A Song of Storms: Shattered Skies

by Sigur024

A Forked Path

Vigild sat amongst the debris of the feast put on for him and his brother. The dawn mist creeped between tables and discarded chairs and curled its tendrils around abandoned casks of ale and wine. Food and finery had simply been left where it had rested, as if it were a feast left for the dead.

The guests dispersed quickly after the pegasi left. The good mood of the celebration had vanished, replaced with the deep brooding sadness that had consumed Eboric. The tercel had not moved from his throne within his hall in hours. He simply sat and stared at the small gold chit given in exchange for his wife, and now his son.

Vigild did not feel that sadness. His breast was filled with a smouldering rage that threatened to overtake him.

The pegasi had taken so much from his people. In the days of Roamulus they had taken their strength, leaving countless brave warriors rotting in the fields of Dioda. The Dawn War had taken their pride, the apex predator forced to bow before the herbivores that should have been their prey. Now they had taken their blood, their kin, stolen away and shackled far from home.

The young tercel screamed, the feral sound echoing around the abandoned shrine. He drew his sword and drove it into a nearby barrel, where it bit deep into the stained planks. Ripping the blade from the wood he struck it again and again, howling in rage as the planks splintered and ale poured out over the ground. With one last mighty blow the sword struck the sturdier wood of the table beneath and was jarred from his hand.

The shriek died in Vigild’s throat and he dropped to his haunches. The rage was gone for now, leaving him hollow and empty.

His sword sat half buried in the grass. What was it worth if he could not protect his kin?

“Such… anger,” purred a familiar voice, a shadow moving from the woods into the clearing.

The raven-plumed tercel that had saved Vigild and his brother the day before stalked through the debris of the celebration, barely disturbing the mist with his passage. “Such hatred,” he continued, giving the shattered remains of the cask an amused glance. He took a half-full goblet between his talons, forgotten from the celebration the night before, and held it before him. “Tell me, young tercel, where was your anger when they came to take your brother away? Where was your hatred? Did you let the Cirrans steal it from you like they’ve stolen everything else you hold dear?”

He took a long, slow sip from the goblet before pouring the rest on the ground. “Or were you afraid? Terrified of horses with wings, puny ponies that any griffon worth his weight in steel can split from head to tail with his talons alone? Tell me, when did the sons of such a great warlord become so... timid?”

Vigild watched the tercel carefully, rubbing his jarred talon. “Did you come here just to taunt me, or do you have a purpose?” he snarled.

The tercel smiled. “It is my duty, as ordered by my master, to ensure that no harm comes to you.”

Vigild scowled silently at the griffon.

The tercel began to circle Vigild. “Do you know how often twins are born among our kind? Once in a hundred years, or more. There are many tales about those of your ilk. In many tribes, twins are seen as chosen champions of the gods.”

Vigild stayed silent, watching the strange tercel carefully.

“Like the ancient one who serves this village, I too am a seer. I see the light of the one true god, and that god has chosen you through me.” His talons dug into his cloak, and he withdrew a small silver pendant. It was a fine thing, as far as griffon work went, with an insignia of an outstretched talon upon its face. “Magnus is no mere mortal griffon. He is the one who will bring our people back to greatness...”

The tercel picked up Vigild’s sword and held it out to him. “...and you shall be among his champions. So proclaims the Herald of Magnus.”

Vigild took the proffered blade, looking up at the tercel with suspicion. “His champions...” he muttered to himself.

A smile crept across the Herald’s face.

“War is coming. So soon, so close I can nearly taste it. Much blood will be spilled, much glory won. Forge yourself a warband and you will be part of the living god’s great plan.” He pulled the amulet from his cloak and held it out to Vigild. “And when you are ready, find me in Angenholt.”

- - -

Theod fought to stay airborne. Every muscle in his body ached, wracked with fatigue and cold as mountaintops passed slowly by all around.

They had been flying for hours, the legionaries holding a tight formation around Theod and the legate as the moon dipped beneath the horizon and the sun took its place. The tercel was exhausted, having rarely flown further than the length of his home valley in one burst, but the razor edged wings of the pegasi at his back kept him moving.

He did not know how much longer he would last.

He considered asking the pegasus at his side, but thought better of it. The stallion glanced around constantly, perhaps searching for attackers amongst the cloud-wreathed peaks. Instead, Theod retreated to his mind in hope of some comfort. All he found was the scene from the night before, repeating endlessly in his head.

He did not have the strength left to feel sadness. A cold certainty filled his mind instead. He would likely never see his homeland or his family again. Hostages never came home.

A shout from one of the legionaries shook him from his contemplation. “Legatus! Metam ante!”

The legate shifted to a gentle dive, Theod and the legionaries following suit as they passed between the jutting spurs of two mountains.

The valley beyond opened up, the last gap in the mountains before the vast plains of western Dioda. An unbroken mass of tents, palisades and hastily erected towers filled the entire floor of the valley. Thousands of legionaries walked through the streets of the Cirran encampment and the sky was dotted with the patrols flying in diamond formation.

This was the might of Cirra. A legion on the move.

To Theod’s knowledge a comparable force did not exist in all of the griffon lands. This is why his kin had failed their bid for freedom in the Dawn War. For all the pride griffons held in personal strength and prowess in combat, no number of individually skilled swordsman could hold strong against thousands of pegasi fighting in unison.

The Legate dipped his wing and Theod followed close behind, their path spiralling down towards a red tent among the white, easily four times the size of the others. Pegasi moved in and out in an almost constant stream, carrying slates or stacks of parchment.

The ground came up to meet Theod far more quickly than he would have liked, his wings threatening to give out from exhaustion. As his talons met the earth his legs buckled beneath him, dropping the tercel into the sucking mud churned up by hundreds of marching hooves.

Theod lay there for a moment, mud soaking into his coat as he tried to gather the strength to pull himself from the filth. Hooves slipped beneath his arms and he was lifted, hoisted across the shoulders of a pair of legionaries.

He felt the legionaries step up onto the wooden decking that made up the floor of the tent. They dropped him again a few paces inside and spoke in Cirran for a moment. There were a few disdainful laughs pointed in his direction as he gasped and struggled to rise from the floorboards. Something cold struck him and soaked his coat, making him yelp in surprise.

He struggled to his feet and was hit with another bucket of ice-cold water by the legionaries that had dragged him in. He scowled and they laughed, clearly enjoying this more than was strictly professional.

“At least you are clean now. Mostly.” The Legate said, the smallest trace of a smile upon his face. “Follow.”

Shivering, exhausted and now soaking wet, Theod stumbled after the Legate, dripping water in his wake. The pony led him between a set of low dividing walls and into a small office. The pegasus motioned towards the desk that sat in the middle and Theod sat obediently before it, where a bowl of steaming, straw-coloured goop was placed in front of him.

“Oatmeal.” The Legate said in response to his questioning look. “I am told that it should be suitable for your kind to eat.”

Theod picked up his spoon and took a mouthful of the slightly-sweet slop. It was not as good as Helga’s cooking, but it helped to drive the cold out of his bones.

The pegasus sat opposite Theod and steepled his hooves. “Why do you think you are here?”

“To keep my father from turning on Cirra”

“I… regret that it took this long to inform your family of Senkas passing. we had to-”

“You had to wait until the legions moved through this area.” Theod cut in. “You couldn't risk my father-”

“Do not dare interrupt me.” Pruina snapped, his voice cold and even like the edge of a knife. “Understand that if you disrespect the pegasi around you, you will have a very brief captivity”

Theod winced.

“... But you are correct. we could not risk venturing into griffon lands and demanding things of your father without a legion at our back.”

They sat in silence for a moment, Theod taking a spoonful of the oatmeal. “What will become of me?”

“You are a hostage of Cirra now. You will likely be placed in the care of a senatorial family somewhere. most use hostages as part of their household staff. It will not be a proud existence, but you will be kept safe.”

Theod stirred the slop in the bowl before him absentmindedly.

“I was going to be a warrior… and now I must be a slave.”

“You do not have to be.”

Theod looked up at the pegasus questioningly.

“You are a hostage, but you need not spend your life locked in a gilded cage in some senator’s villa. We can offer you something more. The emperor has seen fit to allow hostages like you an… opportunity. He has allowed the formation of an Auxiliary legion from griffons who volunteer.”

Pruina took off his helmet and placed it beside him.

“I understand that you may not have the greatest affection for your ruler, especially now. But the rewards for service can be great. Cirra offers wealth and luxury in return for faithful service, and perhaps… a chance to return home before your father’s passing.

“You will be trained as a legionary, equipped as one, and expected to fight as one on pain of death, but is it not better to live the life of a warrior and return home to your family with some honour? What do you say, Theod? Will you serve?”

Theod thought. Decades of confinement did not appeal to him, but neither did serving the enemy of his people. But the chance to see his father again… that could not be passed up. What else was there to say but...

“Yes.”

“Very good.” The legate said with a smile. “I must ask one more thing of you though.” He motioned towards the leather strap around Theods waist. “I will need your sword.”

Theod looked down at his weapon. He had almost forgotten that he was wearing it. He undid the clasp on the belt that held it and lifted it onto the table.

He ran his talons along the carved surface of the scabbard. That piece of edged steel was the tool that bound him to his tribe. A symbol of his loyalty and devotion. Now he was turning it over to a pegasus. He felt like a traitor. Slowly, reluctantly, he held it and his pride towards Pruina.

The legate took the blade and turned it over in his hooves, inspecting it for a moment before placing it behind him.

“Very good. Stay here, Obsidem, I need attend to other matters. The legionaries outside will take you to your quarters.” He said, standing and picking up his helmet again.

As the stallion reached the door he turned and looked back at Theod. “Welcome to the legion.”

- - -

Legate Pruina walked away from his office, the cheekplates of his helmet rattling as he moved. His assignment had gone far better than he had expected. No bloodshed, an easy extraction of a hostage and a new soldier for the auxillia. A familiar stallion in veteran’s armour with a crested helmet leaned against one of the poles in the entrance of the tent.

“Barley, might I have a word?”

The pegasus grunted as he righted himself and gave the legate a carefully half-assed salute.

“Of course sir,” he drawled.

“How go preparations at the training camp?” the Legate asked, pausing at the door of the tent and carefully placing his helmet upon his head.

“On schedule sir. We should be ready for the first intake in three weeks.”

The Legate sighed with relief. “Another thing gone right. Today is a good day. Follow me Barley, we need to look over some things.”

Barley fell into step alongside the Legate. “If you don't mind me saying, sir, I never thought you would be the type to go for a training position. Get tired of being the Emperor's messenger colt to the barbarians?”

“You think too lowly of them, Centurion,” the legate said. “They have the capacity to be great, they just need… guidance. Like the Canii.”

Barley snorted. “Barbarians in togas, the lot of them.”

Pruina shook his head. “This is why I can’t take you anywhere nice, Barley.”

The Centurion laughed. The Legate lifted a hoof to acknowledge the salute of a passing group of legionaries as Barley sighed. “I doubt it’ll be an easy assignment sir. Griffons seem to be the willful type, and they are always armed and dangerous.”

“Which is why the Emperor has seen fit to give me veterans like you to serve as staff and instructors. No matter how well I train them, there is no way that they can even touch legionaries like you.”

They walked for a minute or two in silence before the centurion spoke again.

The Centurion shook his head. “Griffons. How do they even manage to threaten Cirra?”

“Sheer, pig-headed determination on the part of their chieftains I suspect. It is a shame that we fight so often, together we could be… magnificent.”

The Centurion stopped as the Legate ducked into a small tent beside the track. Pruina dug through a chest in his personal effects and pulled out a large list, and carefully added another name to the roll.

“Almost one thousand all up… “ He said, leafing through its pages one more time.

Barley sighed. “Pruina… I have been in the Legion for most of my life now. I have spent more time with griffons than I have at home. I know them to be treacherous, cruel beasts who would murder every one of us given a chance. This is a dangerous plan. If we teach the griffons how to fight like the Legion, we will lose our advantage over them. This could ruin Cirra.”

“I understand that, Centurion. I had to explain it to the senate no less than a dozen times. But the benefits outweigh the risk. If we can make the hostages think like Cirrans, enjoy the Cirran way of life, they might be more inclined to side with the emperor instead of turning on him. They can keep their kin loyal, help patrol the deep mountain ranges...”

Barley shook his head. “At least make a note that I am not happy with this. Dont want my name attached to the plan that destroys the empire.”

The Legate rolled up his list and tucked it into his breastplate. “Very well... Fetch me a scribe and some fresh ink. We have a lot of work to do.”

Comments

[Hirobix]

5935021 Ain't that a good thing? I'm always finding interesting fics to read!

[The 24th Pegasus]

5975213
You won't believe my surprise and amazement when he told me that he was naming the story "Shattered Skies" completely by coincidence. PoL is not-so-secretly grounded in Ace Combat and it's the bestest.

[Zevski]

Well, finally got around to reading this and I hope it updates soon, it's a good story so far.