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.