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