4. The Twin Goddesses: Part 12. Ruin and Wrath
“A fine day,” thought aloud a stout earth pony. Tan of coat and wearing a tangled vermilion mane, he trudged along dragging an iron plow through the rich black soil of his homeland. Winter had wrapped up nicely, and now full blooms covered the countryside, birds nestling in the trees and the nearby brooks softly babbling. Oaken Bough was not alone; others around the Lady’s fields were hard at work under the kind morning sun.
The sound of hooves clopping upon cobblestone caught the earth pony’s attention, and he ceased his movement to spare a glance towards the road. He heard voices, speech of a fairer sort, more colored with learned words and dignity. An entourage accompanied a very pale violet unicorn, a beautiful mare. She was dressed in a simple light blue robe, lined with a silver thread. A small circlet of iron tipped here and there like dew-kissed grass with precious stones and flecks of gold rested elegantly on her flowing scarlet mane.
A beauty far beyond any other he’d beheld, the Lady Chamomile spoke with her courtiers, with now a single strand of her mane falling out of place. Oaken Bough soon fell into a daze, a dumb wide smile on his face. She continued to discuss whatever higher matters concerned the noble-blooded, occasionally batting her rich ruby eyes off towards the field. One time too many, and she finally noticed a lowly tenant farmer positively gawking at her Ladyship.
Oaken Bough flew into a panic, and galloped off with his plow in tow, cutting a deep swath through the earth. Lady Chamomile grew intrigued, and divorced herself from the business of her courtiers, jumping over the low fence that delineated each tenant’s lot. Careful not to disrupt the tilled soil, Chamomile spotted the pony who was working this particular field.
Oaken Bough’s heart pounded in his chest, set to erupt and mercifully end the poor stallion’s life. This did not come, and he was therefore forced to receive his Lady’s presence. She came with a remarkable stride, the light shining from her face like the illuminated stained-glass windows of the manor’s temple. She gave a quiet smile, looking almost nervous.
“I have noticed your labors, er…Oaken Bough, is it?” He could only nod and try to focus on plowing another length of the field. She kept in step with him, following him as he moved the many yards to the fence. “You work quickly. My liege has asked me to provide for a great host this summer.” She spoke with a shyness that perplexed Oaken Bough; she held an iron grip over his livelihood—what could she possibly be unsure about? “And…not that your services aren’t essential…but…well, they’re very good…I—“
“I am to join the manor’s militia, my Lady?” Oaken Bough said, earning a grin from his landlady.
“Yes…I need strong ponies to march with me…and you seem rather fit. When called, we shall join the Count, and he to Prince Rufus. I don’t know everything,” she mumbled, digging her pristine hoof into the soil, “But I understand Equestria is going to war, and Fillydelphia has answered that call.
“So…can I…do you accept?” her speech stopped wavering as she finally found her authority.
Oaken Bough had the feeling of butterflies swarming within his gut. His foreleg began shaking, but he stayed it with the other, and craned his neck down.
“Wonderful! Tomorrow, after midday, we shall drill in my courtyard.”
His voice caught in his throat, and he could only creak “Ye…uh…my…,” but she had already headed back to the path, likely to recruit a far more memorable and suitable stallion. Oaken Bough let out a heavy sigh; whom was he fooling? A simple peasant, a poor tenant farmer possibly entertaining the notion that a noble lady, a pony born of refinement and privilege, could be interested…he’d have less heartache simply driving a dagger through his chest.
The earth pony resumed his work, if nothing else than to not disappoint his lady.
But then, a most peculiar thing started happening. Small pebbles on the ground moved without notice, and a faint rumbling emerged from beneath his hooves. At first he thought it might have been his stomach, but he knew better a few moments later. The rumbling grew fiercer, and the ponies around stopped at its approach. The Lady Chamomile squinted into the distance, trying to discern whatever the disturbance might be.
Upon the wind came strange noises, not heard in these parts for decades. Angry, terrible noises, high-pitched screams and cries in a language nopony knew. The rumbling grew stronger…louder, and the Lady’s eyes widened when dark shapes appeared over a far hill, kicking up dust as they went.
Not long after, a bell rang in the manor village, and all capable warriors retrieved whatever weapons they could. Oaken Bough for his part dropped the plow and seized a billhook he had used earlier to clear brush. The tool in mouth, he galloped to the Lady’s side, other farmers too rallying around her. Her face immediately grew stern, and she drew her sword with a red field of magic.
“To me! To me!” she cried, a host of a dozen or so finally forming at her back. The Lady’s eyes told well enough what peril awaited them. She’d heard the tales her dear old father spun about the western nomads, the savages with their curved blades and utter lack of mercy. Mustangs, clad in their wool and iron armor, were galloping into her land.
Her first duty now could come to light: defend her property and the ponies within.
The raiders advanced in force, numbering far more than what was available to match. Nevertheless, Lady Chamomile stood fast, grimacing when their unwashed manic faces entered her sight. Most of the farmers had managed to safety; a few though suffered being cut down or trampled by the barbarians. It made their Lady’s blood hot.
The mustangs were closing on the pitiful levy, but each held valor in far excess of their opponents—it was hoped. “When you can spit on the bastards, give them hell!” the Lady shouted, raising her blade. As sure as sunrise, when the two bodies clashes, not an ounce of mercy was spared for the attackers.
Lady Chamomile uppercutted first, cleaving a mustang’s head in two. She finished the move off by slashing through the neck of another. There was no shortage of enemies to combat, and Oaken Bough found himself rushing headlong to prove his worth to his lady, and himself. His billhook was vicious, ripping pieces of flesh from wherever it stuck. Agonizing screams left his victim’s twisted mouths; a second attack with the hook silenced such noise.
The splashes of blood covered his face, not a few landing upon his lips and tongue. It was enough to make him gag, almost to wrench and purge his stomach. In truth, the smell and sound of death was more than he’d been prepared for; it’d haunt him for nights to come. He kept strong though; now was not the time to shy from his first battle—least of all while his lady was present.
Chamomile was valiant, and dispatched foe after foe. But her retinue and the farmers fighting beside her fell one by one. A young page, no more than twelve, suffered the cruelty of his head being sliced along his mouth, through the cheeks and out the back. Another endured his body crushed by stomping hooves; a third a curved mustang sword straight into his gut. The Lady avenged her fallen with a brutal efficiency, but it was too little.
A second band of mustangs passed to the right, heading into the manor village and the precious stores that they coveted. Chamomile grew in despair, knowing there was nothing she could do to save her ponies. A Lady, charged with defending this land, was caught powerless and off-guard—what crueler drink could fell gods conceive?
Lost in her despair, Chamomile did not notice one of the first band charge her, sword-point aimed between her eyes. The shout began, but when the mare finally noticed her danger, the assailant was on the ground, injured and writhing. Oaken Bough stood over the mustang, billhook in mouth, and growled. He pounced, trying to finish the job he’d started.
In the struggle, Lady Chamomile saw the stallion as he was, heroic and brave. A light seemed to shine behind, his red-orange mane flowing in the wind. Alas, had circumstances been different… She joined him in combat, the two driving their weapons into the mustang’s chest in tandem. The two shared a glance. Even covered in blood and dirt, the Lady was still the most beautiful creature a mere peasant had the good fortune to ever gaze upon.
They concluded their bittersweet glance and engaged more foes. Their strength though wore out in time, and soon all others had fallen. Surrounded, the two looked at one another and turned to their opponents with an abandon utterly lacking in heed. It was a valiant effort, the kind to sing songs of, if any were to survive to sing them. But ultimately, when the last of mustangs in this first band had fallen, the unicorn and earth pony had suffered grievous wounds. They collapsed onto the dirt, envisioned to be a sowed field only this morning, now a blood-soaked pale of earth.
A dagger had pierced Oaken Bough’s lung; a sword cut a deep gash in Lady Chamomile. She cried full tears—her lands and ponies were now undone, to be plundered and razed by these marauders. The unicorn trembled, wracked with terrible sobs. Oaken Bough looked up and wiped her eyes so that she might see him clearly. Not a word was spoken, only a quiet stare that seemed to last ages. Their lives were draining fast—both could feel it. The pair then cradled one another in their final moments, feeling their breaths hot and heavy until both breathed no more.
The manor village went up in flames. Little foals wailed loudly over the corpses of their slaughtered parents, the raiders either indifferent or choosing to end their suffering. Homes were plundered as smoke rose into their air, all valuables seized at the pleasure of the mustangs. A leader of them though shouted in her native tongue, reminding the raiders of their mission.
The manor house too erupted in a brilliant orange fire. The conflagration would spread soon, reducing the fields and even the woodlands of the manor a mere blackened waste. The granaries were emptied, whatever could be carried placed in the mustangs' bags and stolen carts; the rest was burned along with the manor.
The raid leader stood atop a hill, blowing her horn to signal their job was finished. The flames reflected in her deep hazel eyes. These ponies had put up a good fight; many of her clansponies had fallen. They would be left out in the open, as was tradition on the prairie. The Great Horde was marching eastwards, Great Warchief Jasicus along with them; they were to travel back to give the food to the multitude of warriors.
Dozens of such mustang raiding parties, quick and precise, were now fanning over the regions. They were to collect food and supplies for the Horde, and deal as much damage as possible to Equestria’s capacity to resist. Over days and then weeks hundreds of small manors and towns would share the fate of this poor nameless and now forgotten place.
As they had been doing for centuries, the borders of Equestria would recede further, marchlands drained of ponies to call them home as they fled or fell before the marauding horde.
When the first raiding parties came back in the days to follow, the horde had advanced. Abandoning Mareposa, it took a long while for its scattered and varied hosts to depart. Even once on the march, it could only move as quickly as the slowest components: bipedal minotaurs and zebras’ lumbering elephants. It would be a while yet before Discord’s great forces could be brought to bear upon the pony-lords.
Mustangs were quick and seasoned raiders, but their specialties rested on flat open ground. Rough terrain confounded them, and as such their wave broke against the mountainous realm of Coltorado. But it should not be supposed that kingdom was wholly safe—the narrow passes and crags that slowed down the prairie-folk were natural battlegrounds for the airborne thestrals and even dragons.
It was there the first true battles took place. King Cobalt Stone had sent word quickly enough to his land for them to prepare. On the whole a nation of pegasi, the hardy Coltoradans matched blow for blow the invading sorties. Little ground could be taken, the inhabitants entrenched and fighting back with arrows and rocks and spears. Many burned alive against dragonfire, but heroes were made in those valleys and passes. Not a few young, arrogant dragons were slain, and an entire clan of thestrals wiped out by a poor stroke of fate as they tried to flee through a blocked pass.
News reached the horde, now a day or so from the marshes that separated Fillydelphia’s borders from the prairie. Discord was happy, exceedingly so, of the raids’ successes. Curiously, but decreasingly so, Warchief Jasicus found the great Draconequus, that Deliverer of the forgotten peoples, actually laughed over the difficulties his own soldiers were facing northwards!
The Warchief sat out beside his lord, under the faded twilight and rising stars. He frowned, slowly realizing the dreadful position he now found himself in. Earlier that day the several bands had returned, laden with grain, fruits, and vegetables. A light banquet was held—mustangs were not prone to luxurious displays. Jasicus personally doled out a large measure of the food to his tribesponies. A hard winter had left many weakened and close to their end.
The Warchief’s heart had swelled for every small filly and colt that left his tent with even a small piece of bread—they all looked at it as if it were a precious gem or bag of gold. Too many offered praises to their leader, words of grace that Jasicus cared little for. When the slaughter was over, and times happier, Noblesse would make good on his word and grant a pale of land for the mustangs to settle upon.
In return, no raids were to be done, not a single piece of gold plundered, from Trottingham’s domain. The Prince had galloped off with an entourage of guards and even a large escort of mustangs to muster his forces. In his absence, Jasicus was left in the company of Aurýx that bloodthirsty brute, and Discord.
“Isn’t it lively? All those points of activity, swarming and scouring and scattering!” the serpentine creature laughed, kicking about and wiggling in mirth. His avian hand had already grown back and his mood was high. Everything was going exactly like he wanted, with the bland, boring, and rigid receding to his free and fun “changes”.
“Certainly, my Lord,” the Warchief quietly replied, staring at the survivors of the raids; injured and maimed, they’d won their plunder only with great struggle. Jasicus frowned further.
As a component of his due tribute, even though his godly powers seemed able to conjure substance from nothing, Discord collected a great mound of food upon which he sat and bit at all night. A coreless apple was thrown onto the ground, followed by cherries without their pits and crustless bread; all the foodstuffs the Draconequus had finished with. “It’s all coming along nicely, wouldn’t you say?” he asked, picking something from his teeth.
“Nicely enough, I should hope. There will be quite a lot of land cleared by the time we’re ready to settle,” the Warchief muttered with a sardonic chuckle.
“That’s right!” Discord said, poking the grown stallion on the snout, “Do not fret, my little nomad friend; we’ll get there.” His fanged mouth curled into a grin, “Do remember when I first spoke out to your shamans? They were a talented bunch, very receptive. All those stories of the hard prairie and cold winters…and no food! Ooooh how my heart went out to you poor, poor ponies.”
Discord made a pout, “Soon though, the verdant country of Equestria shall be laid before your hooves! Imagine the pristine lakes and rivers, the lush trees, the golden fields ripe for harvest! So…clean and neat!” he shot through clenched teeth. “But to build a house, you need to cut down a tree; to gather a castle’s stone you must hew a mighty mountain. There is method to all this, and in the end your people shall have a home.”
Discord said his peace and returned to lazing about. Jasicus replied with nothing and simply stood and watched those around. It was clear by now what sort of entity they’d made their pact with, but nothing now could be done. Serve faithfully, and in the end the mustangs might survive, and perhaps with little molestation from the new Master of this world.
Noblesse’s judgement better be sound in his planning, for a poorly-though out campaign could cost a multitude of warriors. Jasicus now knew what stock his liege placed upon his people; casualties would bother the Draconequus little if it meant he came closer to his goal—whatever that might be. It therefore rested on their own leader to preserve the mustangs.
The Great Warchief of the wild prairie-folk retired soon afterwards, mind heavy with a terrible burden. He did not sleep easily, and each day brought more anxieties. By the end of it all, the little fillies and colts of his kindred might know a less cruel life, if the gods hadn’t in fact been so callous to have banished their worst to this earth.
As he laid his head upon the simple cot he slept on every night, Warchief Jasicus grinned , realizing that thought ought never to be muttered aloud—he doubted he’d finish it before the old stallion was smote.
*――――――――――S――――――――――*
“Storm the armories! Take as much as you can!” a booming stallion’s voice called across the town courtyard, its owner standing behind his soldiers as they held off the inevitable retaliations the courageous militia offered. A month of training and drilling had done well to transform peasant conscripts into capable-enough troops prepared to pillage.
Trottingham’s lords did not heed the warnings. Marshal Helmraed approached each settlement, each stronghold with the same news: “Your Prince has betrayed you, and sold us all to the marauders of the west. Join us, or be branded our enemy.” It hardly worked. Many held to their vows or claimed there was no proof of these wild allegations. Indeed, had the Marshal been in their position would he have heeded those words?
A bitter irony of little comfort was the fact lords who had defected to Equestria’s banners were the most faithless of all, eager to dislodge their sovereign or gain some power over him.
A few weeks now they’d been at this sordid business. A good thousand soldiers had traveled with Helmraed; attrition was setting in though, and a good deal less might return home. But strongholds, forts, and towns had been disarmed—rendered inert and incapable to field troops for a time. The rear threat of Trottingham’s betrayal grew less and less each day.
Helmraed trusted his Prince, and did as he was bid. Yet he found no joy in this mission, but if it was as his liege wished, then it would be done in totality.
“Hold!” the old pegasus commanded, his line of spears withstanding the revenge, righteous enough, of the locals. Behind him others were stealing weapons and placing them on carts. Whatever couldn’t be carried would be burned. Through the course of this raiding, Helmraed had done his best to simply disarm the ponies of Trottingham’s reaches, not to kill or destroy their homes and farms. But levied peasants did not possess as high a discipline as the Guard, and it became impossible to prevent every abuse.
Military hangings became daily as his own soldiers were convicted of terrible crimes they’d been expressly commanded to refrain from. The task was made easier with reinforcements from turncoat holdings in the princedom, but Helmraed held no power of discipline over them.
An hour passed, and a flank from their rear routed the peasant militias, allowing Canterlot’s party to finish their mission in the town quick enough to set out for the next target before sundown. It was not a kind hour, filled with screams and cries and death and blood, all permanently burned into the mind of the Marshal. He had not smiled, nor laughed the whole of this mission; merely carried his heavy heart as best as he could.
Laden with swords, axes, polearms, bows and arrows, the regiment’s carts withdrew to their camp, where small detachments would ferry them back beyond the borders into Canterlot, the roads cleared of any hostiles. The citizens, having yielded, were allowed to retrieve their dead—under close surveillance from the soldiers.
Many of the townsfolk passed by the colors of Canterlot, spitting and cursing the name of her Prince and ponies. The Marshal sighed; he wished to give them gold or something else in compensation, but that would be counterproductive. Instead he held a stiff upper lip and commanded his troops to distract his mind from this horror.
“Marshal! A cartwright was most generous; we’ve been able to empty the armory,” saluted a sergeant, a ruddy unicorn.
“Burn it, then,” Helmraed said in a low voice, watching as the order was relayed and ponies retrieved spades to dig a trench around the armory. Once done, they tossed lit torches at the wooden building and saw it grow into a towering orange flame.
The trench was a courtesy; a method to prevent the rest of the town from catching alight. Much of the time it worked…sometimes not. When their torching grew out of control, it was a knife to Helmraed’s conscience. But they could not delay for the sake of one town; time was critical.
By a stroke of fate Trottingham’s lords could not agree to rally around and march against the raiders in absence of their Prince. Their folly was to Canterlot’s benefit, but honestly how much longer could that continue?
Weary and downcast, the dark blue pegasus found a barrel and sat down, resting his bones and fanning out his wings. Down a street, unpaved and illuminated by the fire, he saw a mother weeping over the lifeless body of what he could only assume was her son—had been. Helmraed’s eyes grew glossy. His own children had since grow up, his eldest tending to their estate. His youngest, his daughter Scyldmara, had joined the Canterlot Guard.
She had fallen at Windhock Vale. By what, that was never found out; she was unaccounted at the end, probably lost as a mangled corpse neither friends nor family could discern. A terrible pain in his chest threatened to escape, but he willed it down; he could mourn further in his tent.
The sun grew low in the sky, and in a house abandoned during the carnage, the Marshal and his lieutenants inspected the map and prepared their route as soldiers outside readied for the march. “We’ll travel northwards here. I intend to put ten miles between us and this town before we make camp.”
“Ten miles, my Lord? I reckon only a couple hours of daylight remain. We’d have to march by moon and starlight,” Lieutenant Brightveil, a dull green unicorn, objected.
“Then we shall march by moon and starlight. Time is not a luxury we possess. The Prince wished us to rendezvous with Equestria’s hosts by summer’s end; we cannot let Trottingham bring its banners to bear, else we should never show our faces again, me least of all.”
“It is only mid-spring, my Lord. Our troops have fought hard each and every day if they have not marched for it.” Brightveil continued, “The Guard can be expected for this sort of driving, but our levies cannot. They must rest. They are not allowed plunder, and exertion and executions are wearing on their morale. We are suffering already from desertions.”
A glance from the Lieutenant to another pony produced a small sheet of paper, “We have tallied some numbers; each and every battle we lose a larger amount of our ponies. We should have let them rest in the settlements that defected to us, but you wished to press onwards.”
The Marshal gave a stern look, a look that chilled the blood of all in the house. After placing them over their proper place, he allowed words to drive them in, “Every day we rest, every day we tarry in our mission is another day that the horde that imperils us all grows closer. Our task is utmostly important—“
“This talk of a common threat grow tedious, my Lord, as we feud with our fellow ponies like squabbling houses and lords!” one of the officers had the gall to interrupt.
Marshal Helmraed growled, prepared to reprimand as fiercely as he could until the calm voice of Lieutenant Brightveil came, “Our mission is crucial; nopony doubts this. But we have pragmatic considerations that must be made. High words can only move an army so far. Allow them time to rest, else by the end you shall only have a command of us alone in this house. And a mere council of officers does not an army make.” The Lieutenant paused, seeing the fire cool in his Marshal’s eyes, “Recalled the wisdom: ’Drive to the sea, and your dreams come all to naught. With method and deliberation, one shall conquer, if delayed longer than wished.’”
“How dare you quote military treatises to me,” Helmraed replied, but with no anger or frustration.He began to nod, “Aye. But can we stay here for the night? The inhabitants might not be terribly receptive.”
Before any of his counsel replied, a loud bellow came from the windows. The sound was clear enough; the bugler’s signal. The officers fled the house and spied atop one of the town roofs a pony blowing into their horn. Faintly but surely came the words “To arms!”
Even fainter but somehow much clearer were shouts and yells, the certain call of an attacking army. Dread filled the Marshal’s heart and his eyes shrank. His scouts should have told of any approaching forces, unless…they’d been caught.
Only one thing could have moved swift enough for that.
Appearing above the hill, Helmraed’s suspicions were confirmed. Earth ponies appeared in great force. A band of mustangs, numbering easily thousands, charged down towards the town. Above them flew dark shapes backlit by the red sun. What they were exactly the Marshal did not know; it did not matter.
“Form up! To the square! Spears, guard all entrances! Archers inside!” the Marshal ordered, flying upwards to gain a high vantage point. Sword drawn, he led his pegasi against the other flyers while the field of mustangs funneled into the streets.
The clash of metal was deafening. Many nomad warriors fell upon the shields and spears of the wall, but their force and will drove Canterlot’s lines ever back. Arrows hit their mark with blood-curdling results, but Helmraed was clearly outnumbered.
In the sky above the dark flyers swarmed towards the pegasi. Closer, their shapes could be discerned as those of bat-ponies. Creatures from murals and stories made flesh, they narrowed their yellow slit eyes and flapped their leathery wings, clubs and spears ready to slay any pegasi that entered their sky.
Helmraed met one with his blade, cleaving one of its wings and seeing it crash down a ruined and broken body. Another found its entrails spilled as his sword met its gut. A stream of blood and gore fell down to the ground, dirtying the already horrifying battlefield.
But there were too many. For every pegasus Helmraed possessed, there seemed to be five of these thestrals to match. His fliers could dispatch four each, but five seemed to be their limit. Below, the spear walls claimed mustang after mustang, but the pressure continued and Canterlot receded closer to the town square with each thrust of a blade or spear.
And then, down the main thoroughfare of the town, came galloping a different sort of pony. The Marshal saw him, a unicorn colored a dull orange.
“Fear not, good ponies! Your Prince has come!” he called out, cheers of the townsponies caught in their homes by the carnage escaping through windows. Noblesse Oblige grinned and murmured, “Your King has come.”
Helmraed fought off more thestrals with all the skill he’d earned over his many years, but they kept coming. In between attacks, he watched this new-coming Prince, noticing the violet haze trailing from his eyes.
Perched atop a building, the unicorn gave a snarl and bellow and unleashed a beam of magic, quite unlike any the Marshal had seen before. Some of the Canterlot levies burned to death, others were jolted by lightning and fell a singed corpse. All caught in Noblesse’s field died, and died screaming.
A volley of arrows came forth, many landing into the skulls and backs of the mustangs, some even hitting the bat-ponies overhead. No less than ten were seized, though, by the dark Prince’s magic. Turned around, they were unleashed upon their archers with five times as much force and malice.
Anger, pure and terrible, consumed Noblesse, but he had to withdraw as the black magic grew too strong for now. “Bring me their commanders! Kill the rest!” he yelled to his mustang allies.
Helmraed was forced to the ground by a quick succession of thestral opponents, and finally stood with his soldiers, surrounded on all sides. He spotted Lieutenant Brightveil charging headlong beside the spears as the wall broke open. A moment of glory for the unicorn, as he deserved. Brightveil killed three mustangs right away, sparred with a fourth, and slashed the face of a fifth in the aftermath.
“For the Mountain!” he cried as the enemies increasing around him, and Brightveil was torn from this world when a mace broke open his jaw, a second swing caving in his warhelm and reducing his head to a mess of bony shards and blood.
One shield wall was broken, and the mustangs quickly poured in and flanked the others, while the thestrals swooped from above and skewered to their pleasure. Soon, all of Canterlot’s soldiers were dead, and Helmraed found himself with but a small number of officers, noble and not.
“Halt!” came Noblesse’s deep voice. He appeared on top of a house, jumping down into a cleared space by his mustangs. Slowly, with a cruel smile, the Prince approached. Flashing again his dark magic, he pulled Helmraed into his grip and sneered, “Where do you get the audacity to attack my lands? What fell errand has Peter sicced his dog on?”
The magical shroud was strong, and the Marshal felt the pressure squeezing his skull. But he would say nothing to this faithless traitor.
“It is rude to refuse a Prince.” A flash of his horn and Helmraed felt an unimaginable pain. Exactly what was being done couldn’t quite be said; he knew only that his insides felt as though they were being crushed and his skin pulled apart. The pegasus screamed for what seemed like an hour. “What are they planning?! Tell me!”
Noblesse only let up to afford Helmraed opportunities to speak. He did not take any of them. The torment grew immense, but the Marshal would not break. Each time he was left writhing and trembling, driven to tears, but we would not break. Not a force on this Earth could cause that old dark pegasus to break faith and betray his master; there at least he was greater than Noblesse.
“Perhaps your underling will be more cooperative,” Noblesse threatened while seizing one of the surviving officers—the very one who had interrupted Helmraed during their meeting. A simple taste of Noblesse’s “talent” was enough to win a few words from this pony.
“Aaaah, no more! No more…” the pony cried, tears streaming down his cheeks. Noblesse relaxed his purple magic. “We were sent here…to weaken your land. Those two mares…the alicorns…they told us you were in league with the horde.” He continued to weep, falling onto the ground. Helmraed thrashed and shouted, but to no avail. “Mercy, I pray, Lord.”
No mercy came. A violent, seething rage built within the Prince, his eyes becoming a bright otherworldly green as they surged with the forbidden magic. He gnashed his teeth together until they hurt and his horn pulsed with magic until the throbbing drove him mad. The pony, most cooperative though he had been, wailed in torture, Noblesse unleashing his full malice on him. He died whimpering, blood gushing from his mouth as all within was torn and crushed and twisted.
The Prince then drew his sword, the gift from the Minotaur King renamed “Deference”, and brought it down in a rapid swing upon Helmraed’s neck, cleaving his head in one clean motion.
Still furious, the unicorn looked over his warriors. There was no sense delaying any further; that damn fool Discord had let those three go! Noblesse knew that would only have led to trouble. Premonition had been correct then, and it would be correct now.
A mere word of goodwill and promise of relief was all the Prince gave to his ponies in this town. A messenger was sent to tell his vassals to raise their forces and ready for war. Swift as the wind he then departed with his mustangs and thestrals, given to fight off the raiders he’d received word were terrorizing his lands. How foolish were these Canterlot scoundrels to think such a crime could go unpunished?
Day and night they galloped, finally meeting with the horde days later. It had now reached the edge of Equestria proper, and was already poised to pour into the miserable princedoms. Noblesse entered camp in force, galloping as quickly as his tired legs would bring him to his liege.
“My Lord Discord, I bring ill tidings,” he presented, bowing before the Draconequus.
“Oh? What sort of delights have do you have for me today?” Discord replied, grinning as he always seemed to do.
Noblesse took a moment, “The raiders I learned of in my land were in fact sent from Canterlot.”
“Ooooh now that’s interesting,” Discord cooed while wiggling his fingers together, “They want to play hero now, do they?” He conjured up a long cone and shouted in the narrow end, “You fools! We’re this way!” The fiend then laughed his lungs tired.
“Quite…,” Noblesse continued, “I ask for your leave to rectify this wrong. Grant me a force to march on Canterlot. I would see it burn—I would see it dismantled for your glory!”
“Slow down, now, little Princeling,” Discord said, snapping his fingers to make a cushioned chair appear under Noblesse. “I love sightseeing as much as anypony, but that seems to be a little out of the way. We have an eternity to tour the country. Sit back and relax; it’ll all come in time. Just enjoy it as it all unravels; as they all lose their minds!” A dark cackle then echoed from the center of the horde’s camp where their god resided.
Frustrated, Noblesse sat in the chair for a time until he got an idea, “You know, your Great Chaotic Eminence, if I recall correctly Canterlot possesses a number of knights in its service.”
“Alright…hey! What if knights were the ones in distress, and not the damsels? That could be fun; we could take bets on whether or not the damsels would be burned to death by the dragons! You!” Discord pointed to one of his servants, “Fetch me a dragon; tell it I hope it’s ready to have a little…roast.”
“Yes…we could…but one knight there might interest you, my Lord. The one who wields the Sword of Light and Darkness.” Noblesse said in a slow and deliberate manner.
Discord’s face turned in a steady fashion from curiosity to attention to finally…relishing. “Such a prize rests in that mountain’s treasure? Well…perhaps it would be fine idea indeed to pay them a visit. I suppose I could spare some warriors for such festivities.”
All the dark urges and emotions lurking in Noblesse were indulged greatly, and they manifested their near-total domination of him with a nasty, evil grin. It was all so close now. The injuries Petrafyrm, curse his name, had done unto Noblesse Oblige’s domain would be met with a harsh justice. To see Canterlot burn…that was too lenient. It was, after all, an alicorn construct; the Mountain-borne Keep therefore was to pass into memory and then into oblivion.
No surer domination could be made of Equestria’s petty little lords: a power that could erase their realms from the map…what pony in reasonable mind could refuse to bend the knee then?
Bidding his lord farewell, Noblesse began returning to his own tent, wondering if he commissioned a crown now, would it be ready in time for his coronation?
Discord too thought to himself, his eye training on Noblesse. He was a clever little devil, he was. The serpentine creature stroked his short beard, and then snapped his fingers. A lasso appeared, and with a few revolutions it was turned on the Prince’s legs. Tied and confused, he cursed and yelled as Discord dragged the unicorn back to his presence.
“Now…one more thing, Noblesse. I know you’re of the inventive sort, but careful not to get too many ideas in that head of yours.” Dangling upside down by Discord’s grip, the Princeling nodded, the sound of his iron diadem clanking onto the ground. “Remember: I want that sword, and if I don’t get, I shall be most displeased.”
“Of…of course, Lord,” Noblesse replied.
“Good!” Discord then set the pony down, conjured up a brush to dust off his nice cloak and vest, and with a flick of his fingers sent that little tiara back on his head. The Draconequus then patted him like a pet, “Now…off you go!” And off he went. Discord leaned back and smiled; that unicorn was like a big mean dog, especially when faced with a bigger and meaner dog.
But he did have his uses.