• Published 27th Feb 2012
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The Age of Wings and Steel - DSNesmith



When Equestria is threatened by politics and war, a crippled pony must rise to its defense.

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30. Tomes and Troubles

“Any luck yet?” Windstreak looked up hopefully.

Across the table, Bergeron was poring over a thick volume titled Legendary Weapons of Equestria and Beyond, flipping through the pages without enthusiasm. His eyes rolled up to the Captain. “I’m afraid not, unless you’re hiding Wyrmsbane or the Kingshammer on you somewhere.” He closed the book with a thunk and set it aside in a growing pile.

Windstreak sighed. They’d been at this for three days without any results so far. The library of Whitewall was one of the largest she’d ever seen, but she was beginning to fear that it did not contain the answers she was looking for.

She turned her head back down to A Brief History of Wyrmgand, which had to be the most inaccurately-titled book she’d ever read. She’d barely skimmed the last nine hundred pages, uninterested in the various territorial squabbles and hoard thefts that constituted most of Wyrmgandian history. Even with such a cursory reading, she was beginning to realize that it was less a country and more a shared space between individual dragons. They had no government, and they followed no leaders. Each dragon was a nation unto itself, and its word was law to any dragons weaker than it.

Fascinating, but not helpful. Windstreak was far more interested in the book’s appendices, which dealt with the creatures themselves. She began re-reading the entry for the third time that day.

Dragons, the eldest race, have roamed the earth since the very beginning. They sprang from the fires of creation, when the world was still red and hot. They were the undisputed masters of the earth, until the arrival of the gods (see Appendix C for more information on the creation wars). Long before the other races rose from the ground, the dragons ruled.

Dragons are made from the very bones of the earth, their roots as deep as mountains’. A dragon’s skin is covered with scales, harder than rock and sharper than steel blades. Dragonbone is even more resilient, immune to heat and virtually indestructible. For this reason, the remains of a dragon are greatly prized for their utility in the crafting of armor and tools.

But these are rare; for dragons, though not immortal, live much longer than the younger races. If a dragon can survive enough battles they can reach ages of nearly six thousand years or more. A dragon’s age can be roughly determined by its size, for dragons do not stop growing until they have reached an age of three thousand years at least. This rate of growth is linked to the size of a dragon’s hoard, through magic not yet fully understood (see Appendix F for more information on the physical and psychological importance of dragon hoards).

Windstreak sighed and turned the page. Dragons, though not immortal... That implied they could be killed, but the book was maddeningly evasive about how one could do so. Giving up, she slammed it closed and shoved it aside. “How about you, Wheatie? Found anything useful?”

The young stallion looked up from the pages of Dragon Diets: Forty Meals and How Not to Be One with a dull expression. “Not particularly.” He yawned. “They still need to breathe, right? Maybe we can choke them when they try swallowing us all.” He shook his head and turned back to his book.

With a grimace, Windstreak turned to the side and pulled out the next book in the pile, a ponderous looking tome named Dragonslayers. The title looked promising, but upon closer inspection it turned out to be a collection of biographies about the famous ponies from the Pre-Classical era who had had their names emblazoned in history for the same impossible feat she now contemplated: killing dragons. The book said next to nothing about the actual slayings themselves, and what little it did was unhelpful. The great magical weapons the slayers had used had been lost for hundreds or thousands of years.

There was a creaking sound as the door to the library opened. Windstreak looked down the aisle to see the archmage pulling a small cart filled with another dozen books.

“I’ve collected all the relevant materials I can find,” said the archmage, pulling up to the Firewings. “There’s next to nothing on them in my spellbooks, except continual warnings to avoid the things.” He shook his head. “I’m afraid we just don’t know very much about the dragons. Everypony that’s ever tried to study them has ended up as a smoking crater. I can keep looking, General, but I doubt I’ll find anything.”

“It’s Captain, still. This new rank is… it’s just a formality. I certainly don’t want it.”

“As you wish, Captain.” The archmage sorted through the books in his cart. “Have any of you discovered a weakness yet?”

Bergeron snorted unhappily. “Their claws can cut through iron, their breath can melt rocks, and their scales can’t even be scratched by mortal weapons.”

“It gets better,” said Wheatie in a dry tone. “Ordinary fire doesn’t even hurt them. They like taking baths in volcanoes. On top of that, they’re nearly immune to magic. Even Starswirl the Bearded would be hard-pressed to kill one of these things.”

“It’s been done before,” said Windstreak, picking through the new volumes. “It can be done again.”

“I hope so,” said Bergeron, without conviction. “Hang on, this might be something.” He scanned the page again. “Ah… do we have any dragonbone spears in the city, archmage?”

“Alas, no. The last one in Whitetail’s possession was sold to cover the expenses for Sel-Paloth years ago.”

“Then never mind.”

Windstreak rubbed her face. “What time is it?”

The archmage looked at the candle. “You’ve been in here for six hours, Captain. It’s nearly midnight.”

Yawning, Windstreak stretched her wings. “Then I’m going to bed. Wheatie, Bergeron, we’ll pick this up tomorrow morning, yes?”

The two members of her unofficial inner council nodded. “I’m going to give it another hour tonight, I think,” said Bergeron.

“Captain,” said the archmage, “before you go, I should tell you. The Duke wished to speak with you tomorrow morning. I would see to him before coming here.”

“Very well. I’ll meet Tymeo in the council chamber at six.”

“I will let him know.” The archmage bowed as Windstreak left the library.

She wandered through the halls of Whitewall City’s keep. The white stones were thick enough to resist any mortal weapon, but what could they do against dragonfire? Goddess, her stomach hurt. She swallowed. All the citizens of the city were counting on her, and her alone, to keep them safe against the oncoming horde. She felt like she was dragging a weight behind her on a chain.

But she felt sorrier for the young Duke. For the last three days he had been organizing the evacuation, trying to keep his ponies calm while confiding privately in Windstreak that he was in way over his head. Young Tymeo did not have the experience to lead the city in a time of crisis. Still, he had accepted his responsibility without complaint, and he was putting in every effort to save the vassals he was sworn to protect. Windstreak respected him, though she could not help but wish he were Celerity instead.

At last Windstreak came to her chambers near the top of the keep. She strode inside the humble little room, quietly closing the door behind her. The moon was beginning to wane, but enough light poured in from the window for her to see by. She looked out over the forest, at the green tops of the trees.

She frowned. It was mid-November. The trees should already be bare, but with Lord Weatherforge pulling all the pegasi he could spare to help in the war effort, the seasonal cycle had been thrown out of balance. After the war—assuming any of them were still alive—the rebuilding process would be difficult without the pegasi lost at Trellow.

Looking down at the streets of Whitewall, Windstreak’s mind churned with hundreds of fruitless plans. Weapons were useless; magic, worth about as much as spit. The dragons were unstoppable. Perhaps the Princess could stand against them, but Celestia was still far in the north dealing with Blueblood. And even if she were here, Windstreak had her doubts that the Princess could singlehoofedly take on two of the ancient creatures.

She slipped under her bed’s sheets, lying down sideways. The bed felt half-empty without the warmth of another body. She missed Apricot terribly. She hadn’t even been able to send him a letter since she’d left Canterlot. It would not be long before news of Trellow reached the capital, if it had not already. Would Apricot think that she was one of the fallen? She wanted nothing more than to be with him right now, but she was beginning to fear that she would never see him again.

Sisters save us. Dragons. The old legends were springing to life around her, and the world was falling apart. Windstreak buried her head underneath her pillow and pressed it down around her ears. Maybe she would wake up to find herself back in the bakery, the events of the last three weeks merely a bad dream.

* * *

She slept fitfully, twisting and turning beneath damp sheets. When morning came at last, she rolled out of bed, feeling worse than she had the night before. She wandered over to the mirror on the wall, picking up the hairbrush the Duke had provided with her hoof. As she brushed her fiery mane back into place, she stared gloomily at her reflection.

The pony in the mirror was a stranger. Her eyes had sunken back into her skull, dark circles deeply pronounced on her cheeks. Her normally bright and clean blue coat was still covered with caked-on dust from the road. She resolved to take a bath before hitting the library again.

But first, she needed to speak with Duke Bellemont. Windstreak lay the brush down beside the mirror, and looked over at her armor. It hung on a rack beside the bed, the once-polished gilded steel covered with dirty smudges. She needed to clean it before it tarnished, but she couldn’t bring herself to spend any time away from the library. The thought of the dragons loomed in her mind, pressing down on her like a crushing stone.

She walked through the halls of the keep in the direction of the council chamber. She passed no other ponies. Most of the keep’s inhabitants were still asleep at this hour. Her hooves echoed slightly as they clopped along the floor stones, the rhythmic sound doing little to calm her aching stomach. She reached the door at last, pushing it open and stepping inside.

“Duke Bellemont.”

Tymeo looked up from his desk with a tired smile. “Ah, General Strudel.”

Windstreak let the title slide. It wasn’t worth arguing about. If it gave the young Duke some small comfort to think she was worthy of leading an army, then she would not take it from him. “You wanted to see me, my lord?”

“Yes. I have some good news, finally.” Tymeo stood and motioned Windstreak to come to the window. They looked out northward to the city gates.

“I don’t see anything.”

“Well, they haven’t gotten here quite yet, but I’m expecting them to be in the city before noon.” Tymeo looked as tired as Windstreak felt. He rubbed his eyes, yawning. “Baron Aubren’s messenger arrived last night. He says that the first shipments of the new Easthill weapons have finally come.”

Windstreak peered at the road, trying to catch any glimpse of wagons, but saw nothing yet. “What exactly is in these shipments?”

“Well, to be frank, I don’t know. This was Celerity’s game; I was just supposed to the keep the city safe while she was away.”

“Hm.” Windstreak thought back to Trellow, remembering the vast hordes of griffons crashing into the unarmored Cloudsdale pegasi. “How soon can we begin fitting the soldiers?”

“I’ve got every blacksmith in the city—well, all the ones who chose not to flee—ready and waiting to begin working on the armor. The weapons, on the other hoof, will be arriving already forged. How many troops do we still need to arm?”

“Not as many as before,” said Windstreak gloomily. “When we arrived at Trellow, Celerity had fifteen hundred troops without arms. About half of them are dead.”

The Duke winced. “Be honest with me, General. Do we have a chance against the griffons?”

“That depends on how many of them Shrikefeather commits to taking the city.” Windstreak walked away from the window, over to the desk. She unrolled a map, looking at the south. “With the southern plains scorched to ash, his first priority will be Westermin. That’s in the opposite direction from Whitewall. He won’t be sending his main force here.”

“So even with so few to defend Whitewall, we might stand a chance?”

His optimistic tone brought a tired smile to her face. “Duke Bellemont, even if Shrikefeather only sends a quarter of his forces to Whitewall, we’ll be outnumbered two to one. And this time, we won’t have a bridge to funnel them all into our spears. I wish I could be more encouraging, but frankly, there’s not much hope.”

“Well, what if we got reinforcements? Weatherforge and Westermin are still our allies.”

“And both of them lost most of their armies at Trellow. They’ll be hard-pressed to defend themselves, now, let alone send aid to Whitewall. I’m sorry, Tymeo, we’re on our own.”

The Duke sat heavily on his desk cushion. “I see. Thank you for your honesty, General.” He stared at the grain of the wood, rubbing a hoof along the top of the desk.

Taking that as her dismissal, Windstreak nodded wearily and left. She turned left to head toward the baths, but suddenly the image of a roaring green dragon sprang up in her mind. She sighed, and walked instead in the direction of the library.

* * *

Wheatie and Bergeron had started without her. They were both curled up beside the table of reference material, their noses stuffed into their books. Bergeron was reading an old copy of Flora and Fauna of Equestria, looking bored out of his mind. Wheatie was reading… Windstreak smirked.

“How are you enjoying Steamy Canterlot Nights, Private?

Wheatie looked up guiltily, shutting the book and tossing it aside. “Didn’t hear you come in, Captain.”

Still grinning, she grabbed a book from the pile and sat. “A bit of good news, you two. The shipments from Easthill are arriving today.”

Wheatie looked pleased, but Bergeron scowled. “The blood of Canterlot troops is on those weapons.”

Windstreak gave a tired shrug. “It’s wartime, Bergeron. Practicality comes before sentiment.”

He gave a hmpf and turned back to his book. Windstreak looked down at her own, a dog-eared copy of The Student’s Bestiary of Strange and Rare Creatures. She flipped through the table of contents. It was arranged geographically rather than alphabetically, to her annoyance.

“Wendigoes… sea serpents… draugr… sphinxes… satyrs… pegacorns…” She paused.

Taking a quick glance up, she saw that neither Bergeron nor Wheatie had noticed, still buried in their own books. She turned the pages, quickly finding the chapter. She began reading.

Of all the creatures in this book, perhaps none is more saddening than the pegacorn. These creatures share the form of an alicorn, but instead of divine grace they possess only grotesqueries. This rarest breed of pony is an aberration resulting from an unfortunate union between a pegasus and a unicorn.

Due to the influence of evil spirits, bad blood, or perhaps plain bad luck, they inherit a twisted mockery of both parents’ gifts: a horn, unable to perform magic, and wings too sickly and weak to fly. Most become thieves or brigands, as their accursed blood drives them to crime. Rumors of their dark powers are greatly exaggerated, however; most pegacorns cannot perform even the simplest spells. Regardless, caution is to be advised if meeting one of these mutants. Their temperaments are notoriously unstable, and they are little better than feral beasts when angered.

A word of reassurance to potential parents: pegacorns are far from common, and the majority of mixed-race parents need not worry. Only one pegasus-unicorn foal in four thousand will be cursed with the body of a pegacorn. In the event of a pegacorn’s birth, however, it is kinder to smother the beast rather than permit a monstrosity from-

The book crashed into the library shelf. “Captain!” said Bergeron, looking up in surprise. Windstreak was breathing hard, still grinding her teeth. “Captain, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. I need to take a break. Carry on, Lieutenant.”

She stormed out of the library without looking back. She needed to get out of this city.

As Windstreak emerged into the daylight outside the keep, she beat her wings and took to the air. She flew high above Whitewall, letting the sunlight wash over her.

It is kinder to smother the beast…

Still enraged, she soared north of the city, headed for the lake. It was a short flight, and she soon sailed above the glassy water. The unbroken surface of the lake was far below her, reflecting the sunlight. Windstreak took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and folded her wings. She plummeted from the air, plunging into the water like a spear.

It was freezing cold. She felt the water rush past her, carrying away the dirt and grime. She curved her body, shooting out of the water again and taking flight once more. She shook her head, letting her wet mane fly back in the wind. She soared upward, headed for a cloud.

She alighted on top of the puffy white cumulus, striding to the edge and sitting heavily. She looked northward from her perch, but she was too far south to see Canterlot, let alone the northern stretch of the Joturs. Somewhere far beyond that horizon, her son was wandering through the icy wastes of Sleipnord, risking his life for his country.

It is kinder to smother the beast…

She snorted angrily, punching a hoof into the cloud. It emitted a halfhearted clap of thunder. She flopped onto her back, staring up at the blue sky.

Oh, Rye… She would give anything to be at his side right now. He was always on her mind. The mental image of a small, gray pony slowly freezing to death kept her up at night. The Princess made a mistake. It should be me going to Sleipnord, not Rye.

But she wasn’t. She was here, and dwelling on what ifs would do nopony any good. She rolled back over, looking down at the lake.

The ripples from her brief dive still traveled outward. The milky water lapped the shores, giving no hint as to its depth. Windstreak toyed idly with a piece of cloud, her thoughts inevitably drawn back to the dragons.

They can be killed, but how? Even Easthill steel won’t pierce those scales. She stared glumly at the lake, watching a pair of birds fly below her cloud.

She gave another snort. Maybe Wheatie was right. We should all fly down their throats at once and hope they choke to death.

Suddenly she sat upright. They do need to breathe. She stood, suddenly filled with nervous energy. Her tail began swishing as she paced. What she was thinking of was crazy. It would never work, not a chance. Unless… perhaps, with enough pegasi, it could be done. But how were they supposed to keep the dragon—

A glint of sunlight caught her eye, and she looked back down to the road. The first in a long line of wagons was pulling up to the gates of Whitewall, filled with gleaming steel. Windstreak stared at the shining metal with a grin as the last piece clicked into place. This was mad. They were probably all going to die.

But they’ll be singing songs about it for centuries to come.

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