A Song of Storms: Of Skies Long Forgotten

by The 24th Pegasus


Chapter 9: Lightning

As much as war can bring out the best in a soldier, reveal what makes him strong, what makes him tough, what makes him extraordinary, it can also bring out the worst. I saw unimaginable cruelty fighting Gryphus, and the memories still haunt me. Even in my sleep I can’t escape the screams of innocents, the sound of blood and unarmored bodies hitting the floor. The Red Cloud War wasn’t a war between soldiers; it was a war where the citizens were, above all else, the primary targets.

---Excerpt from Commander Hurricane’s journal
9th Bare Trees, 401 After Empire

Chapter 9: Lightning

The battle for Hengstead lasted only three more days with the timely arrival of the Cirran 8th Legion. The last griffon soldiers were executed or fled to the east, abandoning the city and its populace to the furious hooves of the Empire. Without any interference from the Gryphon military, Cirra began to murderously crush the city into oblivion, the flames visible for hundreds of miles. For a full week on their flight east, Hurricane could always orient himself to the west by the dim glow on the distant horizon. Then one night the glow dulled and ultimately vanished, and the griffon city of one hundred-thousand was no more.

It had been a popular topic between legionaries to discuss the Empire’s handling of the war from what limited action the soldiers of the Eighth had seen in the past week, and opinions were split along a razor’s edge. There were those that wholeheartedly supported the Empire and saw the griffons only as vermin to be eradicated, put to the blade and buried dozens at a time. Then there were those who, like Hurricane and Silver Sword, questioned the ideologies of the senate and were revolted at the thought of exterminating every griffon encountered. Unfortunately for them, this group was by large the minority, and they could not discuss their opinions openly around the centurions. Too many legionaries had been felled by Cirran blades on accusations of heresy and treachery in the past few days for it to be even remotely considered.

“Tomorrow’s Azoeth, huh?” muttered Silver Sword as he lay on his bedroll. Fat drops of rain pattered against the thick canvas sides of the tent that he, Hurricane, and Shear Point all shared. The moon’s pale light was far away, separated by a rude blanket of nimbostratus clouds, and the camp was dark with the exception of the dozens of torches placed across the hills Cirra’s armies commandeered to host their soldiers for the night.

“Yeah. Supposed to be a small town—only a few hundred or so—but the rest of the Eighth’s gonna be hitting other targets between here and Bavargade as we push eastward.” Hurricane sighed as he rolled over, trying to relax his weary wings. “Damn Legion’s trying to hunt down every griffon settlement in Dioda and wipe it out. No wonder they’re calling for every stallion they can get.”

Shear Point grunted. “If we’d just focus on taking their metropolises and knocking out their government this war would be over before we knew it. I don’t get the point in fighting for every mile of Gryphon sky when we could cut through their defenses at a few key points and rip them apart that way.”

“It really could mean only one thing,” replied Hurricane, magenta eyes a dim red in the faint light. “Cirra is actually trying to kill every last griffon in Dioda.”

“Insane,” Silver Sword mumbled, raising his hooves into the air as he increased in volume. “Insane! Is it really so worth it to make it a goal to kill millions of griffons? Even if it means our generation is all but bled dry in the process? They’re damned sapient like us too! Can you justify killing a family, a wife and her children, because we ‘think’ they might be a threat to us?” The steel pegasus flipped onto his side, feathers practically smoldering in anger.

“The Empire thinks that killing every griffon is the only way to ensure peace for the rest of us. In theory they’re right, but that doesn’t justify it, let alone make it any more possible.” He pulled out his sword for another glance, eyes fixated at dark brown stains colored a putrid black in the night light, refusing to leave no matter how much he cleaned and polished his blade. He had spilled more than his fair share of griffon blood in the past week, with the fighting in Hengstead and fending off griffon hit-and-run attacks. It was odd, Hurricane thought, that they hadn’t encountered much resistance in their invasion. If the rumors he kept hearing about Gryphus and Magnus were true, he expected that they would’ve fought back fiercely with all the strength they could muster.

Shear Point groaned as he heard Hurricane sliding his blade in and out of its sheath. “Hurricane, will you just put the damn thing away already? I’m never going to get any sleep at this rate!” He spun onto his side and pulled his blanket up irritably, willing the dark walls of sleep to close around him. Hurricane returned the sword to its scabbard and lay it down by his side, bored eyes gazing at the canvas ceiling of the tent.

“Well, there’s definitely too much bad blood between our two species for the gap to ever be repaired,” said Silver Sword, continuing the conversation. “One of us isn’t going to survive this conflict at the rate it’s been going at, and as much as I hate to say it, better the griffons than us.” Sighing, he closed his eyes and tried to relax. “I’m just not sure whether it’ll be a good thing to live long enough to see the end or not.”

Hurricane’s head nodded in the dark, and a sudden gust of wind extinguished the torch placed nearby, plunging that section of the camp into utter blackness. In his wandering thoughts, he pondered whether or not the skies would ever brighten again, if he could ever return from this experience and take up his old life at Zephyrus. The faces of his family flashed before his eyes. What he wouldn’t do to get a piece of paper, just a measly scrap of parchment, and tell them that he was alright, tell them how much he loved them.

There was a flash of lightning, brilliant and blinding, and Hurricane could have sworn he saw his father standing outside the camp. But the tidal wave of darkness, crashing back over the camp, swept away the image, and with the rumble of thunder Hurricane’s consciousness drifted off to sleep.

-----

Azoeth was a small settlement, nestled into a bowl formed by five distinct hills that bordered the griffon town. Dozens of wooden and stone buildings congregated in the center of the bowl, and cresting the hills were large farms, the stone farmhouses standing erect against the buffetting of winds that had permanently flattened the golden prairie grasses. The sun slowly rose over the hills, shooing away the shadows and promising the griffons that called the land home that it would be a marvelous day.

To the west, nearly five hundred Cirran legionaries sought to ensure that it wouldn’t. At the front of the column the fifth cohort's commander, Centurion Primus Rising Coat, was accompanied by Legate Red Tail as he steered his soldiers and the rain of ruin they would bring towards the settlement. The Legate, rarely one to stay behind and away from a fight, had decided to tag onto the fifth cohort for the day’s mission to monitor its progress and capabilities in combat.

“Centurions, spread ya platoons an’ drop your altitude! We’ll take ‘em by surprise an’ make short work of this blasted town, an’ then we can be on our way.” The centurion's voice carried the cheery drawl common to his hometown of Procella, a modest settlement at the very southernmost tip of Cirra. The sound of his accent nearly drew a chuckle from Hurricane and Silver Sword as they flew, but they managed to suppress it with Dusk Strike only a few strokes away. As the centuries split off, Silver Sword glided closer to Hurricane to exchange a few remarks.

“Can’t believe I never heard him speak before, I’m so used to hearing our orders come from Dusk Strike. Seriously though, can you believe that accent?” Already the silver pegasus was grinning at his recollection of the Centurion Primus' voice.

Hurricane was smiling as well. “Procella was one of the last independent city-states to join with Cirra, and they’ve only been a part of the Empire for the past century. They’ve had plenty of time to… evolve their language before adopting standard Cirran. They’re good warriors though, and I hear their food is excellent.”

At the mention of food, Silver Sword licked his lips. “Damn it, Hurricane, now I’m hungry again. That carrot stew just did not cut it for me this morning,” he grumbled, hoof rubbing over his stomach gingerly. Hurricane laughed and began to line himself up in formation. He realized he was a whole row ahead of where he normally lined up, and he shook his head mournfully. The twenty-third century had lost about a quarter of its fliers, and there were no more than forty-five pegasi left out of the original sixty. Still, it could have been worse. The fifteenth and seventeenth centuries had been wiped out at Hengstead while the thirty-ninth century had to be combined with the fortieth to bring them back up to strength.

The usual surge of adrenaline rushed into Hurricane’s veins as they approached Azoeth, but other than the racing of his heart he felt surprisingly calm. Excluding the different skirmishes at Hengstead he’d been involved in, this was only his second battle that he’d be playing more than a support role. He figured it would have taken him longer to get over his combat anxiety, but as his kill count rose his fears seemed to decline. Whether or not that comforted him was another thought entirely.

Dusk Strike had lowered his century so close to the earth that if Hurricane stretched a hoof down it would skim across the long prairie grasses. The other centuries were fanning out and creating the prongs of a pincer formation, circling away from Hurricane and receding towards the rear of the settlement. Flaring his wings, the centurion slowed his platoon and alighted behind one of the hills overlooking Azoeth.

Lying on his stomach, Hurricane peered over the hill at the town below. The small cottages were just beginning to stir to life, exhaling thin wisps of smoke as their inhabitants began to prepare the morning meal. A few brown figures emerged from their houses and crossed the streets to shake hands and share friendly words with their neighbors. Small children scampered down the dirt roads, fledging wings barely giving them enough lift to bound forward in excitement as they chased each other in early games of tag.

It was all so peaceful and so serene, and then Hurricane looked around him. The hills were virtually bristling in iron clad demons, ready to rain down on Azoeth at any moment and spell death and ruin for its population. The griffon fledglings squealed in happiness and blissful ignorance, but in mere moments Hurricane knew they’d be screaming in terror.

There was a flash from the hills on the other side of the town, a series of short and long blips as an officer sent a signal to the rest of the cohort. Dusk Strike fumbled with his saddlebags for a second before pulling out a reflective piece of glass and angling it towards the sun, flipping it up and down in his mouth as he responded. Spitting the shard out, he placed it back into his bags and stood up.

“Swords, ready!” he shouted, turning around to face his century. As one, the forty-five legionaries of the Fifth Cohors, Twenty-third Centuria drew their weapons and spread their wings, ready to take flight. Azoeth’s fate was sealed, and it was only a matter of time before it would be reduced to a charred blemish on the Earth and nothing more.

There was a yell from somewhere to Hurricane’s left, and he turned to see the crimson-maned legate and the white coated centurion primus taking flight towards the town, bladed wings and sharpened swords catching the sun as they began their murderous descent. Scores of armored figures leapt after them, and immediately after, Hurricane, Silver Sword, and Shear Point all found themselves as part of the noose rapidly tightening around the griffon settlement. There was a shriek from one of the houses and the buzz of the settlement went deathly quiet, only to be whipped up again into a frenzied terror as more Azoethans spotted the incoming Cirrans. The bells in the church steeple began ringing frantically and mothers rushed onto the streets to grab their children and haul them indoors.

The massive bells tolled only six times before the cohort entered the city, cutting down whomever it encountered as it began to reform in the town square. Several dozen militiamen and a handful of Gryphon regulars emerged from the central barracks in various amounts of armor and gear, struggling in vain to come up with any kind of response to the Cirran incursion.

Dusk Strike’s century was one of the several designated for striking from the center of the town outwards while the rest of the cohort fought their way inwards, and the burden of dealing with the griffon defenders fell to Hurricane and his companions. A pair of griffons flew into his path, both obviously militia by their civilian clothes. The mustache of one was half shaven, his face still wet with water and shaving cream. Raising his sword, Hurricane took the half-shaved griffon first, ducking low under the swipe of his dagger and turning a wing blade upwards towards the griffon’s chest. In one fell swoop Hurricane managed to liberate the griffon of his innards, chunks of red organs plunging with the body as it fell and intestines trailing it like streamers. The sticky red blood clung to his feathers, and Hurricane had to give his wing a quick shake to separate them.

The companion to the first griffon recoiled in horror as his friend fell, obviously gagging on what little breakfast he had managed to eat before the attack. Twisting his neck, Hurricane drove his sword towards the separation of white head feathers and brown body feathers, squeezing his leading eye closed against the spray of blood he knew would follow. There was a jolt on his sword as Hurricane collided with the griffon, and the coppery taste of blood stung his lips. The griffon let loose a choking gasp for air through the new hole in his neck as Hurricane withdrew his sword, and then the mottled corpse fell on the rooftop of a house with a dull thud.

A few strokes of his wings and Hurricane alighted on the ground with a handful of other legionaries, many of whom had not the slightest speck of blood on their coats. The Cirrans had heavily outnumbered Azoeth’s defenders from the start even with sending in only half of the cohort to wipe them aside, and several legionaries were able to reach the center of town unimpeded.

Silver Sword and Shear Point dropped onto the ground next to Hurricane, both with blood dripping from their wing blades. Silver was unhurt and alert, sending fleeting glances to the rooftops to check for threats as he waited anxiously for additional orders. Shear Point was holding a hoof over his eye, trying to stop the bleeding from a series of cut marks across his left brow. Hurricane started over to see if he was alright, but Shear waved him off with his wing and began to look around the plaza for any more griffons.

A few Gryphon stragglers fled down the alleyways as additional legionaries landed and began to organize for further combat operations. At the edge of the town the first plumes of smoke rose from houses as the rest of the cohort fought its way inwards. A century of Cirrans circled overhead, keeping watch over the streets for any griffons trying to muster a defense and swatting down those that tried to flee.

“Legionaries, form up!” Legate Red Tail’s voice rang over the shingled rooftops, immediately drawing the focus of the Cirrans in town square towards his blood-streaked face. “I want every house in this town brought to the ground, piece by piece if you have to! If you encounter any of the clawed bastards it is your duty to kill them! Am I understood?”

The response was swift and affirmative, the salutes crisp and rigid. Satisfied, Red Tail swept his fearsome eyes over his soldiers once more before continuing. “Your centurions have their assignments and will direct you to your targets. I will accompany centurion Dusk Strike’s platoon for this operation.” He turned away and began walking to the north, bluntly indicating he was finished speaking.

Hurricane cringed when he heard that the legate would be joining them in the razing of the city and trotted after the scarlet tail wearily. Silver Sword and Shear Point assembled themselves at his sides, weapons loosened from their scabbards and eyes trained on the shaded alleys. The trio rounded a corner with the rest of the century and stepped onto a fine cobblestone street lined with splendid houses on either side.

“Good thing I went to the bathroom before this mission,” the steel pegasus muttered. “I’d have shit myself when I heard Legate Hardass is going to be watching my flank the rest of the day.”

“Even Dusk Strike’s on edge, see?” Shear Point gestured his head towards the front of the column, where the centurion kept nervously glancing over his shoulder. His wings were slightly flared in an anxiety not normally seen in the elder legionary's countenance, and he wiped his brow several times as if he was sweating profusely.

“Can’t say I blame him,” Hurricane said as he pulled his sword from its sheath. “I’d be nervous as hell too if a legate wanted to watch my century specifically. And of course it doesn’t help that it’s Red Tail.” The three ponies stopped their conversation as Dusk Strike began dispersing troops into the different houses. The legate for the most part just looked bored, watching as the first pegasi smashed down a building’s door and rushed inside. Seconds later his ears perked slightly and a malevolent smile twitched the corners of his flat mouth when the first screams of fear became audible from the broken windows. The whole scene made Hurricane shudder as he looked on.

“Cane, Sword, Point, with me!” shouted Dusk Strike as he galloped to a door. The four legionaries plus Red Tail gathered around the oaken entrance, weapons grasped in their mouths and heads held low. After a curt nod from the legate, Dusk Strike delivered two powerful bucks to the door, reducing it to kindling and splinters. Hurricane led the way in, rushing straight into a living room while his friends checked the corners.

There was an obnoxious screeching noise as a griffon hen fled from the legionaries’ advance, scooping up two fledglings and disappearing into the kitchen. Dusk Strike shouldered his way past Hurricane as the dark stallion completed his search of the living room, relaxing his grip on the sword held between his teeth. Expressing a sound of approval, Shear Point walked up to a table and placed a few scraps of jewelry in his saddlebags before continuing on into the rest of the house.

Dusk Strike had already cornered the griffon family in the kitchen, standing ten feet back from the cowering mother and children as he watched them with steely eyes. Legate Red Tail paced up to the centurion and gave the kitchen one last look around.

“What should we do with them?” began Dusk Strike, lowering his sword into its sheath. Red Tail took a step closer, regarding the sniveling beings before him as one might regard a repulsive insect. Hurricane and Shear Point, who had completed their searches, walked into the room as well.

There was little reason for the legate to hold back. The legionaries all knew that he wanted to kill the vermin before him, and the only reason he delayed was to watch the terror in the griffons’ eyes. He was the chief justice, the harbinger of life or death, and the power to choose lay solely in his hooves.

A yell from behind them interrupted the stallion’s sadistic pleasure, and Hurricane turned around just in time to dodge a large griffon hurling a meat cleaver at his head. The griffon knocked Hurricane and Shear Point aside, trying desperately to get to his family. He was tackled by Dusk Strike, who quickly incapacitated the griffon and pressed his blade against the hybrid’s neck.

A winded Silver Sword burst into the room as Hurricane brought himself to his hooves. The steel pegasus had a large gash along the side of his muzzle and his right eye was swollen shut.

“Came out of… one of the alleys… gave me a pretty good fight… phew…” panted Silver as he wiped the blood from his face. The griffon was struggling in vain against the pony planted atop his back, and Dusk Strike soon silenced its fight with a slice from his wing blades.

The family of griffons was frenzied, the fledglings crying and the mother shouting something in the griffon tongue at Dusk Strike and the other legionaries. One of the fledglings who was almost mature enough to fly broke from its mother’s grasp and ran towards the body of its father, screaming. Red Tail grabbed the griffon, but it struck out at him, tiny claws digging through his eye. Shouting in pain, the Legate hurled the poor creature into the corner by its mother and held a hoof up to his bloody eye, teeth gritted in a mixture or rage and agony.

“Kill them!” he hissed, trying to find a rag or anything to stop the bleeding from his ruined eye. “Kill the little bastards!” Hurricane gave him a strip of cloth from his saddlebags, and the legate wrapped it across half his face in a makeshift bandage. His fury was not tempered, however, and he glared at Dusk Strike as he waited for his command to be obeyed.

“Sir,” began Dusk Strike, slowly. “We should just take them to the camps like the others. They'd be better as slaves. Cirra's going to need a lot of labor when the war is over.”

The centurion’s voice trailed off as the legate advanced. Even with one good eye, Red Tail was more than capable of staring down Dusk Strike.

“I gave you an order, centurion, and I expect to see it carried through.” The peaks of rage had been flattened from his voice, but the growing hostility was shifting from the griffons to Dusk Strike.

The centurion gulped and straightened his neck defiantly. “I cannot execute your command, sir. I have killed many griffons in my life, sir, but always because they have taken up arms against our empire. Cirra may have my full support in the war, but I cannot condone these kinds of actions. If you must, cut the talons off of the whelp and bring him back to camp. He can pull a chariot or a wagon.”

The single maroon disc blinked once in surprise. The Legate leaned closer to Dusk Strike until he was almost whispering in his ear. “We are eradicating this vermin from the face of the earth," he hissed. "So why don't we spare ourselves the hassle of dragging them back to camp when we'll just slaughter them like pigs later. I hope you understand the price of your actions, Dusk Strike. You have ten seconds.”

The centurion shakily nodded his head in defiance. “I do understand, sir, and I will not let my actions tarnish my honor. You and the rest of the officers may have forgotten what honor is, legate, but I have not. We are a nation of proud warriors, not common barbarians and scum like the griffons. If you want to lead Cirra into the ruinous ways of their kind, sir, then I do not want to live to see it.”

Red Tail had no response. He silently reached for the dagger on his right flank and unsheathed it, drawing the blade closer to the centurion’s neck. Hurricane, Silver Sword, and Shear Point looked on in trepidation as Dusk Strike closed his eyes and savored the last breath he would ever draw. There was a snick and a silent wheeze for air, and the Cirran centurion fell by Cirran iron.

Legate Red Tail stoically observed the body before returning the dagger to its sheathe. The griffon family huddled in the corner had become deathly silent, the fledglings trembling in their mother’s arms. Suddenly the legate turned his gaze towards the trio of legionaries standing under the arch that separated the kitchen from the living room.

“You.” Hurricane practically jumped out of his armor as Red Tail pointed a bracer-shod hoof towards him. The legate ripped the shoulder piece off of Dusk Strike’s armor and threw it to him. “You are now centurion of the twenty-third century. If you will not execute the filth behind me, then leave my sight.” With a scornful push, Red Tail moved Dusk Strike’s body out of his way. “I expected more of my experienced soldiers, and if they won’t do the task then why should I expect you greenwings to be able to. But let this be a lesson for you. When a superior officer gives you a command, you are expected to execute it. I will not be forgiving next time.”

Hurricane nodded and picked the shoulder plate off of the floor, the metal quivering in his mouth. With a crooked nod of his head, he led Silver Sword and Shear Point out of the house and into the street, which was already choked with ash and smoke from the burning ruins of Azoeth. There was a series of shrieks from inside the house cut untimely short, and then a more crimson Red Tail emerged from the doorway. Silver Sword quietly helped Hurricane affix the new insignia to his armor, then stood by his side as the pegasi of the twenty-third century gathered around him.

The rest of the day was a blur. Somehow he got back to camp with the rest of the Eighth as its various cohorts returned from the day's assignments. He didn’t remember much past sharing a few quick words with the century he was now placed in charge of and then wandering back to his bedroll. Even in the dark, Dusk Strike’s defiant body remained seared into his retinas, a bloody dagger dripping from Red Tail’s mouth.

He had occasionally dreamt of being promoted and maybe one day becoming a Commander like his father, but his sleep that night was only filled with nightmares. He dreamt he killed Dusk Strike and took the centurion’s insignia for his own. He dreamt he was Dusk Strike, and he was too terrified to carry out Red Tail’s order. Then the legate would advance, the terrible dagger glinting in the light, and then he would awake from his sleep whimpering for his life.

He wished he could go visit Swift Spear for comfort, but her cohort hadn’t returned from its mission far to the north. He felt so utterly alone and guilty that he wanted to cry.

And under the mournful starry skies, that was exactly what he did.

-----

The moon shone over the mountains, its waning light bathing the peaks in a sad, blue glow. Nestled in and among the tallest spires were hundreds of thousands of dots of light, each one revealing the presence of a griffon home.

High atop the tallest mountain, a magnificent complex watched over the capital of Angenholt with a vigilant gaze. The architecture was massive and geometric, curves and organic shapes largely flushed out of the masonry. Giant columns supported the entry to the palace, and a dozen meager torches struggled to repel the darkness.

A large figure paced the stone floors in front of an enormous throne, claws creating a rough staccato of clacks as it walked in the shadows. A massive crown decorated its head, and its sides were covered in steel armor. Another, smaller figure approached the pacing one from outside, wings fluttering as it set its solid body on the floor before the large griffon. The griffon with the crown snorted and stopped his pacing, walking to one of the massive windows overlooking the city.

“Speak, Gustave. If this is the news I have been waiting for I would suggest you tell me quickly.” The voice created by the beak under the crown was deep and smooth, flowing gracefully over the syllables yet maintaining a firm hand on authority in its intonation. It was the sort of voice that one would wish they could sit and listen to all day, willing to do whatever the melodic words said.

The griffon known as Gustave rose from his bow and pulled out a scrap of parchment. “Our scouts report the Cirrans have broken through the second ring. The towns of Azoeth, Isbaen, Bavargade, and Sthugart have all been razed to the ground. In addition, the first ring city of Hengstead is completely destroyed. Other than the refugees who fled from the onslaught, no survivors are reported.” Rolling up the piece of parchment, Gustave took two steps back and braced himself for the large griffon’s outburst.

A small puff of wind whistled through the palace, seemingly coming from the griffon itself. The crowned griffon’s tail swished back and forth, but the anger never came. Instead, he smiled as he watched over his city and the lights winking out one by one with the advent of night. A few deep and rich chuckles escaped his beak, and slowly the griffon turned to face Gustave.

“Good. Cirra has been even more brash and arrogant than I could have hoped. They’ve already solved the problem of mixing up war fever for Gryphus, and it’s only a matter of time before every male in the country is scrambling to enlist.” He shook his head and smiled again, as if he couldn’t believe that everything was falling into place. “Remove the restriction on combat operations. I want everything we’ve got sent to the front. Their armies are overextended and easy prey, and they will not be expecting an onslaught of this kind.”

Gustave hesitated, the quill ceasing its scratching against the parchment. “Everything, your royal highness?”

The crowned griffon had already returned to his post by the window, staring to the west where he knew his enemies were waiting, vulnerable. He ran a serrated claw along the stone window frame, producing a horrible grinding sound. Sparks fell from the abnormally sharp talon, their brilliance illuminating the face of the griffon emperor Magnus.

“Everything,” he repeated, dismissing Gustave with a wave of his tail. A few quick wingstrokes signified the secretary’s disappearance, and the emperor was alone.

“How shortsighted you are, Haysar. The signs were there, but you chose to ignore them. Now your armies will starve, Nimbus will fall, and Cirra will be ground into dust, lost with the sands of time.”

The winds outside were increasing in strength, mirroring the temper of the Gryphon emperor. He took one last scornful look out of the window before walking away into the shadows, his rich voice following him as he disappeared.

“I hope you’re ready for the storm.”