguish as he saw his father's head hefted up on a spearpoint by one of the legionaries, a savage shout of victory rising from the Cirran ranks.

A horn sounded from where the Cirrans had come, and as one they pulled back, setting their shields into a testudo once again. Eborics warriors milled about, confused without their leader.

“Form up!” Theod howled. “By the gods, form up behind the shields!”

Before the warriors could react, the horrid whistling of arrows filled the air once again. Theod could see them coming through a gap in the billowing clouds of smoke, glinting briefly before they plunged down into the black. As the sound rose higher and louder Theod closed his eyes and prepared for death.

He could not even bring himself to hold his arms up to protect his face as the first volley came down.

Theod barely felt the arrow skip off the side of his skull as he slumped to his haunches, eyes fixed on his father's headless and ruined corpse. Auxillia and warriors fell dead all around, unable to protect themselves in their scattered confusion. Aella screamed in anguish, Gretus falling from where he had tried to shield her, pumping his lifeblood from the arrow-wound in his heart.

They were doomed. They had marched across half the damned world just to die at the very gates of safety. As the vile whistling rose through the air once again Theod prepared himself for death. At least he might join his father.

But the arrows never fell.

A sudden howling gale slammed into the backs of the Auxillia, scattering the falling arrows uselessly across the ground. The wind swept aside the billowing clouds of smoke, and with the sun came a shining golden figure.

An enormous tercel, twice as tall as even Eboric and clad in golden armour crashed down between the surviving warriors and the Cirrans, a sword as long as a rowboat clutched in his talons. He did not screech or roar, or even say a word. He simply advanced towards the shocked pegasi.

The giant’s own warriors swooped down to join him, screaming vengeance as they fell upon the Legionaries. All kept well away from the giant, whose enormous sword swung through whole ranks of Pegasi with every blow.

The Cirrans lasted mere moments. Outnumbered, surprised and unable to fly with the howling gale still roaring down the valley.

As suddenly as it had come, the wind fell silent.

The giant in golden armour plucked a pegasus from the dirt as easily as Theod might lift a fruit, holding the terrified stallion up to his face. Theod could see wetness running down the legionary’s hindlegs.

“I am Magnus.” The giant began, his voice deep and sonorous. “I am the living god of my people. Tell your masters that I have seen what you have done, the murder of my hens and my fledgelings. Tell them that I shall lead this war myself henceforth.”

He lifted a talon and ran it through the pegasus’ mane, squeezing hard enough with the other that Theod could hear his armour creaking dangerously. “Tell them that their crimes will be answered a hundredfold.”

The giant tossed the legionary almost casually into the air, and watched him quietly as he fled west once again.

To be Tercels

Author's Note

Tercel is an archaic term for a male bird of prey. It felt apropriate to use for adult male griffons.

To be Tercels

I used to think the pegasi were the villains of our story. In my youth, I was told of how they enslaved and oppressed our people, that they wanted nothing more than to grind our kind into dust and revel in the ruins of our sacred places. Smaller than us, and weaker, but like insects they came in swarms. They claimed we were barbarians, or monsters, or demons.

Now we rule Dioda. History proved them right.

My time is nearly done, but I hope to put my story to paper before the end. I hope it can ease my conscience. But more than that, I hope some young griffon will read this some day and learn from our mistakes.

We crumbled. We slaughtered ourselves. We became monsters.

But we don't have to stay that way.

From the memoirs of Theod

Legate Pruina squinted against the roaring wind, watching as yet another landmark drifted by far below him. The mountain ranges of the griffon lands were a nightmare to navigate in the pre-dawn gloom, and his duties were too important to allow for even the slightest failure.

Behind him, cloaked by cloud, a flight of veteran legionaries soared in full battle formation. Their segmented steel armour whistled as the wind probed gaps and dragged along edges. They had split from their comrades a few hours ago, seeking to reach their target with all possible haste.

The Legate rubbed a hoof along his breastplate, feeling the rolled parchment within press against his chest. He rarely felt apprehension before a mission, but the weight of his orders left him ill at ease.

He muttered a brief prayer to Ofnir, and steeled himself for the day to come.

- - -

The sun rose over the mountains of the griffon lands, bringing warmth to the mist-wreathed valleys between them. Most were unremarkable; small and narrow with a thin band of forest within. One stood out from the others.

It was broad and deep and long, the dense forest covering it unbroken save for a large clearing cut into its heart, and within that a thriving village. Some of its residents were already up and about, griffons moving between the wood, stone and thatch houses as they went about their business. There was much that needed to be done on this day in particular, and the inhabitants needed every daylight hour they could get.

The rising sun went entirely unnoticed by one resident, lying asleep in a large and grand house on a bed covered in soft and expensive furs. The young griffons coat was the colour of fresh clay over his body and up to his shoulders where the white plumage that covered his head and neck began.

The sun was halfway to its zenith when another, almost identical griffon crept up the stairs into the room, clutching a few small bundles of rags. The intruder stopped at a safe distance from the bed and took careful aim before tossing one of the bundles. It bounced off the exposed head of the sleeper, drawing a groan from his throat.

“Damnit Vig’, let me sleep.” he moaned.

The other hybrid laughed and threw another bundle.

“Get up Theod, you lazy waste of feathers! Today’s the day!”

Theod sat up, a bearskin falling from his shoulders as he swatted the bundle out of the air and scowled at his brother.

“I know what today is. The only day for the past two months where we didn’t have to be up at dawn!”

Vigild rolled his eyes.

“Today’s the day when we take our oaths! Aren’t you excited about that?”

Theod picked up one of the bundles and threw it back at his brother, who nimbly sidestepped it. “Of course I’m excited. We can do whatever we want today, and I want to sleep.”

Vigild shrugged and turned to go back down the stairs.

“Fine by me. Hope you don’t mind missing out on breakfast, ‘cos Helga just finished up making stew.”

Vigild retreated down the stairs, his talons clicking on the flagstones of the ground floor. Theod swore quietly to himself and rolled out of bed, hunger forcing him from the comfort of his covers.

As he went downstairs, the rich smell of the maidservant’s cooking hit him, making his belly rumble. Theod picked up the pace, jogging through the rooms of the house and into the central hall.

The spacious room was almost empty, save for a long table in the centre where Vigild was already seated and a hearth where the grey form of Helga worked over a pot. Theod took his place at the table opposite Vigild as the servant placed bowls of steaming stew and rolls of soft bread in front of them.

As Vigild tore into his breakfast, Theod looked across the hall to where a small needlepoint depicted them as newborns in the arms of their mother. They were not just brothers, they were twins. The two were indistinguishable apart from a few differing scars and marks on their hides. To have two fledglings at once was extremely unusual amongst griffons, and their father had been overjoyed.

Vigild had always been his father's favourite, groomed to rule from a young age. He was cunning, brave and vicious; the perfect traits for a warrior. Theod on the other hand was disappointingly academic. His knowledge of runes and fragmented Cirran may have given him an edge in a debate, but most griffons argued with torn flesh and spilled blood.

As he thought that, the imposing figure of his father silently stalked into the room. Eboric was a big griffon, a full head taller than the almost full-grown brothers. His dull red, scarred coat was stretched tight over the thick muscles of his body, a testament to a lifetime of fighting and training. Despite his great weight and size he had an unnerving ability to move almost silently across any ground. He seldom failed a hunt with this gift.

He sat down at the head of the table, his chair creaking under his weight as Helga served him his meal and swiftly excused herself to her other chores.

The tercel watched his sons eat, idly toying with a small gold chit on a cord around his neck. He did not show it, but Theod could sense his father’s sadness. Days like this were hard for him. Watching his sons grow into tercels without his beloved had taken a toll on his heart.

After the twins were born, Eboric challenged the chieftain of their tribe to a duel. He had disgraced the tribe by failing to win any glory against the Cirrans in the Dawn War, preferring instead to raid farmsteads and supply convoys. However rich it had made him, it was not an honourable way to wage war. Through bribes, violence and promises, Eboric had made the warriors of the tribe loyal to him and challenged the chieftain before the gods.

It was a long and grueling fight, but in the end, Eboric butchered the tercel in a horrible and particularly messy way. He would occasionally recount the story during feasts much like tonight’s, much to the delight of his warriors.

Only a few days after he took the throne of the Darkwood tribe over the broken body of his predecessor, the Cirrans arrived. They demanded a hostage in return for allowing the new chieftain to rule. Unable to refuse them, Eboric was forced to send his beloved wife Senka into their clutches, and raise his sons alone.

That was almost sixteen years ago.

Occasionally a message would arrive from her, penned in griffon runes and censored to prevent any attempt at rescue. But there had been no letters for almost half a year now, and Eboric could not hide how much this worried him.

The scarred tercel let the chit fall to his chest and assumed his normal grin. He leaned forwards in his chair and rapped the table with his knuckles.

“Today is the day, lads. Do as you wish, but make sure that you reach the shrines by nightfall. Our guests are here to see you take your oaths, and we don't want to keep them waiting.”

The brothers nodded in unison. Both were to be declared tercels that evening in a solemn ceremony before the assembled guests and the shrines of the gods, beginning a feast that was expected to last for days.

Traditionally, a fledgeling was considered an adult at the age of sixteen years. When they reached that age, they could became a warrior by taking oaths to their tribe, their gods, and their chief. Warriors were the only tercels given the right to carry weapons, speak in conclaves, and marry the daughters of other warriors.

It was always a large event, with even the poorest of families putting on a lavish celebration. With two noble fledglings passing the milestone, today would be the largest festival seen in the village for at least the next decade.

Eboric smiled broadly as he picked up his spoon. “Excellent.”

As their father turned his attention to the business of enjoying the rabbit stew that Helga had prepared, Vigild kicked Theod under the table, his usual somewhat-stealthy signal to hurry up.

“We’ll be off then, Father.” Vigild said, answered by a grunt from Eboric.

The fledgeling got out of his chair and began making his way towards the finely-carved wooden doors that led to the outside world. Theod lifted the bowl to his beak and swiftly drained the remaining stew before following Vigild out of the grand doors of the hall.

The morning mist that usually clung to the village had burned away, creating a pleasant mid-summer day. The paths of packed earth that led between the stone and thatch buildings were crowded with griffons going back and forth on their business, and the scent of dozens of cooking fires filled the air.

Vigild waited until they were well clear of the house before speaking.

“Follow me, I’ve an idea.”

The brothers made their way through the unusually crowded streets, slipping between groups of noble warriors from distant tribes and performers dressed in bright and garish colours. A few acknowledged the pair, bowing or shouting well-wishes over the hubbub of the town.

The inn and tavern were packed to the rafters with visiting guests and performers from distant tribes. Every cellar was overflowing with ale and meat in anticipation of days of joy and debauchery rarely seen in the griffon lands. At least, not since the beginning of the Dawn War.

The upcoming festival had a more practical use as well. Other noble clans had sent emissaries to the village hoping to form alliances with Eboric, or perhaps cement a dynasty by marrying a suitable hen to one of the twins. There was much that an alliance with the chief of the Darkwood tribe could offer. Their home valley was long and broad and lined with rich seams of iron. The idea of marriage to a strange hen from a distant land did not thrill Theod, but as a tercel he would have a duty to his father and clan.

Eventually, Vigild led them to the edge of the village, where the stone houses of the wealthier warriors gave way to the dense forest which gave their tribe its name. Vigild turned and looked around, to make certain that no one was nearby. He then stood close to Theod, his voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper.

“You know how father has forbidden the hunters from leaving the village for a few days?”

Theod nodded. “Because of the manticore that moved into the forest north of here.”

Vigild grinned. “You know what would really impress our guests?”

The fledgeling pushed an arm into the bush and pulled out a pair of long spears, tipped with broad steel heads.

Theod blanched. “You can’t be serious! We can't take on a manticore! Father’s tercels barely survived their first attempt to kill it!”

His brother winced and looked around to see if anyone had heard the outburst.

“By the seven hells, keep it down!” he hissed. “The warriors wounded it. Badly from what I heard. We could track it down and finish it off easily!”

Theod shook his head. “No way. I am not dying today on some fools errand.”

Vigild rolled his eyes and turned towards the forest, slinging the spears across his shoulder.

“I suppose I’ll just have to do it myself. Claim all the glory, impress all the hens. See you at the shrines, brother. I’ll be wearing a manticore hide coat.”

The fledgeling moved off into the forest, disappearing into the gloom beneath the trees almost immediately.

Theod cursed under his breath. If his brother found the manticore by himself he was as good as dead. He couldn’t let that happen.

“Wait up, you gods-damned fool!”

The air was still beneath the dense canopy of the forest. Weak rays of sunlight struggled through the leaves and twisted branches, illuminating patches of the leaf-covered ground. Small creatures hid beneath rotting logs and in moss-filled hollows, and the occasional cry of songbirds hung in the air.

The brothers had been walking for almost an hour, picking up the trail of the manticore near a small pond where the warriors of the village had clashed with it. It was a big creature, and wounded. It was easy to track.

Vigild could tell the confines of the woods made Theod uneasy. The trees were too dense for either of them to fly, and there was no way they could outrun the manticore if it turned out to be healthier than expected.

He was not worried though. The dense forest was likely more of a problem for the manticore, being at least twice as large as the average tercel. If things went poorly, they could lose the beast in the undergrowth and twisted roots.

“This is stupid Vig’. We should turn back,” Theod whispered, obviously afraid that the manticore was nearby.

Vigild laughed. “Come on. Afraid of a half-dead monster? We aren’t far off. We’ll find it, kill it, and make a name for ourselves.”

“Our names will end up on a pyre-stone if the manticore gets its way!”

Vigild rolled his eyes and went back to tracking. The blood trail was getting weaker as the beast’s wounds scabbed over, leaving only the scattered patches of disturbed leaves to mark the manticore’s passing.

They were getting close. He could feel it.

There was another whimper from behind him. Vigild scowled and turned to face his brother.

“I swear to the gods Theod, if you dont shut up-”

He stopped. Something had changed.

Theod was clutching his spear low, bracing it against the ground in anticipation of an attack. His talons were shaking and his eyes were wide with fear.

“Vigild… behind you.”

Slowly, the fledgeling turned around.

Something moved in the shadows, easily twice as large as their father. The manticore slowly stalked out of the undergrowth, the dust-filled light swirling around its huge frame. Each paw, large as a tercels head, made barely a sound as it touched the ground. It snarled, teeth like daggers gleaming in the gloom, and the spines in its mane standing on end.

Vigild scrambled back to stand alongside his brother, bracing his spear in the same manner against the monster.

The manticore began to circle around the pair, flaring its vast wings as its heavy scorpion tail curved up over its back. The wounds of the warriors’ attempt on the life of this creature showed plainly as dull red marks on a pelt already thick with scars.

This monster had faced griffons before. Many times. The fact that it lived was testament to its strength and ferocity.

And Vigild had lead them straight to it.

With a roar, the manticore leapt at the brothers, swatting aside their spears and crashing into them. Vigild found himself pinned beneath it, looking up at the underside of its chest. He let out a strangled battle-cry and raked his talons along the monsters armpit. The edges bit deep into the leathery flesh, and he was rewarded with a spurt of blood and an enraged howl from the manticore.

The beast suddenly leaped off of Vigild, backing away from Theod’s wild spear thrusts. Vigild wasted no time in grabbing his spear and joining the attack. The only way that they could live would be to kill the beast. No turning back now.

He circled around to the right, trying to force the monster to fight on two fronts. The manticore seemed to fall for it until its tail suddenly whipped around. Vigild ducked behind a tree, the impact sending shards of wood and bark flying off into the gloom.

The manticore spun around and threw itself at Vigild as he moved from cover, stopping short of the tip of his spear with a flap of its mighty wings. The fledgeling lunged, the edge of his spear scraping along the monsters face. It reared up on its hindlegs and roared, the volume alone almost forcing Vigild to drop his spear and clutch at his ears. Then, like the wrath of the gods, it brought its paw down upon him.

Vigild was slammed against the ground, feeling the breath escape his lungs as at least two of his ribs broke. He could not look up, but he felt its hot breath on his back.

Through the spots that obscured his vision, he saw Theod charge with a yell and plant his spear deep into the manticore’s rump.

The beast rounded on Theod and struck him with one heavy paw, slamming the fledgling into the ground and pinning him in place. The manticore’s tail arched over its back, holding the pose for an instant before driving the tip into the griffon’s chest.

Theod screamed.

Vigild tore his eyes away and struggled to his paws, grabbing his spear once more as his opponent slowly turned to face him again. There was a malign intelligence in its eyes, a promise of great pain for attacking it so.

The fledgeling gulped and glanced behind the beast. Theod was convulsing in the leaf litter, a puddle of his vomit befouling his feathers as the manticore’s venom did its agonising work.

Vigild put his back against a tree to try and stay on his hind legs, and held his spear out defiantly. Like a bee’s sting against a bear.

Theod was right. He had killed them both with this stupid plan.

A high pitched shriek echoed through the woods, pulling the manticore’s attention away from the helpless fledgling.

A griffon swathed in black cloth and steel scales dropped through the canopy, wings folded against its sides and a barbed spear tucked beneath one of its arms. It crashed into the manticore’s back with the full force of its dive, the spear bursting through the monster's belly and pinning it to the ground.

The lion-esque creature howled in agony, its struggles forcing its entrails out of the broad wound in its gut as the armoured griffon pulled itself to its paws on the manticore’s back. It drew its sword and swung with a triumphant yell, the silvered blade whipped through its victims neck and dropped its massive head to the ground with a meaty thud.

The griffon hopped off the monster’s back as the body began to spasm and shake uncontrollably, deprived of the source of its instruction. After a few moments it lay still, save for insect-like twitching in its tail.

The griffon sighed and removed his cowl, revealing the raven-coated head of the tercel beneath.

He glanced over at Vigild, who still stood locked in place, before turning and moving towards Theod.

Coming to his senses, Vigild dropped his spear and limped painfully over towards his saviour, the tercel sitting over his brother.

Theod was breathing shallowly, every muscle in his body tensed and rigid. He lay in a horrid, twisted pose amongst the broken branches and trampled mud that now filled the clearing.

The griffon took a vial from a bag concealed in his wrappings and poured the contents into the wound on Theod’s chest. The foul-smelling concoction hissed as it mixed with the venom coursing through the fledgling’s body. Theod took a deep, ragged breath, slowly beginning to relax. The griffon, apparently satisfied, stuffed the vial back into his clothes.

“Who are you?” Vigild whispered, not wanting to disturb the silence that had gathered after the noise of battle.

The tercel looked up and turned to face him.

“I, heir of Eboric, am a servant of the great warlord Magnus,” he said with a low bow and a smile. “Your brother will survive his envenomation, but will need rest before he can walk.”

Vigild relaxed slightly. “We owe you our lives…”

“I am but the hand of my master. You do not owe me a debt, you owe Magnus,” he purred. “Remember that debt when you sit upon your father’s throne.”

Vigild put his fist on his heart and winced as he put pressure on his broken ribs. “I shall, I swear it.”

The dark griffon smiled. “Good. I shall not speak of this to your father, but I must return to the village. I feel that my absence would be noted…”

With that the tercel turned and moved off into the forest, leaving the fledgeling to watch over his brother.

Theod stumbled back towards the village, half-leaning on his brother. The manticore’s paralyzing poison had largely worn off, but it had left him weak.

Vigild had refused to speak since his brother had woken drenched in sweat and lying in a puddle of his own vomit on the forest floor. Vigild had wanted for him to rest longer before attempting to make it home, but the sun was setting and they did not have much time for the return trip.

It seemed unlikely to Theod that Vigild had managed to decapitate the manticore, especially given his lack of boasting. He didn’t want to push the question, though. Not yet, anyway.

A swift dunking in a pond took the worst of the puke, blood, and dirt off of their feathers. As they stumbled towards the smoke from the innumerous bonfires lit for the night’s events, Theod hoped that the scents of the feast would cover up the smell. They had cut through a dried-up creek bed to get back to the village faster, and now the lights gathered at the shrines were visible through the swiftly fading daylight.

Vigild stopped Theod before they got near the sacred grove.

“We will not speak of what we did today. If anyone asks how we became injured, tell them that we decided to do some sparring and it got a touch rough. Hopefully your feathers will hide the mark from the manticore.”

Theod nodded, trying to hide how dizzy the movement made him.

Satisfied, Vigild led the way through the last few lines of trees and into the sacred grove that housed the shrines of the gods. The entire space was packed with long feasting tables, each groaning under the weight of dozens of dishes, clusters of tall candles, and barrels of ale. Griffons of every colour, size, and tribe crowded around these tables, or pranced through the aisles wearing garish silks. The wonderful scent of roasted pork, pheasant, and mutton filled the air and made Theod’s mouth water.

Around the edges of the clearing stood statues to the gods of their tribe, each with offerings piled high in the name of the brothers. One stood separate from the carved wood and stone of the others: the mighty bronze pegasus, Ofnir. His statue had been erected by the Cirrans after the Dawn War. The griffon god of war had failed them, and now a pegasus demanded their fealty.

A cheer went up as the brothers were noticed by the congregated griffons, each lifting a tankard or fist in salute. With a deep breath, they moved through the crowds towards the obelisk at the head of the clearing. The crowd kept a respectful distance as the fledglings approached the rock, carved with deep spiralling patterns and covered in the stains of bloody talon-marks. Eboric stood by the stone, smiling proudly and holding a pair of silk-swathed bundles. Opposite him stood the ancient and hunched form of the Seer, his grey hide and robes wreathed in sweet-smelling smoke.

The gathering fell silent as the brothers went through the carefully rehearsed ceremony. They moved up before the rock and prostrated themselves, holding the pose for a moment before turning towards the crowd and sitting with heads bowed.

The Seer took the bundles from their father and unwrapped them, revealing a pair of broad hand-and-half swords in carved wooden scabbards. He then moved up to the brothers and held out the swords’ handles, croaking an incantation that he had spoken hundreds of times before.

“May all assembled bear witness to this, the swearing of oaths before the gods and our kin. May these fledglings be considered henceforth tercels, and respected as brothers among the tribe.”

The Seer thumbed the hilts of the swords, pushing them slightly from their scabbards as the brothers grasped the handles. As one, they drew their swords and turned to face the rock again.

“I shall serve my chieftain in times of peace and war,” they said together, each word falling like a stone in the silence of the shrines. “To be true and just in the service of my tribe. To bear arms and the weight of all responsibility placed upon me. To hold my vows and accept no insult to my honour.”

The brothers ran their left palm along the edge of their swords, Theod wincing as blood flowed freely from the wound. With solemn ceremony they reached out and touched the base of the obelisk, leaving a bloody talon-print on the stone.

“I swear.”

For a moment more, there was silence as the Seer turned back towards the gathering with his talons raised high.

“Brothers and Sisters. Kin and Kind. Let it now be known wherever your travels may take you, that the brothers Theod and Vigild are now warriors of Darkwood.”

The crowd exploded with uproarious cheering, crying out blessings in a dozen dialects and accents. Theod smiled at his brother and wiped his blood from the blade before returning his new sword to its scabbard. Vigild smiled back as he did the same.

Eboric ran over and embraced his sons.

“It is done, finally it is done!” he laughed.

He raised a talon to the congregation and shouted.

“Let the feast begin!”

The noise redoubled as griffons began to enjoy the festivities, bards breaking into song with a sound that made Theod’s head ring. Eboric lead the brothers to a high table before the shrine of the god of hearth, home, and hospitality, and sat them at either of his sides. As servants brought the choicest cuts of meat to the high table, various dignitaries approached and introduced themselves, or made diplomatic overtures. Theod devoted most of his attention to filling his aching belly with food, pausing to acknowledge griffons as they spoke to him.

However, one group caught his eye. A beautiful pure white hen escorted by a similarly coloured tercel, both wearing Cirran-style fashions. The long feathers of her crest were carefully draped over the left side of her head, framing the blue-grey feathers that surrounded her eyes. Their eyes met for a moment, and Theod hurriedly looked down at his food, cursing himself for staring.

He winced as they moved to the front of the line and bowed.

“My noble host, my name is Anser,” the escort began. “May I introduce Aella, firstborn daughter of Primario Armis of the Canii.”

Canii. Of course.

The Canii lived close to the Cirran lands and were not well liked by the other tribes. They were one of the few that did not rise against the empire in the Dawn War, and the pegasi renamed them in recognition of their loyalty. The name was as much a mockery as an honour, comparing them to the lapdogs of the Cirran emperor.

Because they did not fight the pegasi, their lands remained safe and unmolested through the war. When the capital, Angenholt, finally capitulated to the Cirran legions, this left them one of the most numerous and powerful tribes in the griffon lands. It was rumoured that their “Primario” was influential enough to be permitted a Cirran-style cloudstone villa as his home. When they did appear outside of their own lands, they went about in Cirran-esque armour and garments. Most griffons would die before wearing anything like that.

Theod glanced up again as the tercel finished off his speech.

“...and he wishes to offer you the possibility of marriage between our great houses, to combine our strengths into something greater than we apart.” he said with a deep bow, mirrored by the hen beside him.

Eboric nodded, scratching his chin. “We shall speak more of this on the morrow. For now, go and enjoy the pleasures of the feast.”

As the pair turned away from the high table, the hen met Theod’s eyes again and smiled.

The tercel didn’t feel like eating anymore. His stomach was doing things stranger than what it had done under the influence of manticore venom. Instead, he looked past his father at Vigild. His brother sat perfectly still, seemingly searching the crowd for someone, but unable to find them. The tercel shook his head and took a deep draught of ale. He would need to talk to Vigild again before the night was through.

Theod let the noise wash over him, relaxing in the joviality of the party and the taste of good food and drink. More than a hundred griffons were crowded into the clearing, shouting over each other laughing and feasting. The flickering light of candles and cooking fires made the shadows dance, and it seemed that the stones and statues in the clearing were shifting in place, ready to join the celebration. Some danced at the feet of the idols, singing praises and prayers for the brothers.

Suddenly the party fell silent, the bards cutting off mid-song. Eboric stood, a look of confusion briefly crossing his face. Then it settled on one of pure dread. Concerned, Theod turned to see a large group of pegasi marching from the forest towards the gathering.

There were almost three-dozen of them, the firelight glinting off the blades on their extended wings and their hard-edged glares. Among them was a blue stallion standing a half-head shorter than his guards, the plumed helmet carried in the crook of his foreleg denoting his rank.

As they approached the long table, the officer moved forwards past his legionaries and regarded Eboric with a steady gaze. Several warriors muttered amongst themselves and fingered the weapons at their sides. This was no way to respect a chieftain.

Eboric walked out to meet him, and Theod strained to hear them as they spoke.

“Chief Eboric, I presume?” the pegasus asked in heavily accented Gryphic, looking up at the tercel without any sign of fear or apprehension.

“Aye,” Theod’s father growled.

The stallion dipped his head a fraction and looked the chief dead in the eye. “I am Legate Pruina, and am here to bring news and dictates on the behalf of the Emperor of Cirra and the Prefect of this province.”

The legate retrieved a scroll from beneath his breastplate and glanced at it briefly before continuing.

“The 7th Legion is stationed less than a days flight from here. Any breach of treaty or the laws of the Empire will result in the annihilation of this settlement and the execution of all who oppose the Emperor.”

The pony paused for a moment.

“I am sorry to report that your wife, and hostage of the Emperor, died last spring of fever.”

The legionaries shifted nervously as Eboric’s expression changed, his talon moving to the pendant he wore around his neck.

“Senka…”

Theod felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. It seemed almost foolish that news of his mother’s death would shock him like this. He had barely known her, only communicating by letters. He cast a nervous glance at Vigild, who only remained cold and inscrutable.

The Legate cleared his throat and continued.

“In accordance with the treaties and agreements you have signed as a subject of the Emperor, you are henceforth required to give up a new hostage from your family...” Pruina rolled up his scroll and returned it to his breastplate, then donned his helmet again.

“Effective immediately.”

There was a rumbling from the crowd as tercels reached for weapons, ready to kill the interlopers.

Eboric stopped them with a harsh barked order.

He turned away from the stallion and looked over at Theod and Vigild. Theod could see the thoughts going on behind his father's harsh facade. He would have to send one of his sons away into the clutches of the Cirrans. Both brothers knew who it would be.

“Theod. Come here.” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument or hesitation.

The young tercel stood from his seat at the table and walked, the crowd parting around him. It was the longest walk of his life, seconds seeming to stretch into days as he approached his father and the pegasi.

He stopped before Eboric, looking up at him. Theod could see the hurt in his father’s eyes. The pain of being separated from his son and learning of his wife's death in the same hour showing plainly now that the Legate could not see his face.

“My son Theod will accompany you as a hostage… as agreed,” Eboric said slowly.

The Legate looked him up and down, his gaze seeming to peel back hide and flesh to stare straight into Theod’s soul. He nodded curtly and turned back to his soldiers, looking back over his shoulder at his prize.

“Theod, Obsidem. Do not leave my side until ordered.”

He did as he was ordered, feeling numb as he brushed past his father and moved up beside the pegasus. Vigild and Eboric watched him, silent, speechless, and hurting.

There was no tearful goodbye, no last embrace.

The Legate began walking and Theod followed, the legionaries forming up around them as they moved off into the forest and away from all that the young tercel knew.

A Just Reward

Theod took a deep breath, savouring the night air after yet another long journey. The whole Auxilla had been transported for the last few days the hundred or so carriages and wagons that Pruina had requisitioned. The teams of pegasi pullers had warmed to the griffons quickly after learning of their part in the Battle of Viridis. Where Theod had been expecting, even accustomed to the silent side-eyed glares of the pegasus soldiers, these ones met him and his Auxilia with welcoming, jovial smiles and nods. And it wasn’t just the pullers; throughout the trip Cirran well-wishers stood by the sides of the road in ones and twos.

Now the Auxillia had finally arrived at the promised Bath complex. From the outside it looked much like the Villa at Viridis, with a great building enclosing a large and airy courtyard, but on a much larger scale. Around it lay dozens of smaller buildings. Gymnasia, smaller halls, and bathhouses, from which the steam of hot springs poured.The Griffons walked into the main building in loose mobs, stretching their sore limbs and chattering with each other.

Tapfer walked past Theod, turning back and stepping on the spot. “You coming? I’ve been looking forwards to this for an age” He said

Aella laughed at Tapfers excitement. Her arm was almost healed, but she still held it in a sling that made her gait awkward compared to her usual grace. “I’m sure he will come when he is ready,” she replied, walking off towards the complex with Tapfer at her side.

Theod moved to follow behind, but Gretus stopped him.

“Theod. A moment.” Gretus rumbled.

Theod reluctantly halted, letting Aella and Tapfer go on ahead into the courtyard. He looked expectantly at the Canii tercel, who seemed to be struggling for words.

“I… Misjudged you.” Gretus said finally.

“Misjudged?” Theod asked.

The big tercel sat on his haunches and looked Theod in the eye. “I thought you a callow, feckless noble brat. I have seen many. I have seen your better side. I have thought ill of you, and I apologise.”

Theod cocked his head to the side. “You are apologising… for thinking bad things about me?”

Gretus nodded slowly in response. “It shames me to have thought this way.”

Theod frowned. “Well… apology accepted.”

Gretus allowed himself a small smile, then stood and moved off towards the hall. “We are missing the feast.”

Theod followed behind the larger tercel and into the main courtyard of the Villa. The large sandy area had been turned into a raucous feast, tables benches and lounges set up between the decorative statues of Cirran heroes. Smoke from torches drifted up into the night sky along with the conversation and laughter of the Auxillia as they indulged in things that most had not seen since they began their training.

An amphora as tall as a tercel on his hindlegs sat at each corner of the courtyard, filled with wine judging by the stains. Auxillia stood around it, chattering excitedly as they plumbed its depths with their goblets.

On other tables Pegasi servants piled freshly baked bread, great ocean fish and roast meats, the smell of which made Theods mouth water.

Gretus lead the way to the officers table, sitting directly before the raised table reserved for the Pegasi officers. Pruina sat at the centre of that table, Barley on his right hoof. The ageing stallion was beaming with pride.

Theod sat with his fellows, taking a draught from a goblet left at his place and looking back over the assembled Griffons.

They seemed happy, talking excitedly to each other in Gryphic or Cirran. Tribal barriers had broken down and Legionaries who were mortal enemies a few months before now sung bawdy songs arm in arm.

It was a strange kind of happiness. The battle at Viridis still weighed heavy on his mind, but seeing the remaining Auxillia finally able to relax and enjoy themselves after all the trials of training and combat, that brought some peace to Theods heart.

Theod plucked a ripe peach from a bowl resting on his table and took a bite, letting his eyes wander over the feast as Aella and Tapfer bickered. Turning back towards the Cirran Officers table he saw that Pruina and Barley were no longer there.

The tercel frowned for a moment, shrugged, and thought nothing more of it.

- --

Pruina re-read the message in his hooves. Re-checked the imperial seal against the one affixed to his mandate for the Auxillia. Even checked it against his own fake copy of the stamp. It was real. He left the letter sitting on the pile of wine jugs filled one wall of the room and turned to Barley.

“All of them?” Pruina asked.

Barley nodded. “We have two centuries of Legionaries waiting outside of town. They can get it done clean, even if they fight.”

Pruina pressed his face into his hooves. “They deserve better than this.”

“The Emperor has decreed it. They tried to kill him, so Griffons are our enemies. Every last one.” Barley replied.

“Of course you are eager for this.” Pruina spat. “From the damned start.”

Barley’s face twitched. He took off his helmet and put it on the table more roughly than was necessary. “I wanted them dead, yes. I went with you on this harebrained scheme because I am your friend. But I am not without a heart. I worked on them every day for weeks. They stayed with us in the middle of the gods-damned shitstorm that was Viridis. They saved your life and the lives of who knows how many Cirrans by fighting the way they did.”

Barley had gone red in the face, his lips twitching as he spoke. “I saw them for who they truly were, and now I am ordered to kill them. Don't you think for a fucking second this is easy for me.”

Pruina ran his hooves through his mane, eyes downcast. “I… apologise Barley. I overstepped.”

The Centurion spat on the floor in response and the two were silent for a while.

“I shall not have it end in bloodshed… They deserve better than that.” Pruina said finally. “Fetch my chest.”

Barley nodded and left to retrieve it.

The chest was something Pruina had built up over his career as a Frumentarius. Sometimes there was a need to dispose of an inconvenient Griffon or Pegasus without having an obvious part in the matter. Arranged in neatly ordered rows of bottles were nearly a hundred toxins and poisons of all kinds. Pruina looked through them carefully one-by-one. Death came in many flavours for poison. Some slow and wretched like a wasting illness, others as swift and painful as a sword to the heart.

The Legate selected one of the bottles and held it up to the light. A hoof-scrawled label dangled on a string from its neck. Manticore Venom.

“We shall have a toast. They shall all have it at once, all die at once.” The Legate said, his voice wooden.

Barley nodded. “I’ll have the civilian servants sent away. The officers will serve it to them.”

Pruina sent the centurion on his way with a wave of his hoof. He picked up the vial of poison and opened one of the larger jugs. The Legate clenched his eyes closed, trying to drive the thoughts of betrayal from his mind.

He poured the vial in slowly, letting it mix. It wasn't right that it had to come to this. All the work he had done, all that his Auxillia had risked. Pruina stopped.

There was still a fair portion of the poison in the vial, but he could not force himself to pour more. The venom was strong but it might not be strong enough to kill surely if he did not add all of it.

The Pegasus sat back on his haunches, looking at the vial, then at the Emperors letter.

One betrayal surely deserved another.

Pruina threw the bottle against the wall, shattering it into a thousand pieces. He resealed the amphora and placed it on the table for Barley to spread around. Perhaps a few would survive. But that did not untie the knot in his belly.

The Legate returned to the courtyard, walking past Barley and the officers in silence. He climbed the stairs and resumed his place at the table, putting his forehooves on the wooden surface so as to stand taller. He smiled at the assembled griffons, hoping that his apprehension was not visible on his face. If they refused the draught they would have to face a far harsher end.

“Auxillia, lend me your ears!” He called out, the assembled griffons falling silent for him to speak. “You have served faithfully, and the Emperor has recognised this. Your loyalty and example are to be known throughout the empire. Empty your glasses, and hold for a toast to Emperor Haysar- if you would permit me to borrow your tradition.”

The officers carried jugs of the poisoned wine through the courtyard, ensuring that every cup was filled to the brim. Pruinas was filled last and left on the table before him. Barley stood at the Legates side, stone faced and stoic.

“For the Emperor” The Legate said lifting the goblet high, then pressing it to his lips without taking any of the draught. True to tradition, the assembled Griffons each downed their whole drink in one.

Then Pruina waited.

Ada was the first. The Hen who had come to him smiling from the arms of her parents, eager to serve. She slumped silently into her bowl, cup shattering on the ground.

Next was Dolf. He had been a prisoner for eight years before Pruina had come for him.He hunched over, talons on the table as his breathing suddenly became harsh and ragged.

Pruina wanted to look away. Close his eyes. Try and forget the treachery he had just committed. They did not deserve this end. But he deserved this grief. The Legate watched in silence as cries of panic and betrayal rose over the sudden din of upturned benches and broken pottery. Barley placed a hoof upon his shoulder, but the Legate brushed it off.

He looked down at the officers table where Aella lay splayed across the floor. Gretus stood beside her, trying to support her even as he weakened. Theod stood, swaying on his feet. Their eyes met, and Pruina felt an iron spike of guilt pierce his heart as he saw the understanding in the tercels eyes. He had to look away.

Pruina watched as the Auxillia died. One by one they went limp and slumped in a tangle, the last wheezing breaths of the strongest fading into silence.

In but a minute, the courtyard was still.

Pruina swallowed hard, fighting back tears. “It is done Barley. Have the bodies placed by the side of the road, and then get the legionaries ready for a long flight. They will want us at the front.”