A Song of Storms: Shattered Skies

by Sigur024

A New Beginning

Vigild’s new armour felt strange upon him. It was perfectly fitted, each articulated plate sitting just so on his body. The padded jack beneath was equally fine, made from soft black fabric and copper-tipped ties that secured the segmented suit. The barbed and edged surface seemed to reach out and grab at things whenever he moved about, hooking him on the flaps of the tent or items of furniture.

His new helmet sat in his talons, the narrow eye slits glaring up at him. It covered the whole of his face like the others, save for the lower half of his beak. The spikes and bladed fluting on its side would keep an enemy from leaping upon him, and its thick metal would turn aside any weapon Vigild could conceive of.

He did not like it much.

It went beyond the restricted vision and the way it hampered his breathing. It was similar to the one he had before, his ancestors’ helm, but different. It had no marks of individuality about it, identical to every other one of Magnus’ Oathsworn. That was the point he supposed. No glory to those shamed in the service of the living god.

The flap of the tent was jerked open and Vigild hastened to shove the helmet onto his head. He was not permitted to be seen without it except by his fellow Oathsworn, and had been warned to take care even when in the seclusion of Magnus’ camp.

The Herald slipped inside, silent as always. The black of his clothes had a significance that Vigild had only realised upon swearing to Magnus. It was a mark of shame, like all the others of the Oathsworn. He wondered what the tercel had done to end up serving in such a way, esteemed among the ashamed.

The ink-black tercel looked him over, silent for an uncomfortably long time. “One of us now.” He said finally.

The Herald flowed over to the small table that rested up against the centre pole of the tent and poured himself some wine from a silvered carafe. He drained it in one gulp, and poured himself another.

Vigild tapped his fingers upon the ground, making his gauntlets click. “You said that it was understandable that I ran, back in Virdis.”

“Understandable does not mean right. To refuse battle in any way is a crime in the eyes of Magnus.” The Herald replied.

“So… what do I do?” Vigild asked.

“You do whatever Magnus says, whether the words come from his beak or a more senior Oathsworn. You will learn in time which of your fellows is a commander.” The Herald said, leafing through a small stack of letters that he produced from the folds of his uniform.

Vigild sat for several minutes, driving himself to distraction with his own fidgeting. “Your name is Jens?” He asked finally.

“Will you cease your attempts at small talk!” The black tercel snapped. “You will address me as Herald and only as such. Our names are for the Living God, among ourselves we earn titles or insults as your fellows see fit.”

Vigild was indignant. “You flew me gods-know how far across Dioda in one night, dumped me at the feet of a god and then throw me into this metal cage-” He rattled the plates of his arm as emphasis. “-and now you wont even honour me with some simple courtesy!”

The flap of the tent opened once again and another tercel entered. He was armoured identically to Vigild, of average build for an adult but far longer in limb. The Herald gave the new arrival a glance. “Clubfoot, thank the damned ancestors. Take this one, he is your concern now.”

The new tercel, Clubfoot, looked Vigild over. Vigild could see around the edges of his helmet his plumage was an unusual green hue when he lifted his head.

Clubfoot glanced at the Herald, who was busying himself scrawling with a charcoal stick. “You give me the stripling? He isn't even full-grown.”

Vigild bristled at the slight. “I was made a warrior not three months past!”

Clubfoot laughed softly. “Sixteen is barely old enough to run water to the wounded. You thought you could be some great warlord? Should have waited another ten years to get some meat on your scrawny bones.”

Vigild stepped forwards, seeing red. He reared up and raised a talon. Clubfoot struck him faster than Vigild could see and sent him sprawling across the tent floor. The tercel turned and opened the tent flap. “I’ll see what I can make of him, Herald. The Living God rarely chooses poorly. He has spirit at least.”

The Herald nodded. “Thank you, brother.” He spared a glance at Vigild, picking himself up and steadying his ringing head. “I’m certain he will prove entertaining.”

“Follow, whelp!” Clubfoot commanded.

Vigild trailed after the tall tercel, blinking as daylight assaulted his eyes. The light was interrupted momentarily as a shape flew overhead, followed by three others. Griffons in bright colours and trailing banners announcing noble allegiance. They swooped over the tapestry fence enclosing the camp and dropped out of view. Looking back up the valley Vigild could see many small groups of similar griffons, all flying towards the camp or back where they had come from.

“Messengers.” Clubfoot said. “Magnus does not command the war himself, but his warlords all seek his advice and patronage.”

Clubfoot led the way down the neat rows of tents towards the edge of the camp. Vigild could not help but try to peer in as they passed, but all were fastened shut to give the Oathsworn a chance to go about unarmoured. Still, he could not quiet the voice of curiosity that railed in the back of his mind.

“Why does the Herald not cover his face? He is one of us isn’t he?” Vigild asked.

Clubfoot sighed. “The Herald is a special case. Magnus needs a mouthpiece, someone who his servants can know and trust. It's hard to trust a mask. So he goes about, bearing his shame to the world. Not that any of them know.”

“They do not know?” said Vigild

Clubfoot reached the fence and began to walk along its perimeter, heading for a large tent that served as a gatehouse. “No one outside of our covenant knows that it is a punishment. They assume it to be some great honour. Do not take that illusion from them.”

The tall tercel pushed his way through the flaps of the gatehouse tent and Vigild followed in behind. Eight of the Oathsworn stood by the door, leaning on spears or long swords. The rest of the tent was furnished with benches on which dozens of messengers sat awaiting an audience. Clubfoot walked past them, ignoring their attempts to question him and out into the field beyond.

A small encampment had sprung up overnight, clinging to the edge of Magnus’ opulent tent city. Where the camp at Vigild’s back felt like a grand hunting party, this was a war camp. The tents, where there were any, were small and made of oiled hide rather than dyed canvas. Small groups of warriors crowded around cooking fires or games of dice, keeping a close eye on mobs from other tribes. None had seen fit to armour themselves yet, but Vigild noted that no tercel was far from his weapons.

“I am going to speak to Chief Hadvar of the Gutones.” Clubfoot said, approaching a slightly larger tent that squatted in the centre of one of the mobs of warriors. “You will wait outside.”

With that the tall tercel disappeared inside, and left Vigild in the company of the warriors. He turned and faced away from the entrance, sitting back on his haunches.

The young tercel could feel the eyes of the warriors upon him. Sizing him up, assessing him. His armour was impressive to them as much as Vigild, but he could not help but be unnerved by the griffons that stared at him with open curiosity. Judging by the markings that many tribes scored into their flesh, some of them were more than a century old.

One, a wiry tercel with greying plumage sidled over to Vigild. “Is it true then? You lot serve the Living God directly?”

Vigild swallowed, thankful that his helmet hid his nervousness at the probing of the venerable warrior. “We do.”

“Well then,” the tercel said, crossing his arms. “Perhaps you can tell us something of him? Our chieftain has met with him, and swears up and down that he is a divine being. But none of us have been graced with his presence.”

“What do you mean?” Vigild asked, a note of uncertainty creeping into his voice.

“Is he truly a god? What proof have you?” The warrior demanded.

“I… have seen him do impossible things.” Vigild finally said. “Move things without touching them, call up winds to do his bidding.”

The tercel harrumphed. “You do not sound so certain.”

Vigild shifted, trying to settle his armour more comfortably. Every warrior was staring at him unblinking. “It's not about what he can do. It's… what he is.”

The warrior cocked his head to one side, and Vigild continued. “I met with him a month or so ago, at the peak of Angenholt. I doubted, as you do, because what I had heard from rumours seemed to be too great to be true.”

Vigild felt his heart race with equal parts fear and exhilaration as he recalled that first meeting. The surety of a true believer overturned his nervousness as he spoke. “He is awe-inspiring in a way that goes beyond the physical. His form is mighty, but to stand at the centre of his presence is like staring into the sun. It is… not something that is easy to put to words, but every moment of it I both wanted more and feared I would be burned away.”

The tercel looked Vigild up and down again, assessing him. Vigild held his gaze this time.

The older tercel nodded, seemingly satisfied. “You speak well enough, perhaps there is some truth to it.”

Suddenly the flap of the tent jerked open and Clubfoot stormed out, a fretting tercel wearing a fine tunic following close behind him. Vigild stood and looked questioningly at the Oathsworn.

“Change of plans.” He growled. “We are going to kill some damn fool noblegriffon.”

Comments

[RoboRed]

Can't help but wonder if there's something more to that random inquiring tercel there...🤔