//------------------------------// // The Last Stand II // Story: Wind and Stone // by Ruirik //------------------------------// The griffons were setting up a massive camp just a few hills outside the edge of the cluster of houses that ponies called Altus.  Huge trees had been felled and shorn into great pointed shafts, which teams of griffon soldiers drove into the ground as a great palisade surrounding an enormous encampment of tents and even a few wooden structures.  But it was the cages which held Rain’s one eye the longest.  More than enough to take all of Altus’ population alive, if they surrendered.  Twice more, at least. A calculating part of the Nimban’s mind observed that the Gottlichwache had overestimated Rain’s resources. She wasn’t making any particular effort to hide herself, so Rain fully expected to be noticed.  She was surprised, however, by how few griffons came to meet her.  In fact, only two figures flew towards her on the hill overlooking the griffon’s encampment.  One, an aging tercel, seemed specifically chosen not to be a threat.  Not only was he unarmored, but unarmed as well—at least as much as a griffon ever could be, without the shattering of beaks or the severing of talons. The other figure was a hippogryph.  Above his griffon shoulders and talons, he had the head of a black stallion with a white stripe running the length of his muzzle.  A spiked band ran around his neck, and Rain caught herself wondering if it was intended to be a gorget or a hound’s collar.  He carried no weapons as well, though his torso was covered in thick plate armor. They landed a respectable distance from her—or at least, far enough not to be easily skewered by zweihufer, if she so chose. “Grüße,” Rain called to them. The aged tercel, who wore thin spectacles, reminded Rain just a touch of Magnus in his charcoal coloration—if not in any way in his build or his demeanor.  “I speak quite serviceable Cirran,” he replied.  “Though the attempt, it is appreciated.  Greetings to you too.”  His eyes, cold sapphires behind his spectacles, watched Rain.  “You are Iron Rain of Nimbus, yes?  Here to see Warchief Yngvilde?” “I am,” Rain, warily watching the two griffon soldiers with her one eye. “Excellent.”  The griffon clapped his claws together once.  “Well, introductions first.  My quiet companion here is Zufriedenhund.  I am Todesangst.  If you will follow me, Lady Rain, I will take you to see the Warchief.  Do you have any… friends I should be seeing too?” “I came alone.” “Ah.”  Todesangst nodded.  “I was told you had brought others to be with you to see Emperor Magnus, so it pays to make sure.”  With that Todesangst turned and began his walk toward the encampment.  Zufriedenhund watched Rain warily until the old griffon snapped his fingers, and only then turned to follow.  “Come come, Lady Rain.” “I’m not giving up my sword.” “I’m not foolish enough to ask for it,” Todesangst replied.  “And I trust that in an encampment of griffon elites, you would not be foolish enough to draw it.  One would not want to spoil the only chance for Cirra to survive, no?”  Rain didn’t see much of a joke as the older stallion offered a wizened chuckle.  “No, better there be less death on both our sides, I think.” As if he could guess Rain’s surprise at the words, he glanced back just as she raised a brow.  “I am an apothecary, you see.  Not unlike your… oh, what is her name?  The senator’s daughter?” “Storm,” Rain lied, making up the name on the spot. “Ah yes,” Todesganst nodded.  “Your medic.  Iron’s Rainstorm is quite famous, you know.  I had heard of you even before you had the gall to face Emperor Magnus.”  He glanced back over his shoulder again, this time continuing his stride.  “If you would care, I might look into your eye, so to speak.  Though of course I understand if you do not trust me.” “It’s fine,” Rain grumbled. “Good, good.  You pegasi have skilled medics, but the Gottlichewache has access to some medicine which you might not know.” “I meant my eye is fine.”  Rain regarded the aging tercel with her good eye as he led her into the camp.  The palisade drew closer; if the griffons were completely without honor, there was nothing Rain could do. But then, if they were completely without honor, they’d simply fall on the city and slaughter everypony inside anyway.  There wasn’t anything to lose on the risk. Once they were inside the walls of the compound, the destination was obvious.  From the hill, the structure had looked like just another makeshift wooden structure, but the elaborately painted doors told another story.  Several, actually; as was griffon tradition, they recounted the deeds of their owner. “You built a mead hall in an army camp?” Rain asked, incredulously. “Schnapps,” Todesangst corrected.  “Of any kind.  The Gottlichewache hail from Angenholt; they are not so particular about their spirits.” On the doors, a brilliant white griffon, looking somewhat between a dove and an eagle, fought in four distinct battles on four different panels of the wall.  Rain deliberately saved herself from paying attention; the intention was obviously to intimidate her.  She had no intention of having her spirit damaged before the battle even began. “Hund, if you would not mind?” The hippogriff grunted noncommittally, stepping past his elder and the pegasus to hold open the door.  “Go in,” came his growling voice. Rain raised a brow before stepping into the mead hall.  Immediately, a wave of heat battered her.  The center of the structure was dominated by a long row of smoldering coals, over which various pieces of meat had been staked, rotated slowly by hippogriffs and smaller, runt griffons or those too young to fight directly.  The coals were flanked by short benches and tables—though the hall was incredible for a fixture of a temporary encampment, it simply wasn’t feasible for the griffons to have carved their traditional benches, long as a full tree and stretching the length of the room, in the time it took to put the building together. What their furniture lacked in seating for the main area, however, was easily made up for by the head table.  A ‘u’ shaped semicircle of wood that looked to have been taken in a single slice from the base of a massive tree, the table was situated almost like a mockery of a stuffy imperial senator’s desk.  On the outside of the U, with their backs to the doors and side walls, a dozen seats offered griffons a chance to gather or speak to their main focus.  At the center of the loop was that focal point: an elaborate throne so decorated with totems of bone and fur and steel and feathers that Rain honestly couldn’t tell what the chair underneath was ultimately made of.  She hardly paid it any mind anyway; it was the griffoness in the center who immediately stole her attention. “Iron Rain,” she announced, and placed the talons of her right hand calmly onto the polished wooden table in front of her. Yngvilde was big, but not in any sense the freakish, unnatural way Magnus was.  Rain had fought bigger griffons, though she could hardly say she’d seen many.  The paintings on the door had done her colors some justice; they captured the snowy white of Yngvilde’s leonine body, though not the subtle gray spots that dappled her coat.  Up into her chest, the white was far less of that of a dove or an eagle, and more to Rain’s eye, that of an owl.  Her head matched that sentiment: her face curved forward into her beak much higher than most griffons, almost up into the middle of her brow, and the hook of her beak was wrapped so tightly that rather than pointing in, its scything spike curled back toward her own neck.  Her eyes were large as well, though her heavy brows had narrowed them to focused slivers. Hate surged from her expression. “Warchief Yngvilde, may I present—” “I know her name, Todesangst.  Your information was quite thorough.”  Her eyes didn’t so much swivel to the old griffon as slash to him.  “Be seated.  You may practice your talents when we are done.”  Again, those piercing eyes moved to Rain, and her raised hand gestured to a smaller seat directly opposite her throne at the head table.  “Come, mare, and we can speak.” Rain approached cautiously, but forced herself to keep enough of a speed not to seem cowardly.  She was nearly to her place when Zufriedhund pushed past her, walking around behind the edge of the lead table and taking a seat on the floor at Yngvilde’s side. “I see your wound has not healed nearly as well as the Emperor’s,” the warchief observed, once Rain was seated.  “But it is an appropriate trophy for such a pyrrhic victory.” Rain sighed.  “Are you going to offer me the same deal he did, or did you want something else?  Surrender?” Yngvilde scoffed.  “Why would I bother offering your Legion surrender?  Glory in battle is the only prize I stand to reap here, and my forces are more than enough to wipe out your pathetic force.  What good are two legions worth of mismatched pegasi against ten thousand griffons?“ Two legions was already an overestimate, but it made the cogs in Rain’s head turn.  “Your information is bad, Warchief.  I have three and a half legions in the city.  More of the First survived the eruption at Feathertop than you think.” Yngvilde’s already swooping brow rose to a point, and her eyes slashed across the room, presumably to look at Todesangst, seated somewhere behind Rain’s back.  Before the pegasus could even turn, she was once more the griffon leader’s focus.  “Then instead of five to one, my advantage is only three.  It makes no difference.  They will be slaughtered to the last.” Again, without moving her neck, Yngvilde turned her eyes to the hippogriff beside her.  “Hund, fetch the Kornbranntwein and the Plum Schnapps.”  Away the hippogriff went, and again, sharp eyes turned to Rain. “So?” Rain noted.  “What is your offer?” “Patience,” Yngvilde replied, holding up a single talon.  “We will wait for the drink.” “Did you just call me here to waste my time?” Rain demanded.  “You think the city won’t be as fortified if I’m gone an hour or two?  That’s petty, even for a griffon.” Yngvilde’s eyes narrowed to slits, and the wrinkling of her brow accentuated her beak.  “I do have an offer for you, Iron Rain.  But if you think that any use of a pony’s time is a waste, you think too highly of your species.”  The white griffon leaned forward, digging her talons into the wood of the table to support the motion.  Rain smelled blood on her breath, but she refused to shy away from the predatory warchief.  “Father admires your short-lived, frail species.  You breed like rats, and so every two or three million pegasi, you produce a champion, and at times those champions can be… instructive.  Father is optimistic.  He sees the chance for that champion in every one of your kind. “We both know you are one of Cirra’s champions, Iron Rain.  But I do not share Father’s kind view.  When I look at you, I see how many million wastes of flesh and grain and meat it took to make you.  I see the waste, the filth, the disease, the irrepressible disgusting pride of your fetid species.  My throat seizes at the thought.  But worst of all, I see the thousands of griffon slaves.  The thousands more dead on the walls of Nimbus so your family could have your stories.” Behind Yngvilde, Zufriedhund placed a gold tray with two tall glass bottles and two squat pewter flagons onto the table, then once more sat down beside the warchief. Yngvilde sat back once more into her seat, then slowly poured a rich purple alcohol into her own flagon, then into Rain’s.  “I cannot bring myself to care about your pathetic civilians or your broken army more than it takes to put them to the blade or the flame, or to chain them and put them to work for Gryphus.  But you, Iron Rain…”  Yngvilde took a long slow sip of her schnapps and then lowered the goblet.  “I hate you.  I despise you.” Rain glared.  “Consider the feeling mutual.” “But as much as I hate you, Rain, there is something that matters more to me.  I know I will win when my armies swarm over your walls and slaughter the pestilence that is your species.  But I also know that I will suffer casualties.  More griffon corpses scattering the battlefield, more warriors driven to Valhalla… So much waste.  You will make taking Altus hurt.  I know this.  That is why I have only one offer for you: a chance for you to die, Rain.” The offer took Rain by surprise, though honed control only showed it with a single raised eyebrow.  Rather than immediately answer, Iron took a drink of her own schnapps, savoring the sour sweetness of the plums in the liquor before answering.  “I have every intention of dying with my people.  Whether that’s in Altus or standing over your corpse, I don’t really care.” “I know this too,” Yngvilde answered.  “You dream of dying a champion, like your forebears.  And I am telling you that I will not allow it.  If you leave this room, I will not let you die.  I will take you alive.  And when I do, I will cut out your other eye. I will tear out your tongue. I will pull your wings from your body. And then I will parade you through Agenholt. You will be force fed three times a day, publicly. I will keep you a pet, and you will live long after your miserable race is wiped from the earth, as my trophy of the failure of Nimbus, and of Cirra.” “And now that you’ve told me this, you think I’m going to let you take me alive?”  Rain followed the question with a long slow sip of her drink. “It would be a shame if we found you dead by your own hoof,” Yngvilde answered.  “I might have to substitute you for your lover… Thorn, I believe her name is.  Or perhaps your pet, the cripple.”  Yngvilde leaned forward over the table again.  “And if you think your three pathetic centuries will pass for the fighting power of three legions, you insult my intelligence.” Rain’s wing dropped the goblet to the floor, where it splashed and bounced, ringing around the sweltering hall.  She knew… “Now you have a choice to make, last champion of Nimbus.  Todesangst…” The elderly griffon approached, and without further beckoning, set a small glass bottle on the table. “Hemlock,” he noted.  “My purest distillation.  You will feel a chill, but no—” Before he could even finish, Rain smashed the glass beneath her hoof. Yngvilde merely smiled.  “Splendid.”  Then, crossing her arms across her chest, she nodded toward the door.  “Todesangst, you will show Rain out now.”    Carver wiped the sweat from his brow with a wing and turned to Summer.  The feelings of splinters and cloudstone dust in his feathers gave the motion a gritty, harsh feeling, but the reminder of life before the war wasn’t completely unwelcome.  “You know, when the draft went out, there was a part of me that really thought I’d never get to do cloudmason’s work again.  I definitely didn’t expect to be doing it for the Legion.  Especially not while the war was still on.” Summer rolled her eyes.  “If you like this kind of work, Carver, you can keep it.”  She groaned twice, and then shoved a solid few dozen pounds of heavy fishing nets off her back and into a pile.  “Give me a sharp blade and a few pounds of flesh any day.” Carver quirked a brow.  “As a surgeon?  Or a soldier?” “Either way’s fine,” Summer answered.  “Both are better than this.  Where are these nets going?” “We’re trying to cover all the main streets.”  Carver extended a hoof toward the waterline of Altus.  “You’re welcome to help the Altans put them up if you’d prefer not to play beast of burden.” Summer groaned.  “You know the griffons are just going to cut through the nets.  A big old sword like Rain’s would go through these nets like—” Summer found herself cut off when Carver wrapped a wing over her face and pushed her against one of the Altan buildings alongside the street.  “I know what this looks like,” he whispered fiercely.  “But it’s the best chance we have.  Talking like that is going to get ponies killed.  The civilians are terrified, and the rest of the draftees aren’t much better.” “Like you?” Summer jabbed. “Yes!” Carver snapped back.  “I’m terrified, Summer!  We all know we’re going to die fighting this battle.  But this is what we have to do.” “Screw that!”  Summer shoved Carver back, and he fell onto the salty street.  “I’m not some fisherpony with a harpoon trying to hold it steady.  I ought to be out with Rain, not—” Summer’s rant was cut short when the flat end of an Altan harpoon cracked across the back of her ears.  Stonewall, holding the more dangerous end in his wing, gave her a single stern grunt, and then returned the harpoon to his other wing, which held at least a dozen polearms against his other flank. “Ow!  What in the—” Summer glared at the older stallion, who pointed up to the rooftops with his pack of makeshift spears.  “What are you thinking?” Stonewall replied by dropping most of the spears on the floor, then picking up as many as he could fit in his mouth and taking wing up to the nets spread overhead. “Right…” Summer turned to Carver.  “You have any idea?” Carver nodded.  “If Rain is able to keep Yngvilde  from getting rid of our fog,  the spears will make the nets a lot harder to get through.  The griffons won’t just be able to dive down and slash them open, or they’ll risk impaling themselves.  It’s smart.  ” Summer grunted.  “I’d still prefer a straight fight.” “That’s suicide, Summer.” “You said it yourself, Carver. We’re all gonna die, might as well be facing the enemy head on instead of skulking about like rats.” “Whatever,” he grunted, pausing a moment to inspect the lashings of nets.  A silence settled between them, interrupted only occasionally by the clatter of tools, low murmur of chatter around the town, and the flutter of wings when a pegasus took to the sky. Carver wondered how the cloud teams were doing. The largest clouds from all around were being gathered, pressed and condensed into enormous platforms capable of supporting the hundreds of pounds of supplies being gathered to support the Pegasi on their trek across the sea. He wondered if enough fresh water would be gathered. “I’m glad you’re here,” Summer said, interrupting his thoughts. “Huh?” “You heard me.” Carver swallowed hard, put down the netting he’d been working with. “Summer?” She didn’t turn to face him, instead busying herself setting up a spear trap rigged to a tripline between two houses. He stared at her for a long moment, taking in the way her wings subtly twitched when she moved, the slight angle on which she leaned her hips while working the line. Her wavy lilac hair had grown longer since they’d first met, and she’d let it hang loose around her face, framing her soft cheeks like flowers. Sighing, Carver took a step closer to her. “I don’t get you.” “Well no pony ever said you had brains.” He smiled a little, took another step closer. “You’re a medic. A damn good one too.” Summer turned a bit to cast a glance at him, an oddly blank look on her face. “So why...” Carver hesitated, teeth pinching his lower lip. Taking a deep breath he closed the distance between them, leaving only a few inches to separate their muzzles. “Why does it seem like you want to die?” “You never grew up a stranger in your own home, Carver,” she answered after a long pause.  Carver tilted his head, a puzzled expression furrowing his brows and splaying out his ears. “I am…I was” Summer gritted her teeth as though the very thought of what she wanted to say cut at her very core. “Born in Stratopolis. But Father is Nimban.” “And a great one, or so I gather.” “It was considered shameful he wed a non-Nimban mare,” she spat, those vibrant emerald eyes burning at Carver. “Only his friendship with Lord Winter allowed him to survive the scandal back home.” Summer’s ears drooped slightly, and she sighed. The flash of anger that has briefly roused her settling again. “I had to fight harder than all of them to prove my blood, and even then only Rain ever treated me like I was one of them.” “Fuck that,” Carver said, putting his hoof on her cheek. “It doesn’t matter what city you were born in, Summer.” She glared at him again, but the fire didn’t set her eyes ablaze like it had moments before. “It matters to me, Carver!” “Nimbus, Nyx, Stratopolis, it’s all gone, Summer. None of it matters any more. All we’ve got left is our fellow Cirrans...All we’ve got is each other.” For a time Summer was quiet, then to Carver’s surprise, she began to laugh. “What?” he asked, growing more confused by the moment as she went from a soft chuckle to gales of raucous laughter.  Some of the other ponies who were busily setting up more traps and defenses even paused in their work. Their glances of confusion and irritation at the mare shaking with laughter made Carver blush. Finally when she managed to regain some sense of composure, Summer stood up and wiped her eyes across her fetlock. “Gods you’re so naive,” she said, smiling at him. Carver started to protest, only for Summer’s lips to tenderly press against his own. His eye went wide and for a moment he was stunned. Their lips parted, and Carver could still feel them tingling. When Summer spoke her voice dropped low, to a whisper that had an almost melancholic tone. “But maybe that’s what makes you special.” “Summer...I…” She pressed her forehead against his for a moment, then pulled away. “Come on, let’s get back to work.”