Ch. 1 Initiate
Initiate opened his eyes and rolled off his bed to the floor far below, flaring out his wings at the last second to land silently on the polished stone. The chamber in which he had rested was filled with bunks teetering five beds tall, filled with sleeping griffons of all ages and kinds, ranging from the old and weary, to the young and bright. Nearly five hundred in total forced to sleep in the cramped space of what had at one time been a vast dining hall, back when the Crimson Citadel was a haven for the weak and the sickly.
In modern times, it housed the Red Order, those worthy individuals who had been chosen to serve the Dragon God Carniferous in this life and the next. Initiate smiled and strolled out of the room, careful not to wake his fellow hopefuls as he took his leave of their shared bedroom. One of the first rules of the Order: “those who cannot raise themselves in time for breakfast will not be receiving any”, and the black-feathered griffon was never late.
The halls of the Citadel were constructed of rusty red sandstone, mined from quarries long since dry, and bedecked with the riches and trophies of five-thousand years of glory. Banners of enemies defeated in the glorious days of combat, fangs and tusks from creatures and foes felled by mighty heroes, and the dented, bloodied weapons of champions who had foolishly tested their might against the Hierarch. Initiate grinned savagely as he passed the chipped, broken fang of a dragon, freshly wetted with blood by a disgraced hopeful who had been forced to carve himself for others’ glory, seeing that he would have none of his own.
Many of the hopefuls bore such scars, having found themselves disgraced due to either weakness or insubordination and made to embolden the spirits of others by adding their life’s essence to the glory of the Citadel. Of all the hopefuls in all the millennium since its founding, Initiate was the only of the Order to have gone for more than a year in Carniferous’ service and not bear the horizontal lines of a bleeding along his talon.
The dining hall was a pavilion set in the central courtyard, surrounded on all sides by high, thick walls mounted with turrets and sentinel towers. The grounds inside had been turned to sand, all evidence of nature’s might purged from the surroundings by cleansing flame. The thick red canvas decorated with golden patterns and pictures depicting the exploits of Carniferous and his champions throughout history. A reminder of the legacy hopefuls were expected to uphold.
Beneath the protective covering were numerous oaken tables, the smallest stretching nearly one-hundred feet from end to end. Atop them sat a feast fit for a king. Platters of fresh fruit, cakes and pies of every sort, oceans of pudding and cream, and at least a hundred different dishes of every kind of meat. Smoked turkey, roasted quail, strips of bacon, and stacks of beefcakes a griffon high.
Initiate ignored the richer dishes and instead selected a light meal of toast, bacon, and a slightly generous helping of eggs. A glass of spiced wine and several cups of water completed the meal. He knew from experience that the heavier foods were a trap set for the weak, who would soon find themselves vomiting over and over again as the rigorous training of the Order took its toll on their overly-burdened stomachs.
Despite his early rising, Initiate was far from alone in the courtyard. Many of the Order’s veteran members already sat at their places, eating and chatting with their fellows as they waited for the sun to rise and Morning Trials to begin. A few other hopefuls had managed to beat him there as well, though from their slumped postures and haunted eyes, it was clear that they had spent the night here in an effort not to be late. Poor fools, their exhaustion would be their undoing during the day, particularly if the Hierarch was feeling particularly vicious today.
Initiate remembered the time an unfortunate soul had had his eyes sewn open and been forced to fight a cockatrice baretaloned after he was caught sleeping at the breakfast table. His statue still decorated the walls, a warning to all who would risk Carniferous’ disfavor. The young griffon remembered his own battle with the cockatrice, it had been the last time he felt true terror. Its skull now adorned the trophies he hung around his bunk.
The tables filled slowly as more and more hopefuls trickled in, interspersed with senior Templars and even a number of Battle Bishops, those who were second only to the Hierarch himself. Interspersed among the general crowd of lion-eagle hybrids were a number of more specialized species. Mutants who had failed to receive the blessing of Carniferous and were forced to bow to the mighty royus for any hope of immortal glory.
Disgusting hybrids of tigers and crows, vultures and cheetahs who fed off the dead, and falcon-leopard abominations, all brought in as slaves from coastal villages and forced to compete for their freedom. The survivors became hopefuls, the losers (any who survived) were fed to the beasts in the Pit.
The Hierarch himself, a magnificent spectacle of crimson feathers and golden fur, alighted at the head table, set upon a dais so that it overlooked all others. Carniferous’ Flame, an intricate collar of silver fangs inlaid with crushed rubies, glimmered at his throat, the only decoration a member of the Red Order was allowed to wear.
Initiate grinned savagely, the Hierarch’s presence signaled that breakfast had officially commenced, and little more than half of the hopefuls had arrived. Eyes glinting with malice, the griffon tucked in with a will.
Breakfast was a largely boring affair, three-thousand griffons eating their hearts out while more than two-hundred looked on with starving envy, lined up just outside the pavilion. A few of the more malicious hopefuls taunted the unfortunates by making over-exaggerated smacking noises and throwing food at them.
An hour passed, and the Hierarch rose to his talons, signaling the meal was over. The clattering of knives and forks on porcelain dishes filled the air as the Red Order rose as well.
“Children of Carniferous,” the Hierarch spoke with quiet malevolence, his words ringing with the power of Carniferous’ chosen voice. “As many of you have learned, the Rite of Combat is fast approaching. The worthy shall ascend to the true ranks of the Order, and the unfortunate will be cast out, branded forever more as failures.”
Initiate willed his beating heart to be still as he hung on his master’s every word. The Trial of Combat would pit the hopefuls against each other in a grand melee, the survivors of which would be inducted officially into the Order. The dead would become fuel for the pyre when they offered their blood to Carniferous’ endless hunger.
The Hierarch nodded once to himself, then folded his talons before him, the others following suit.
“Carniferous, Dragon God of Carnage, Bloodshed, and War,” he spoke in the ancient language of worship passed down from the First. “Grant us your favor upon this day, that we be worthy of you. And let us be stricken down should we falter in your name. So let it be.”
“So let it be,” the crowd echoed before dispersing to go about their duties. Some to the kitchens, others to the practice fields, still more simply returned to their quarters, to await the call of the Hierarch should he have need of them.
Initiate cleared away his plate, dumping the dirty dishes on an unfortunate before taking to the skies. His natural roost, his safe haven from the world, and his spiritual center was located atop the Citadel, a place no normal griffon could reach. As he alighted upon the cold stone, wind whipping at his wings and feathers, he breathed a sigh of relief.
Soon he would leave behind the shackles of slavery, the darkness of oppression and poverty, and his life would become that of a griffon befitting his power. His cruelty. His courage. To join the Order was not only to revel in the service of the Dragon God, it was to become the elite of the Empire, the creme of the crop.
Those who survived, those who proved themselves, would become legends among the populace. The lowest of them would hold the rank of centurion, be given command of entire armies, become the pride of their fellows and the envy of their enemies!
Initiate smiled and settled himself down to meditate, his duties could wait. For now, he must prepare his soul to welcome Carniferous. The young griffon closed his eyes and breathed deep of the sharp mountain air. He felt his heart slow and his muscles relax as every worry, every fear, flowed out of him and was swept away by the cleansing wind. The void welcomed him, and the slave-turned-acolyte allowed himself to sink into the darkness. Then the memories came...
A nameless slave cracked open his eyes to the sight of yet another mutilated pleasure toy, thrown into his cell to remind him of his eventual fate. The stench of piss and excrement filled the air, mixed with the sweetly-rotten taste of rotting flesh. The slave raised himself to his talons and rubbed at his eyes to wake himself fully.
He did not bother with preening, his feathers had never been cleaned, nor would they. The lord and his soldiers said the smell and taste of their fluids on his body only excited them more. The slave doubted this, but who was he to deny his masters’ their pleasure?
A lowly slave was he, nothing more than the scum beneath their paws and the sand in their sleeping eyes. Said slave grinned as he tore a rib from the unfortunate’s carcass, stashing the makeshift weapon into his feathers, where it would not be seen easily.
Eight winters, as long as he could remember, he had spent in this cell, far beneath the master’s castle, high in the mountains of the Empire. It was whispered by slaves newly bought from the markets that any who won a Rite of Challenge against their master would be freed by the Emperor himself. What they did not know is that the master of this castle would never accept such a thing, and any slave who tried would be killed. Slowly. And in front of his friends.
The cub breathed deep and found the void within himself, the place where he could go that the world ceased to matter. Where emotion, pain, and the rhythmic, feral pounding of his “betters” could not reach him. The cold nothingness of the void welcomed him, as it always did, and the slave smiled. Soon everything would end. Soon his soul would fly free in the wind and his troubles would be past. Soon...
Initiate cracked open his eyes. Something was shaking him. Something with claws.
Moving with speed born of rigorous training and numerous brushes with death, he grabbed the offending appendage and snapped it with cruel efficiency. The griffon who had dared to interrupt his meditation squawked with pain, which was quickly cut off as he was bodily thrown over the edge.
Initiate narrowed his eyes and plunged after, slamming into his would-be attacker like a small, feathered bullet. Knocking the breath from the other’s lungs and stunning him. In the midst of the chaos, he managed to recognize the other griffin as a Templar in the Order. One who had overseen Initiate’s early training and had taken particularly sadistic pleasure in forcing the inexperienced cub into battles with overwhelming opponents and powerful monsters.
For a brief moment, Initiate seriously considered letting the bastard splatter all over the ground. Deciding it was in his best interests to at least find out why the prick had disturbed him in the first place, he gripped the bigger griffon around the waist and flared his wings. Their descent slowed significantly, but the strain of holding aloft a fully-grown male griffon was beginning to take its toll on the ten-year-old Initiate. With an exceedingly casual air, the cub loosened his hold and allowed the Templar to fall the last thirty-feet to the ground below, landing with a dull thunk! as Initiate himself alighted smoothly upon the warm sands.
“What do you want, Templar?” The cub asked, watching with polite interest as his superior pulled himself out of the hole he’d made and began nursing his injured wrist. The Templar shot him a look of pure hatred before producing several rolled bandages from his waist pouch and binding his wrist.
“The Hierarch,” he growled, “has called all hopefuls to the Ring of Rage for the Trial of Combat. You’re late.”
Initiate knocked the much larger creature out with a swift, surgical punch just behind his left ear. The beast dropped like a stone. Satisfied, the cub turned west, toward the ring of red sandstone several miles distant, beyond the Citadel’s walls and across the valley.
“It doesn’t matter,” he said to the Templar’s prone form. “If there is anygriffon left alive when I get there, I’ll simply kill them as well. Nothing will stop me from taking my rightful place at Carniferous’ side.”
With a final nod, Initiate spread his wings and leaped into the air. The sun was high, and the crows were singing, ‘cause somepony was gonna die!
---Carniferous, rege unguibus ad bellum, et alas ad gloriam---
The Hierarch watched behind hooded eyes as the hopefuls spilt their life’s blood onto the sands of the arena. Of five hundred candidates, only half remained. And they were not doing well.
The tournament had started out simply enough. He had called and the hopefuls had answered. The dissension had not begun until he ordered them to kill until only one was left standing. Some had tried to flee, those were dead. Some had tried to take this opportunity to attack him, those were also dead. The rest had accepted their fate and resigned themselves to witnessing the deaths of their friends.
“A good batch, this year.” The Blue Bishop, one of seven who served as the Hierarch’s inner council, whispered into his master’s ear. “But I do not see any sign of your chosen, Your Holiness.”
The larger, older griffon waved the bishop’s concerns aside. “He will be here,” he murmured in his quiet voice. “He was meditating atop the Citadel when last I viewed him, and he is not one to be late.”
“The Rite began twenty minutes ago!” The Violet Bishop hissed. “Face it, Dread Hierarch, your Chosen has failed and you must surrender the funds to my project.” His smile held no warmth. “No sense in paying for the education of a dead unfortunate.”
The Hierarch did not answer as a small, feathered bullet slammed into the center of the arena, kicking up a cloud of dust and stunning the combatants to stillness. Screams and shrieks erupted as half a dozen hopefuls exploded into a gory mess, a single, dark blur in their midst.
“I believe,” the leader of the Red Order murmured to his dumbstruck companions, “that my Chosen has arrived.”
Initiate roared and jeered in mad fury as he slaughtered his bunkmates, his fellow students, his friends with merciless abandon. The cub spun, dashed, and whirled, a broken sword in one talon, a shattered shield in the other. The other hopefuls had been allowed to equip themselves from the Order’s armory, most choosing to shroud their bodies in steel in a vain attempt for protection.
But the Initiate was naked as the day he was born, protected only by his speed and his cunning as he danced the dance of wolves and demons. The Hierarch narrowed his eyes, was it some trick of the light he saw, or was the cub glowing?
“ ‘The Blessing of Carniferous’,” the Blue Bishop hissed, “on a mere child?”
The Hierarch smiled and leaned back, lacing his talons in front of him. If this cub could draw the eye of their Hateful Master with such ease, than things were going to be very interesting when he was grown.
The Initiate was untouchable, blades bounced from his flesh, arrows changed course as they neared him to spear their shooters, and those who drew too close bled from their eyes and impaled themselves on their own spears as fear consumed them.
“Carniferous,” the cub roared over the din, his voice echoing over the Ring of Rage and straining the ears of the watching Order, “free my soul!”
Insane, frenzied laughter echoed over the mountains, startling the crows from their roosts and shaking loose stones from the slopes of Carniferous’ Spine. Farmers looked up from their fields and mothers ushered their cubs inside, they did not understand what went on in the Crimson Citadel, and they did not want to. But even the most simple among them understood one thing: whatever was going on, it wasn’t their concern.
The Hierarch smiled, only one among the hopeful stood tall. His sword and shield had broken into innumerable pieces long ago, his feathers were soaked with blood, and his eyes gleamed with malice and hatred. Around him were the bodies of half a thousand possible candidates, a feast for the crows. The Initiate smiled and met his master’s eyes, then threw back his head and screeched his victory to the heavens. The red sun was high, flocks of crows blackened the sky, and the Red Order pounded its approval into the ancient stones of the arena, their howls mixing together into one great, raw roar.
Hail Carniferous, hail the Dragon God!