//------------------------------// // Craven // Story: A Song of Storms: Shattered Skies // by Sigur024 //------------------------------// 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.