The Age of Wings and Steel

by DSNesmith

25. The Dusty Trail

One hoof in front of the other. One hoof in front of the other. One hoof in front of the other. Windstreak’s silent mantra beat in her head. Her whole world had narrowed to the dust underneath her hooves. One hoof in front of the other. One hoof in front of…

The southern plains were burning. In the crisp fall air, the fires had spread lightning-fast across the land, incinerating hundreds of acres of un-harvested crops. The smoke from the blaze blotted out the sky for miles, raining down ash and cinders on the marching ponies. Giving the order to light the flames had been difficult, but such was the price of escaping the horde. Windstreak smiled bitterly to herself.

The griffons had planned to move rapidly through the southlands, forgoing supply lines by living off the bountiful harvest of the Duchy’s farmers. Without having to worry about feeding his troops, Shrikefeather could have pushed his army up to Weatherforge in days. Now, all the griffons would find as they wandered north would be scorched earth and ash. An extreme measure, to be sure, but Windstreak had had no choice.

The survivors of Trellow, what few remained, were marching north. Not even half of the ponies under Celerity’s command had made it out of the battle alive, and most that now walked behind Windstreak were injured or barely alive. The only thing keeping them going was the certain knowledge that the griffons would not be far behind.

They made for Whitewall City, the heart of Whitetail that lay deep inside the forest of the Duchy’s namesake. But the green trees of Whitetail Forest were still far ahead. The army marched through smoke and dust, straining for sunlight through the thick black clouds. Daylight seemed a distant memory.

The burning of the fields had bought them only a week at most. Shrikefeather had no choice now but to push onward to the fertile lands in the heart of Equestria. Westermin would fall next, then Weatherforge and Rivermeet. But Shrikefeather could not afford to leave the remains of Whitetail’s army and Whitewall City at his back. The griffons would come for the Duchy’s capital, and soon.

Windstreak intended to be ready. She was pushing the remains of the army as fast as they could go, but the battered ponies could only keep such a pace for so long. They trudged day and night, stopping to rest every few hours, hoping and praying to the sisters that the griffons were not yet following. Whitewall waited beyond the horizon, lost in smoke.

Of the twenty-five hundred soldiers who had held the bridge at Trellow, only a thousand remained. Most of the casualties were those from Westermin, the spearponies from the front lines of the bridge. They had been decimated by the constant assaults, and barely a hundred of them now marched northward with the rest of the ponies. The pegasi from Cloudsdale had fared little better, their numbers now vanishingly small. The Firewings had taken the fewest casualties during the siege, but nearly a hundred and fifty of them had fallen in the final retreat. The griffons had lost thousands taking the bridge, but in the face of their numbers it counted as little more than an inconvenience. And then there were the dragons…

One hoof in front of the other. The war looked grim. Windstreak could see no real hope of victory ahead. But the alternative was too awful to think about, so instead, she thought about walking. One hoof in front of the other.

They would arrive at Whitewall in less than a day. After that, it was anypony’s guess as to how long they would have to prepare for the inevitable griffon attack. Without Celerity to lead the army, Windstreak had done her best to keep the bedraggled soldiers organized and moving. She looked forward to turning command over to the new Duke or Duchess once they reached the city.

“Captain.” From her left, Bergeron’s hoarse voice pierced her thoughts. “The troops are starting to flag. We need to rest again.”

“Of course. Sound the halt.” Windstreak licked her lips, trying to moisten them. The army’s food and supplies had been abandoned at the bridge during the retreat, and with the irrigation systems ablaze all the water around them was polluted with ash and dust. They would have to press forward and reach Whitewall soon, or collapse from thirst.

A horn blew loudly, and the army slowed to a stop. All around, ponies lay down to catch their breath before the march resumed. Windstreak used the opportunity to take stock of her soldiers. She gathered Bergeron and the highest ranking Whitetail officers still alive together for a brief meeting.

“Have Wheatie and the scouts returned?”

“Not yet, Captain.” Bergeron spread his wings and stretched his aching legs. “I expect they’ll catch up to us soon, now that we’ve stopped.”

“How are the troops?”

One of the Whitetail ponies shook his head. “We’d better get to Whitewall soon, or we’ll lose the rest of our army to the plains.”

“We’ll be there by tomorrow morning, if we keep this pace. When Wheatie gets back, we’ll know how long we have to prepare.”

“Do you think Shrikefeather will push so soon?”

“We’ve left him no other option. He has to feed thirty thousand griffons and Celestia-knows how many slaves. The only place with that kind of food is Westermin…”

“And he won’t take Westermin without attacking Whitewall, right.” Bergeron ferreted something out of a pouch inside his armor. “Care for an apple, Captain? I’ve been saving it.”

Gratefully, Windstreak accepted. She bit into the fruit, savoring the taste of something other than ash. “I’ll need to talk to whomever is in charge of Whitewall as soon as we arrive. Celerity’s heir will want to assume command of the forces, I’m sure.”

“And who is her heir, exactly?” asked Bergeron.

“Celerity’s aide would know,” said the Whitetail officer. “Weatherby, I think his name was. I’ll see if I can find him.” He walked off wearily, not bothering to salute.

Windstreak turned to Bergeron. She eyed the huge gash across his face with concern. “How are you holding up, Lieutenant? Is that wound giving you trouble?”

Her Lieutenant shook his head. “It hurts, of course, but the pain’s begun fading already. A few more weeks and it’ll just be another story to tell my grandchildren.” He smiled.

“You have grandchildren?” Windstreak said, disbelieving.

“Well, not yet. Someday, I hope. After I’m too old to fly with the Firewings anymore, I’ll take the little fillies out to the lakeshore and tell them about our adventures. This one should make a fine tale. ‘Can you believe your grand-dad saw a real live dragon?’” Bergeron waved his hooves as his eyebrows threatened to pop off his head.

Windstreak snickered. “They’ll just call you a liar.”

“Well, I don’t quite believe it myself, yet.” Bergeron blinked, dumbfounded. “Dragons.” He shook his head.

From behind them they heard the approach of the Whitetail officer. He cantered up to the Firewings with another pony in tow. “I’ve found him, Captain. This is Weatherby, Celerity’s aide-de-camp.”

“Weatherly, actually,” corrected the smaller pony. He was an unassuming looking little stallion, his once-neat mane disheveled and slicked to his neck from the long march. The flight from Trellow had not been kind to him.

“Hello, Weatherly. I’m Captain Windstreak. This is Lieutenant Bergeron.” Windstreak nodded to the Duchess’s assistant, and he bowed in return. “We were hoping you might know who the Duchess’s heir is.”

The pony’s face was filled with sadness for a moment. “Milady had no mate, nor children.” He gathered his thoughts for a moment. “It would be Tymeo Bellemont, Celerity’s first cousin once-removed. I know little about him, I’m afraid.”

“Well, I hope he’s half the leader Celerity was. I’m no strategist. We’ll need him to get the defense organized.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” said Bergeron with contempt. “The Bellemonts are warriors in the bedroom, not the battlefield.”

Windstreak stifled a snort. The Bellemonts, close relatives of the Belles, were one of the most socially mobile houses in the kingdom. Throughout the last hundred years, they had clawed their way up the ladder of nobility through a dizzying array of political marriages and alliances that had given them a reputation as scheming peasants reaching beyond their grasp. They had no military forces to speak of, which boded ill if Whitewall was now under their control.

“Look, Captain. I think our scouts are returning.”

Windstreak looked up to the south to see three pegasi flying toward them, Wheatie at their head. The scouts landed beside the Captain, shaking the soot out of their wings. She saluted Wheatie and waited for him to catch his breath. “Report.”

“Good news, for once,” said Wheatie. “The griffons aren’t following us. It looks like Shrikefeather has decided to shift the rest of his troops and siege engines over the river before pressing north. The griffons have set up camp surrounding the bridge on both sides. From the numbers we saw, I’d say we have at least a week before he begins pushing forward again.”

Windstreak felt her spirits lift. “What of his remaining forces? How badly did we hurt them?”

“Well, we gave them a black eye, at least. He lost a lot of fliers trying to take the bridge, but he’s got plenty more where they came from.” Wheatie jerked his head toward one of the other two scouts. “Flitterwing here thinks they have about three or four thousand airborne fighters still in battle condition.”

“Give or take a few hundred,” amended the other Firewing.

“And our estimates on their infantry are still in the range of twenty to thirty thousand,” said Wheatie. “But if they’re anything like the ones we’ve been fighting all week, then every Equestrian pegasus is worth four of their warriors.”

“So we’re only outnumbered forty to one,” said Windstreak dryly. She caught herself. These ponies needed every bit of morale they could scrounge up from the ashes. “But you’re right. They haven’t the discipline or the skill to break us. What of the siege weaponry?”

“Dustfeather?” Wheatie looked to the third scout.

“I counted thirty trebuchets at least, and there may be a dozen or more yet to cross the river. They have enough to crack Canterlot open like an egg.” Dustfeather gulped. “But they move slowly. If Shrikefeather wants to keep his army together, they’ll keep him locked in the plains for another few days.”

Windstreak turned back to Wheatie. “And what of the dragons?”

The young Firewing’s face was grim. “There are only two of them, but we’ve seen what they’re capable of. They’re staying close the bridge for now, but we can assume that they’ll move with the army when Shrikefeather eventually pushes out.”

“Sisters. Dragons.” Bergeron shook his head. “I still can’t believe it. How did Shrikefeather get dragons in his army?”

Windstreak quashed him with a wave of her hoof. “I’m more interested in how to kill them.”

“Killing a dragon?” Wheatie looked unconvinced. “It’s been a long time since anypony’s even seen a dragon, let alone killed one.”

“The archives in Whitewall will have something. Or one of the mages may know how to bring one down. They’re not invincible.”

The other Firewings looked doubtfully at each other. “We’ll follow your lead, Captain,” said Wheatie.

“Very well. We’ve spent enough time resting. Sound the horn again. I want us in Whitewall by tomorrow morning.”

“Right away, Captain.”

The horn called again, and the weary ponies began their march once more. The ponies trudged north, through smoke and fire, out of defeat and into the unknown.

One hoof in front of the other. One hoof in front of the other. One hoof…

* * *

The General’s face gave no sign of the rage boiling beneath it. “How many acres of farmland?”

“Thousands, sir.” The Colonel trembled. “They’ve been lighting the fires behind them as they go. The wheat goes up like tinder—”

Shrikefeather held up a claw, and the other griffon stammered into silence. “So. They’ve decided they would rather burn their home to the ground than see it taken by Grypha.” He scratched the wooden table with a claw.

The tent was small and cramped, too tiny for Shrikefeather to even spread his wings. But his command tent was still on the south side of the river, and the General was determined to stay at the forefront of his army. The map on the table had black charcoal smears across most of the southern plains, matching his mood.

“No battle plan survives contact with the enemy.” He dug a claw into the map at Whitewall, drawing it down and tearing a line through the plains. “This Firewing Captain… Windstreak. Tell me more of her.”

“She leads the golden-armored pegasi. With Celerity dead—and a fine kill it was, sir—command of the armies seems to have fallen to her. She is leading them north in a full retreat. It was she who ordered the burning of the fields. Those few golden pegasi we have captured alive speak highly of her skills in battle. But she is no Celerity. There’s no boldness in her tactics. She flees for Whitewall, hoping its walls will protect the remnants of her army. The path to Whitetail Forest lies open.”

“I want her head on a pike. Because of her, Trellow cost us far too much, and these ‘Firewings’ are too great a nuisance to leave at our backs as we move into the north. We need to crush Whitewall, quickly and with as little griffon-power as possible.”

“It will take a great deal of time to shift the trebuchets into the forest…”

“We’ll not be sending the siege to Whitewall.”

“But how will we breach the city’s defenses? They say a hundred ponies can hold that fortress against ten thousand enemies.”

“They exaggerate. And one dragon is worth ten thousand ponies.” Shrikefeather stood, his head brushing against the tent’s roof. “Come.” He left, his tail swishing impatiently behind him.

* * *

“You’re so boring sometimes, Viera.” Merys rolled over on his back, scratching a claw along his armored underbelly. The great red dragon was lounging with his tail in the river, letting the water play over his scales. “Setting a few prisoners on fire is an amusing way to pass the time.”

Viera rolled her eyes. “Merys, you’re a fool.” The green dragon stretched her wings, letting the sunlight warm them. To the north, the sky was covered with thick smoke, but behind them the sun still glowed brightly. Her stomach rumbled. She was getting hungry again, but not yet so hungry as to rise from her comfortable position by the riverside. Viera fanned herself with a wing. “Slaves are useful. Burning them alive for your entertainment is a waste.”

Merys yawned, sending out a blast of hot air. “Entertainment isn't a waste. Some of us prefer to enjoy life.”

Viera sneered. “And that’s why your hoard is the laughingstock of Wyrmgand.”

Flames flew from Merys’s nostrils. “We’ll see. Once we plunder the Equestrians’ capital, I’ll have riches worthy of song.”

Viera laughed. Male dragons were dismally easy to bait. “Of course you will.” Merys would be sure to steal the gold from the spires of Canterlot, raiding the city for every last ingot of precious metal he could find. Viera had different treasures in mind. The library of the Equestrian Princess was legendary, even in Wyrmgand. Spellbooks and other arcana lay hidden inside, dating all the way back to the time of Phileostryx the Black and Starswirl the Bearded. Soon enough that knowledge—and power—would be hers.

But the griffons moved so slowly. It had been nearly a week since the dragons had crushed the Equestrians at the bridge, and still the horde squatted by the river. The griffon General demanded much, but she would tolerate his impertinence so long as he delivered the riches of Equestria as promised.

Viera caught a familiar scent on the breeze, and frowned in displeasure. The General, seemingly summoned by her thoughts, approached, followed as always by his closest lackey. Viera lowered her head to the ground, gazing at the griffon with an eye the size of a small pony.

“Yes, griffon?”

The General’s annoying little shadow piped up in that irritating shrill voice of his. “You will address the General with the proper respect, dra—”

“Colonel.”

“… my apologies, General.”

Shrikefeather spared a sideways glare at his subordinate, and turned back to the great green dragon. “The strategic situation has changed.”

Viera puffed a burst of smoke from her nostrils, covering the two griffons. The little one bent double, coughing, but the General flapped the smoke out of his face with a wing in annoyance.

“Indeed?” Viera looked unimpressed. “Have the Equestrians summoned an army from their pockets?”

“With the fields ablaze, my troops will be unable to live off the land. Supply lines must be set up from Grypha, which will take time, but we need to push northward to capture the farmland north of the plains.”

“You should try horse,” said Merys from the side. “It’s a bit chewy, but you get used to the taste.” He howled with laughter. Viera and Shrikefeather eyed the red dragon with mutual disdain. There were few things they agreed upon, but Merys was one of them.

Shrikefeather continued, ignoring the interruption. “As soon as we have the siege moved over the bridge, we march for Westermin and Weatherforge. But the fortress of Whitewall remains a threat.”

Viera straightened. Whitewall was one of the oldest unicorn cities in Equestria. Their magical archives were rumored to be grand indeed. “Whitewall, you say?”

The griffon smiled. “I thought that might catch your attention. The remnants of Celerity’s host are fleeing to the city. I can’t afford to have them at my flank while I push north through Weatherforge. I need you to take seven thousand of my troops and capture the city.”

“I doubt I will need the help.”

“The army—and you—will be under the command of Major Gableclaw. Merys will remain here, with the rest of the army.”

Viera’s eyes narrowed. She snorted flame contemptuously. “And who are you to order me?”

The griffon was uncowed. “The one who will deliver you the wealth of Equestria.” He folded his wings at his side and cocked his head impatiently.

Viera grudgingly inclined her snout. “Very well.”

“Gableclaw’s forces are already prepared. You will leave immediately.” Shrikefeather pointed a claw towards the north. “And one more thing. The leader of the golden-armored pegasi, these… Firewings. Make sure she dies.”

“As you command,” said Viera, her voice dripping with sarcasm. The great green dragon beat her wings, lifting off and sending waves of wind blowing across the plain. She glided through the air to the waiting forces of Gableclaw. “Whitewall…” She smiled in anticipation. This deal with the griffons might yet be worth her time.

* * *

The Colonel coughed, waving away smoke. “I am still unsure of our… ‘allies’. The King places too much trust in the greed of dragons.”

Shrikefeather frowned. “His Majesty has dealt with their kind before. Gold is the key to a dragon’s heart. They’re simple creatures, once you know how to pull their strings.” He beckoned. “Come. There is much to do.”

The two of them began to cross the bridge. It still bore the scars of the battle, the stones covered with congealed bloodstains and pockmarks from misfired spells. Chunks of the bridge were missing where the firebombs had landed, and in certain places wooden slats had been placed over gaps in the stone that opened to the river below. Griffons hurried ceaselessly across in both directions, carting weapons and armor behind them. They all gave the General a respectfully wide berth.

“Will Gableclaw be able to take Whitewall with such a small force?”

“With Viera under his command, I expect Whitewall will be ours by the end of the month. Even without her, the city won’t survive for long against a real army. Most of Whitetail’s strength was here at Trellow. The few that have escaped will not be able to hold the walls against a determined attack.”

The Colonel nodded. “And the rest of our campaign?”

Shrikefeather sidestepped a firebomb crater. “That depends. The loss of the plains is going to slow us down a great deal. How soon can the flying divisions be ready?”

“We’ll need at least another three days to get the siege over the river. We’ll have to reinforce the bridge to prevent it from collapsing while our infantry cross—”

“The siege does not concern me. Nor do the infantry. Our airborne units, Lieutenant. How soon?”

“Well… today, if they aren’t to be expected to carry supplies.”

Shrikefeather quickened his pace. “Then we leave today.”

“We, sir? You’re leaving the bridge?”

The General scowled. “The ponies have delayed us too long already. Manderly can oversee the movement past the Grumar. You and I will be pushing ahead with the aerial units. We won’t need anything else where we’re going.”

“As you command, General.”

Comments

[Municipal Engines]

I wonder what the General's planning to do with his aerial units. Between the dragons, the civil war, the massive and more experienced griffon army and the Sleipnords' own civil war, it'll be a miracle if Equestria manages to come out of this alive.

[Cedric Bale]

658863
And then they somehow incite a griffon civil war. Civil wars everywhere.
troll.me/images/toy-story-everywhere/toy-story-everywhere.png

[Thread Necromancer]

We need to crush Whitewall, quickly and with as little griffon-power as possible.

upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/a/ae/Spitfire_22.jpg I had to.

[PaulAsaran]

I was wondering what the griffons had offered the dragons. Should have been obvious. I just have to wonder what the other dragons of Wyrmgand think of what they're doing.

I find it interesting that Shrikefeather predicts a month of fighting at Whitewall. I would think that a dragon's presence alone would make it fall within a matter of hours... but I could be overestimating their power. Even Celestia admitted they had the power to fight toe-to-hoof with the gods, though, hence my questioning of the timetable.

Still expecting Windstreak to be dead before this war is over.

[Golden Fang Ryu Shenron]

The Colonel coughed, waving away smoke. “I am still unsure of our… ‘allies’. The King places too much trust in the greed of dragons.”

I don’t blame him for thinking that. Dragons are known to be one of the most powerful and magical beings on the planet. Just one of them could push the Princesses to their limit.