48. Tea in the Dungeons
In over thirty years of military service, during which he’d marched through rain, mud, and arid deserts, Major Gableclaw had never been more uncomfortable. The cell was damp and moldy, the floor was as hard as a rock, and the musty air was beginning to irritate his sinuses. The chains cuffed around his wrists were far tighter than necessary, and when he had struggled against them they had chafed him bloody.
He’d been sitting in this dungeon for three days—or possibly four, he was starting to lose track of time. The prison was empty save for Gableclaw and the sole guard, a silent brute who refused to talk to or even look at him. Even his requests for the amenities due a prisoner of war of his stature were ignored. He’d demanded the guard fetch him some food, to which the pony had responded by kicking the wall. A pair of rats had scurried out, startled by the noise.
Gableclaw’s rumbling stomach forced him to swallow his humiliation along with the tiny morsels. He’d had rations that tasted worse, but he preferred his meat cooked. He soothed his wounded ego by plotting his eventual revenge. When he finally escaped from this cell, he’d return to the war camp near Trellow, take another army, and march back to Whitewall to finish the job. This time, no army would spring out of the woods to save the ponies.
His head rose at the soft clop of hooves on stone. Torchlight flickered in the stairwell at the end of the row of cells. Gableclaw counted three shadows on the curving wall inside it before the ponies reached the dungeon.
The first two of them were pegasi, wearing the now-familiar and much hated golden armor. The gleaming plates looked recently polished, reflecting the torchlight like mirrors. The blue pegasus had a silver tray in her mouth, and the white one carried a wooden block. The third was an earth pony bearing a long, thin bundle.
The blue pegasus nodded to the guard, who saluted. Gableclaw heard the jangle of keys, and his cell door opened to admit the strange little procession.
“Welcome to my pit,” said Gableclaw, spreading his claws as far as the chains allowed. “Make yourselves at home.”
The white pegasus sat the block down before him, and the blue one laid her tray down on top of it. The tray had two tiny, silver teacups on it, filled with hot, brown liquid. The blue pegasus sat down on the other side of the improvised table, taking a teacup between her hooves. “Hello, Gableclaw. Drink up.” She took a sip. “You should have taken my offer.”
“Mine is still open,” he said, cocking his head. His throat was dry and raw, and he wanted nothing more than to drain the cup in front of him, but he refused to give her the satisfaction.
“I’ll keep it in mind,” said the pegasus, taking another drink.
Irritated, Gableclaw said, “So, General Windstreak, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
Windstreak wiped her lips with a handkerchief. “Tell me everything you know about Shrikefeather’s plan to take Canterlot. You and I both know that trebuchets won’t be enough if he wants to capture the city before another two winters pass. I thought he was going to try something similar to Whitewall with the red dragon, but it’s going to be busy with the Princess, isn’t it?”
Gableclaw laughed. “After Merys has slain your god, I think I’ll pay a visit to the capital to see her head hanging over the gates.”
“A group of near-dead pegasi managed to kill one of your dragons already, Gableclaw. What do you think our goddess is going to do to the other?” Windstreak smiled faintly. “But we digress. How does Shrikefeather plan to take Canterlot? What’s his play?”
“Major Gableclaw, third regiment, commanding the third division of—”
Windstreak sighed, and drained her cup. “Very well.” She looked at him with sympathy. “You really should drink your tea.”
“If I wanted to drink horse piss, I’d ask the guard.”
“Have it your way. It seems a shame to refuse your last meal, but I’m not very familiar with griffon etiquette.” The pegasus set her cup back down.
“What?” Gableclaw felt his stomach drop.
Windstreak stood, lifting the tray up. Gableclaw’s eyes widened as he realized that the wooden block’s top face had a deep, neck-sized groove in the top. Windstreak set the tray down on the floor to the side.
“You—you can’t be serious.” Gableclaw heard the unmistakable sound of a whetstone scraping on metal. He looked to his left to see that the third pony had unwrapped his bundle to reveal a gigantic axe. He was running the sharpening stone along the edge of the blade. He looked at Gableclaw and slowly pulled the cloth—a black hood—over his head.
“Do excuse me for standing back,” said Windstreak, moving to the far side of his cell, “but I just cleaned my armor.”
His blood froze. He forced a smile that he hoped appeared knowing. “A futile bluff, General Windstreak. Equestrians don’t execute their prisoners.”
“Didn’t,” said Windstreak, with the tone of a teacher correcting a student. “We didn’t execute our prisoners.” She stepped forward, placed a hoof on top of his head, and shoved him down onto the block. She leaned down beside him and looked into his eyes. The torchlight threw her ruined face into sharp relief. “Then, you invaded my homeland, burned my cities to the ground, killed thousands of my kin, and gave me this scar so that I can never forget any of it.” She gave him a smile as cold as polar ice. “Now? We execute prisoners.”
Gableclaw’s ears thudded. “You don’t have the stomach for it. You’re too soft.”
Her eyes held no mercy. “You have made me hard, griffon.” She stepped back. He felt pressure on his back as the other pegasus held him down. There was a grunt from the side as the headspony lifted his axe.
“Wait! All right, you win! I’ll talk!”
“Hold,” said Windstreak, raising a hoof. Gableclaw smiled with relief. “I should do it myself.” His smile vanished. She walked to his left, out of his view.
“Wait! Please!”
“Not very original last words, Gableclaw.”
His heart hammered in his chest. “Shrikefeather has a secret weapon!”
Windstreak slowly walked in front of him, the gargantuan axe slung across her shoulders. “Talk.”
“I wasn’t high enough up the command chain to know the details, but we were told the general shape of the plan. Shrikefeather isn’t going to lay siege to Canterlot, not if he can help it. The trebuchets are just a backup plan. He has some weapon, or tactic, or something, that he’s going to use to completely bypass the city’s defenses. ‘The infantry won’t have to lift a claw to enter Canterlot,’ he said.”
“Is that all?” Windstreak shook her head. She stood.
“Wait! He said—General Shrikefeather said that the only threats to the plan were the Weatherforge pegasi. That’s why he revealed the dragons so soon in the campaign, once all of the pegasi turned up at Trellow. And that’s why he sent me to Whitewall, to finish you off. He didn’t care about the city, he wanted you and your pegasi dead.” Gableclaw’s mind raced desperately as he tried to remember information. “He—he said, ‘The key to victory lies in Cloudsdale.’ Whatever it was, it was important enough that he personally led the attack on the city, right after we secured the bridge. Whatever it is, it’s in Cloudsdale. That’s all I know, I swear.”
Windstreak nodded to the executioner, who took back his axe. Gableclaw sighed in relief as the headspony took off his hood and began to re-bundle the axe in the cloth. The ponies filed out of his cell, one-by-one.
As Windstreak left, she set the tray back down on the wooden block. “Drink your tea.” She turned and walked out.
“Wait! General!” She turned, wearing an impatient frown. “Please… can you send some food down?”
She gave him another cold smile. “I’ll pass your request on to the duke, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. He’s not as fond of you as I am.” The door slammed shut.
* * *
“Hmm,” muttered Wheatie, as they reached the top of the stairs. “What kind of weapon could Shrikefeather find in Cloudsdale?” He rubbed his chin. “The weatherforging machinery, maybe?”
Windstreak made a skeptical noise. “The weatherforgers have to go through a three-year apprenticeship to learn how to use those things. I doubt the griffons are going to get the cloud foundries working sooner than that.” She shook her head. “Besides, any really dangerous weather takes time to put together. Not to mention, the entire weather cycle has already been thrown into chaos.”
“Still, why else would Shrikefeather be so concerned about us pegasi? If we were in the capital, we could break up a storm in a few hours at most, but if all of us are scattered around the country and he hits the city with a blizzard like that one in 317…”
Windstreak shook her head. “A weather system would be too… impersonal.”
“Sorry? I don’t follow.”
“It’s taken me a while, but I’ve finally put it together,” said Windstreak. “I’ve got his number, now. Shrikefeather likes his plans to seem elegant: using commandos instead of siege to take Sel-Paloth, the feint at Trellow, bypassing walls instead of battering through them, even using dragons to deal with the Princess—how much more poetic can you get than recreating the first war of all time on a small scale? But it’s just an act.” She gave a catlike smile.
Wheatie tilted his head. “Hm?”
“The real Shrikefeather, the one beneath all that urbane civility and the grandiose plans, is the Shrikefeather that showed up on the field at Trellow leading the infantry from the front. All his grace and poise is just a show to cover up his real personality.” Seeing Wheatie’s still clueless expression, she said, “He likes getting blood on his claws.”
“So you think he wants a real fight at Canterlot, and a storm would be too…”
“Distant. Shrikefeather isn’t the kind of griffon to sit back and watch Canterlot die, he’ll want to rip out its heart himself. And that’s his flaw, his weakness. That is how we’ll beat him.”
They had reached the door to the outside of the keep. Wheatie shrugged. “If you say so, Captain.”
“But we don’t have much time. We have to get to Canterlot before Shrikefeather, to stop whatever new devilry he’s plotting. You get the pegasi prepared to march. I’ll go talk to our friends from Norhart. We’re leaving Whitewall tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Wheatie saluted. “Before I go, I have to ask. What would you have done if your bluff didn’t work?”
“Bluff?” Windstreak raised an eyebrow at him. “Go get my pegasi ready, Wheatie.”
He swallowed, nodded, and took off into the air.
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Sooo its official ...Windstreak wears the pants in the family.....No wonder Apricot stays in the kitchen...
And so, everything will return to where it started, Canterlot.
1701629 Well, he is a baker after all.
That pegasus Windstreak is a bad mother--
(Shut your mouth)
I'm talkin' bout Windstreak!
(Then we can dig it)
She's a complicated mare
But nopony understands her but her husband
(Windstreak)
I was always confused by how scars can even exist in this universe. Surely magic can do something.
But anyway, awesome scene. I'm continuing to get more and more excited about where this is all going.
1703439
It's possible to fix scars, if one has a powerful enough healer. But like she's said, it's not just a scar. It's a reminder.
Gableclaw's incompetence is costing Shrikefeather an awful lot, lol.
Two chapters to read at once! dl.dropbox.com/u/31471793/FiMFiction/emoticons/misc_Sweetie_happy.png
If Windstreak found out about a potential way to get through Canterlot's defenses, wouldn't she have sent a messenger on ahead warning Celestia of the possibility? Unless I passed over it by mistake, don't remember seeing something like this.
A lion-eagle had to eat rats. Well, I assumed Equestrian griffin cuisine to be fish, fowl and red meat, with some vegetation for variety or spice. Awesome chapter as always.
You forget who you are speaking to. You should know that it's a commander's job to send their own troops, soldiers who are literally trusting them with their lives, out to die. You should know that a commander who cannot sacrifice soldiers when it is tactically necessary is weak, and you should realize that a commander who can't kill outside of battle won't gain the ability suddenly while planning. Maybe you're a poor commander, maybe you're stupid, and quite possibly you're both, but you should see that the commander of Equestria's elite pegasus force, and more recently the general of Whitetail's army, could not possibly be soft.
1701629 Burnt like toast.
1703439 Mental scarring, brah.
Gilda R-34, amiright? s3.amazonaws.com/rapgenius/tumblr_m96gtmOlPk1r6ni3ro1_500.gif
Yeah, pretty sure Windstreak is past the point of bluffing. I would think the death of Celerity alone would have hammered the 'soft' out of her, and if not, the wiping out of 90% of her unit would seal the deal. But I have to wonder... what is Shrikefeather planning? I'm raking my brain and can't think of anything Cloudsdale has I don't already know about that would give that kind of supreme advantage. It's going to feel obvious, I know it, but right now I'm stumped.
My curiosity, it has been piqued.
Ah, the sweet satisfaction of hearing your enemy beg for mercy...it's nothing less than what those griffons deserve
.