A Song of Storms: Shattered Skies

by Sigur024

Darkwood

Vigild stumbled through the flaps of one of the tents of Magnus’ camp, Clubfoot’s talon upon his shoulder to help guide the way. He had not lost enough blood from his injuries to cause him much trouble, but the pain made him dizzy and nauseous nonetheless. If anything, thirst was his greatest concern, and he paid little attention to Clubfoot as the tercel barked out an order into the tent.

The inside was heavily furnished compared to the other tents of the camp, with shelves and chests shoved up against each other wherever there was room. Bags and bunches of dried plants hung from the wooden spokes that held the roof up.

An aged tercel sat hunched over one of the chests, looking up from his books as Clubfoot entered. He harrumphed and set about extracting himself from his sitting place as Vigild was directed over to a large and worryingly bloodstained table in the centre of the room.

Clubfoot pushed Vigild down onto his haunches as the other tercel dragged himself from his chair. He looked the younger tercel over, seeming almost concerned for him.

Vigild opened his beak to question, but Clubfoot silenced him with a shake of his head. “The Surgeon will fix the problems you made with your talons. Don’t expect too much of this treatment.”

“Not valuable enough to save?” Vigild asked, pain letting his resentment bubble to the surface of his mind.

The older tercel chuckled. “Oathsworn are meant to die. If we spend too much time patching you up, you won't get the redemption that Magnus offered you.”

The Surgeon shuffled over towards the pair, muttering to himself as he settled across the table from Vigild. “Lay your talons upon the table. Those first.”

Vigild did as he was told, resting his talons palms-up to show the deep gashes where Engir’s sword had bit deep.

“You have done a lot of damage.” the surgeon said, turning away and selecting a bag from the shelf against the tent canvas. He unrolled it across the table, revealing a dizzying array of blades, pins and other tools.

“Can you fix it?” Vigild asked, nervously eyeing the racks of glinting blades and saws with undisguised dread.

“I can, I think. No griffon alive has cut as much flesh as I, or mended half as much.” he replied.

The ageing griffon reached into a pouch he wore and withdrew a pot of something green and foul smelling. He dipped his talons into it and then pushed them into the twin cuts on Vigild’s palms. The pain was exquisite as the tercel spread the paste along the length of each gash, taking very little care to be gentle.

“Do try to sit still.” The surgeon grumbled. “Your twitching makes it all more difficult.”

A shout sounded from outside the tent, and a hen poked her head inside. “Clubfoot. Magnus wants you.”

The Oathsworn sighed deeply and stood to leave. “Do whatever the surgeon says.” He grunted, and then disappeared out the flap of the tent.

Vigild gritted his teeth and did his best to stay still as the surgeon took out a needle and thread, and set about drawing the wound back together.

“What do I call you?” He asked, looking for something to distract himself from the feeling of it.

“Todesangst.” The tercel said, not looking up from his work.

Vigild suppressed a whimper as the needle hit a particularly sensitive spot. “They let you have a name?”

“It is not my first. Like Clubfoot, I earned my name.” Todesangst replied.

The old griffon worked fast, Vigild noted. A small saving grace as he tugged at the thread holding his right hand together, then moved on to the left. “How does a doctor earn a name like Agony?”

“I took it from a tercel who was being… uncooperative.” He said simply. “Physician is the second half of my duty to Magnus.”

Vigild blinked away the tears in the corners of his eyes as Todesangst started on his left talon. “Is Magnus angry with me? He called for Clubfoot, but not me.”

Todesangst sighed and shook his head. “If he were angry, you would be there. The best thing to be around Magnus is ignored.”

Vigild frowned. “What happens if Magnus notices you?”

Todesangst cracked a thin, sharp-looking smile. “You see a lot more of me.”

- - -

The Auxillia journeyed once again.

Now Gretus led, cutting a path across the griffon lands with no regard for mountain or stream or forest. They had taken to the air now, ignoring the chance of encountering a Cirran patrol. They had to reach Darkwood before the Legions did.

Their number seemed small now compared to those refugees that accompanied them. A few dozen soldiers leading many dozens of hurt, hungry and scared Canii across the griffon kingdoms.

The Auxillia had done their best to help those survivors of the razed town along the way. Carrying a few meagre possessions for the weaker ones, and sending out small parties to hunt or fish as they crossed the mountainous borderlands. Still, many were lost. Nearly a third of the Canii who decided to come with the Auxillia simply fell behind and disapeared into the wilderness.

Each and every loss made Theod’s heart ache. But they could not stop. Stopping meant death, either by starvation in the empty wilderness, or by Cirran patrol.

As the days passed the landscape became more and more familiar to Theod. The types of trees, the colour of the stones, and the songs of birds were closer to what he remembered.

As the band settled down atop a cliff for another evenings rest, Theod took a moment to check on his friends. It seemed odd to call them that, going from strangers from strange tribes. But it seemed wrong to call them anything else now.

Aella was silent, barely acknowledging Theod as he came by. The death of her father had cut to her core and she kept as quiet as Gretus. Tapfer put on a brave face, trying to coax smiles or weak laughter from the others, but Theod could feel the simmering fury beneath the jovial mask. He hated Cirra true, but it seemed he hated his own people almost as much for the servitude that had been forced on him.

Theod ignored the rabbits cooking over their campfire and joined Gretus at the cliffs edge. The tercel was simply staring at the setting sun, his thoughts locked behind stoic walls that Theod could not see through.

They sat a while in silence, watching as the last rays of light struggled between the mountain crags. Then something struck the young tercel. Theod recognised this place. The shape of the mountains, the clearings and glades where he had once hunted and trained, and the clearing of Darkwood Village. Its thatched roofs were still visible, intact and unburnt.

He leaped to his feet and shouted for joy. “We made it! We’re here!”

The resting griffons looked up bleary-eyed, but as the notion sunk into their exhausted minds they too rose to their feet and celebrated in what little way they could.

Theod could scarcely wait, and the promise of a roof and a meal reinvigorated the refugee band. They abandoned their camp without a moment's hesitation, and as one they took to the air again, racing towards Darkwood.

They covered the distance in what seemed like no time, racing for the clearing at the edge of town. They landed as a ragged mob, laughing and smiling for what seemed like the first time in an age. This fell away as swiftly as it had come.

Darkwood seemed deserted as the Auxillia led the way in. Defences had been thrown up, walls of sharpened wood and clusters of stakes protruding from roof beams. But of the townsfolk, Theod could see no trace.

His heart shrank. The legions would not have left the village intact, but if his tribe had fled they would have taken those supplies the Auxillia desperately needed with them. But the cooking fires had been stacked with fresh wood, and the granaries were barred and locked as they usually were.

“Where is everyone?” Theod said to himself.

As soon as he voiced that question, all hell broke loose. Griffons covered in blue warpaint poured out of buildings and hidden places, howling and screeching like wild beasts as they descended upon the band.

“Auxillia!” Theod cried “Form up!”

Instinct took over for those survivors, pushing their way to the edge of the group and forming a protective wall with their bodies. They had no weapons, no armour, no shields. But Theod would be damned if he came this far to not put up a fight.

The young tercel pulled himself to his hindlegs. Aella was on his left, Tapfer on his right. He bared his teeth and snarled, preparing to sell his life as dearly as he could. A trio of warriors with glinting blades rushed towards him, murder in their eyes.

Then a cry went up, mighty and terrible as only a warlord could be. “Stop!”

The warriors came to a screeching halt, mere feet from the ring of Auxillia. Theod could hear their ragged breathing, see the foam in the corners of their mouths. A huge warrior pushed his way through the throng, other griffons moving from his path until Theod looked upon his scarred and red-plumed face.

“My son…” Eboric whispered, eyes searching Theods face. Suddenly he rushed forwards, snatching up the young tercel and clutching him to his breast, tears of joy streaming down his cheeks. “My son has returned!”

Comments

[RoboRed]

Oof. And I was just in the middle of thinking, "man, they just can't catch a damned break". Thank goodness.