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.