Fire and Blood
FIRE AND BLOOD
The Rites of Succession
The fires burned, a circle of light in the inky black of the wasteland night, undisturbed and roaring in the still air. Their glow barely illumated the approaching bodies, but sound revealed what sight could not.
The padding of paws on poisoned earth, the scrape of claws across stones and hard-packed dirt. The fluttering of wings, their owners tense. The soft clicks and clacks of beaks. The rustle of cloth and the clanking of armor as the group moved into position, just outside of the circle. Griffins all, each bearing the armor that marked them as Talons, each called by tradition and duty to bear witness to what would come.
Long, tense moments passed, but not a word was said, none willing to break the sacred silence. Beaks were parted and wings were held slightly away from bodies, the heat stifling, smothering, but they held their positions... until it was time.
One side of the circle parted, allowing their leader, their warlord, to pass and enter the flame-ringed field. Large and proud, the fading of his aged feathers hidden by the blood-hued light, it was easy to forget his age, to believe the weight of years held no sway over him.
He bore no weapons, no blade or bullet. Only his armor, unadorned and plain, save for the sigil of their clan, the outstretched claw forever bared, poised to draw the blood of their foes.
"Let those who would succeed me approach." His voice rang out, shattering the silence and drawing two more figures into the circle. Each was young, barely an adult, but those they passed stepped aside, wary and respectful of the unarmored pair.
They stopped before their leader, eyes shining in the firelight as they each gave him a respecteful bow. His face betrayed nothing, cold and impassive as he spoke once more. "Our Traditions are clear that my son, Levant, will take my place as Voyevoda, as Warlord. Linka, you have challenged this. Why?"
The smaller of the two, Linka, stepped forwards. "He is unworthy."
The elder raised his eyebrow, the only outward reaction to the young hen's claim. "What say you, Levant?"
The male, Levant, scowled. "I am a Talon. I fight, and I kill. I have tasted the blood of my foes. Tradition holds that I am to become Voyevoda, that I am to one day lead our clan."
All eyes turned once more to Linka, the hen holding her head high. "I, too, am a Talon. My life is measured by the lives of my foes, and the lives of my kin. Tradition alone does not make one Voyevoda." Her voice began to rise, wings spreading as her passion grew. "To be Voyevoda is more than to lead. It is to know all who fight beside you, to stand firm against all foes, to bring strength and glory to the clan! I would challenge you, Levant! Prove your worthiness to lead us!"
As Linka reared up, screeching her challenge, those who stood beyond the circle of light spoke in hushed tones.
"Enough." Though the elder's voice was calm, it carried a steel edge, and Linka dropped to the ground once more. Still, though, she held her head high. "Linka, you have issued your challenge, but it means nothing from you alone." He raised his voice only slightly. "Who among you will stand beside her? Speak and be known, or hold your silence and shame her!"
All voices grew silent, the tension in the air growing thicker. Would any back the young hen's challenge? Then, a few griffins stepped forward. "We, the Desert Moon squad, stand with comrade Linka."
"Very well." The elder nodded, then turned to his chosen heir. "Levant, the challenge has been heard, and the choice is now yours. Do you accept the challenge, or stand down, never to become Voyevoda?"
Levant narrowed his eyes, glaring at the hen who, even now, stared back, her eyes alight with determination. "I accept."
Linka clacked her beak, eying her opponent. "Tradition holds that you may choose a second to fight in your place, if you wish."
Everyone held their breath, the offer unexpected. To take a second was almost unheard of, the offer alone an insult. A victory taken by a second would be tainted, hollow, but if the second fell, the challenged would find themselves stripped of rank, little more than a servant to the victor.
Levant sneered. "A Voyevoda who needs others to fight his battles is no Voyevoda at all. I will fight you myself."
The elder dipped his head and stepped back, towards the edge of the flickering circle. "Then it is decided. Levant, Linka, ready yourselves." The pair took their places, mere paces apart. Wings half-spread, they dug their paws into the dead soil, tensing for the inevitable first strike, claws flexing, carving small furrows in the dirt. The elder raised his voice one more time. "By Tradition, a challenge has been made. Fight with honor, and know that the victor shall become Voyevoda in my passing. Begin!"
Levant moved first, taking to the air with a beat of his wings and diving towards his foe. In turn, Linka darted to the side, lunging as Levant struck the ground. They rolled, tearing at one another, slashing with beaks and claws, kicking and striking at their opponent's bellies with clawed hindpaws. A heavy blow sent Linka sprawling, Levant pouncing, his beak open and hungry. A screech of pain, blood spattering the parched earth, and claws made their way to a vulnerable throat.
The sound of ripping flesh, blood pouring from torn arteries, and two bodies lay in the circle of flames.
Silence fell.
The elder approached, reaching out to the one who moved. A bloody claw took his, the victor pulled free of the slain. His mask of nuetrality wavered for only a moment, as he closed the eyes of the fallen, then spoke. "By Tradition, a new Voyevoda has been chosen."
Without another word, he turned and moved slowly to the edge of fire, paws tracking blood across the barren soil. Behind him, as the gathered circle drew close to tend to the wounded victor, Linka looked to the fallen Levant with her one good eye, the other a ruined mess where his beak had dug deep.
She whispered, more to herself than any other, "You should have chosen a second, brother."