4. The Twin Goddesses: Part 16. Scepter and Sword
“How do you think one might…utilize these Elements?” asked Lady Stellara as she stepped through an overgrown summer meadow, “Do they respond to voice commands? Or a magic spell? Or perhaps there is some sort of mechanism…”
“I suppose we shall find out soon enough, eh?” quipped Dame Wintermail. Her eye then trained to the side and noticed her sister’s saddlebag was open and she was fiddling around inside, “Put that away! What if something were to see?”
“Don’t tell me you’re scared of brigands out here. Between the two of us, we’d shrug them off like a bad dream,” Stellara smirked.
“No, but I don’t think it wise to tip our cards just yet. If the only advantage we have is the Elements are thought lost, then we must protect it.”
Stellara hummed in reply, brushing a lock of her pale blue mane from her eyes. Wintermail turned her gaze back to the wilderness, the snow-capped peak of Canterlot’s mountain just now barely visible above the tree canopy. A dark haze could be seen, and the white mare’s eyebrow rose in interest. She sprung into a canter and broke from the woods, emerging to see the bank of the river valley that ever dwelt in Canterlot’s shadow.
The tiniest prick of fear and apprehension in her mind soon took over, the scene plain enough. Her keen eyes could see the white citadel letting loose trails of black smoke, thicker and more vicious than any forges and hearths could produce.
Canterlot was ablaze.
“Something has got you in a hurry—“ Stellara immediately choked when she followed Wintermail’s line of sight. Slowly she stepped to her sister’s side. She looked up with horror in her eyes. The teals were met in kind with magentas. “Two days…how…?”
“What crafts, what devices of our enemy allowed then to assail the Mountain-borne Keep? The stores and armories could withstand years of siege.” Wintermail muttered.
“With mere means of ponies, perhaps. But many besides ponies have turned against Equestria.” Lady Stellara grimaced and bared her teeth, “We may have tarried too long in the Everfree, but not a moment more shall we delay. Come, Nikól; if we stay close to the trees, we can fly along the river’s course. There perhaps we can learn more, and check for what remains of Canterlot’s defense.”
Before she even got a response, for or against, the midnight mare unfurled her wings and leapt away, chasing the meander of the river with fanatical purpose. Finding good counsel in her sister’s words, Wintermail quickly followed and then met Stellara.
Several miles lay between them and the mountain’s base, and the journey punished their minds with such ample time to dwell on the worst this turn of events could offer. What horrors had managed to assail the city? Had Discord been with them? And what remained of those who bravely withstood the assault? How many good lords and soldiers perished in the fighting? Was her own Prince among them? Was his wife and son?
And of Henarion…their dear Uncle. True, he was aged even by the standards of Alicorns, and a valiant death in battle was not the worst way to meet one’s end. But Primrose and young Eldowas were but babes; they still had so much life they could have lived. Through their course the sisters each shared this thought, and when they turned to look at one another, the stabbing, stinging pain in their hearts spurred them onwards like a hot brand.
They were vigilant, always watching for any lookouts along the way. Any garrison that dared to profess allegiance to the enemy would become but a memory as soon as the alicorns saw them. Unfortunately for their bloodlust no such sentries could be found. But their sharp hearing did catch, beyond the whooshing of wind in flight, a rustle in the bushes beneath the riverine woods.
Practically snarling, the sisters veered off and landed, weapons drawn. Filled with rage and vengeance, they scanned the scene for any sign of movement, any moving thing to pay the damages dealt to the White Citadel with ruthless interest.
A helmed creature appeared from a bush, and with terrifying swiftness Wintermail ignited her blade and rushed forward. Inches from cutting through the interloper’s neck, she stopped when she saw its surcoat adorned with the coat-of-arm of Canterlot. The red subsiding from her sight, Wintermail recognized the creature as a pony, a unicorn she’d met in the Guard.
“Dame Wintermail! Lady Stellara! Oh thank the Gods above you’ve returned!” he beamed.
“It seems grim, Soldier. Name and rank,” ordered the Dame, sheathing her weapon.
“Caltrop, foot-stallion of the Fifth Company. And indeed it does; Canterlot has fallen, and what ponies escaped are scattered out across a hundred acres of forest.” Caltrop began leading the two alicorns down a hidden path, “I do not know much about the current situation beyond that, but I shall bring you to somepony who does.”
A short while later through the woods and over a narrow stream, the three ponies came to a small gathering of ponies working and moving supplies to and fro in a clearing. In the dim twilight small fires were lit, pegasi periodically banishing the smoke to avoid detection. In the center, amidst hastily-set up tents, was a purple-blue unicorn mare, wearing no finery save a tattered and dirtied dress, hiked up at the haunch to avoid dragging. She was barking orders, coolly yet with urgency, bringing order to the chaos.
“The Princess!” shouted Stellara. Caltrop brought the sisters to her Highness and bowed before the unicorn.
Princess Coruscina’s face lit up when she saw the sisters arrive, and placed a hoof on Caltrop’s shoulder, “Bless you for finding them. Now return to your post.” The soldier bowed and galloped back to his patch of forest. Immediately the Lady of Canterlot rushed forward and pressed her face against Wintermail’s, her once-tightly groomed mane now reduced to a frizzled and tangled mess, “Have you got them?”
There was no confusion. “We do,” Wintermail answered.
“Thank God… It does not look good. We…we almost won… We had the enemy in retreat, and their greatest beast slain. But then…the Draconequus came, and made a mockery of our warriors. There was no contrivance of ours that could stand against him for long, though we delayed him enough to escape. We brought as many supplies as we could through the hidden passages, and foraged out here, but it will only provide for so long. For the time, the enemy doesn’t seem terribly interested in hunting us down—a few small sorties were eliminated without much trouble. But if they decide to attack in full force…”
“They will not get the chance!” announced the Wintermail. She looked around at the campsite, seeing among their ranks several alicorns. “Where is my Uncle? And the Prince? Are they out on a mission?”
Coruscina answered with a quivering lip and misty eyes, “Lords Henarion and Cardúnón are leading a band of alicorns to scout the mountain. Captain Gendarmette is regrouping the Guard. As for the Pr…Prince…” she wiped her eye and sniffled, “He didn’t make it. My…Dear Peter…was slain.”
Wintermail’s heart sunk. Her hind legs gave out and she fell to her haunches, “No…there…there must be some mistake. Prince Petrafyrm—“
“Is dead,” Coruscina shot with a palpable tremble in her voice. A well of tears threatened to burst forward, but through iron-will she held back. “The time to grieve is not yet, Dame. Our own lives are still in peril, and for my husband, for our Prince, we must persevere.” The tears still came, streaming down her cheeks, but she recomposed herself and wiped her snout, “You will be fed over there. Eat and rest as you need, for you will need it.” The Princess excused herself and returned to ordering the ponies of the camp.
“He’s…gone?” Wintermail muttered, slowly stepping towards a small brook.
Stellara followed, “Nikóleva? I…I know this is hard, on both of us, especially you, but—“
“Go eat, Taberanyn. I’ll come soon…allow me a moment to myself, please,” Wintermail replied with a powerful lump in her throat. Without another word, Stellara stepped away. The white mare, now Lordless, a Knight with no master, came closer to the brook, comfortably hidden in the bushes and reeds. Sitting low and out of sight, she stared at the rushing water.
Prince Petrafyrm was gone. The stallion who had found her, and brought her into his service, to build her up as some sort of Queen, was now a memory. He’d sheltered her, trained her, believed in her when even the Wintermail was resigned to her own mediocrity. He was kind and generous, giving much and asking little. Peter was powerful and respected, but always just and patient.
Wintermail went back to the nights she’d spent in his chambers, conversing about matters as varied as all the collection of Canterlot’s Library. He’d been a confidant and a friend, always happy to entertain or be entertained. His words weren’t always the kindest, but they were always truthful. A pony of his like was an uncommon thing, perhaps seen only once every hundred years.
And now he was gone. Against a conscious will that knew better, Wintermail remembered one time in particular, where the Prince was receiving a sword-fighting lesson after his brush with death at Windhock Vale. His form was poor, his strikes sloppy and imprecise, but they were always filled with passion. He and Wintermail had sparred—the Prince lost, and was knocked into a wall for his troubles. Wintermail rushed to see that he was unharmed, and braced herself for her punishment.
And naturally Prince Peter got up and laughed, happily saying, “My sparring partner cannot be afraid to give all they’ve got, but nopony wants to hurt the Prince. I knew I could count on my one knight with no self-restraint!”
The tears began flow, and silent sobs wracked the Wintermail’s body. Never again to hear his wisdom, or see him tall and Princely. Never again to listen to his fawning over the alicorns and Equestria’s past glories like a little colt. The world was a little poorer now; changed and never to be unchanged.
A time passed before Wintermail was finished weeping, and at the end she hunched over the water. Her reflection, the filthy pink-maned mare that had failed her lord stared back. If only she had stayed, if only she hadn’t been sent on her mission to the Everfree…then at least she could have fought beside him and given her life for her liege.
But then, as Wintermail saw herself, she recalled all the words Petrafyrm had said over the past two years. The alabaster alicorn didn’t see much in that reflection, but doubtless the Prince had. He saw a savior, a heroine born of legends and myths, come to restore the Kingdom. A madness, or a blind obsession perhaps had possessed him, but everything he did was meant to rebuild Equestria.
In his death, was that goal to be lost? The last tears dried up, and Wintermail dipped her face in the water enough to wash away the grime. She looked again; No! No that dream would not die upon the ruin of Canterlot! He had trusted his God, his vassals, his ministers, and he had trusted Wintermail. His death would not release her from that trust, nor would it be proven false. He had believed in Equestria, and had worked tirelessly for it.
And there, upon the bank of this quaint little brook, Wintermail swore in the ancient tongue of her kin, to the One God above, on behalf of her liege and all the ponies in Equestria, the Fallen Kingdom would rise again.
She rose, grim-faced. Then a fiery rage built within, and only her strongest will kept it from burning this patch of forest down to the ground. Discord had played his games, and abused enough ponies. The Elements were found, and Wintermail was no longer interested in shying away. That Hellfiend, the Draconequus would pay. He would at last be punished for his insolent disregard for life and virtue.
Nikóleva, Daughter of Maiëlindir, of the Ancient House of Solárindil, would slay Discord as he had been slain by Lionheart in the myths, by Dyavilir in the stories. The Tree of Harmony said its fruits would only suffer to be used as weapons one last time—that was all the Wintermail needed.
The alicorn trotted back to the campsite. In her steely sights she found the Princess-Regent. “Coruscina, your Highness, how are our numbers?”
The Princess tapped her chin, “Barely a thousand, if not less. Most of the ponies—“ Her Highness was then cut off by the thunder of hooves pounding on the ground. Both mares saw tall ponies cantering into the clearing, all girt with weapons and covered in dirt. The alicorns had returned.
At the head of the group were two stallions, one orange the other green. Wintermail shed a tear of relief, and Lady Stellara trotted from her table and meal. Henarion, now called Dragonsbane, stood within the camp. It took almost no time, as though a hidden sense was at play, for him to notice his nieces. Without another thought he rushed forward and wrapped his forelegs around them.
“You made it!” he cried, smiling widely.
“You’re alive, Uncle! We…” Stellara began, but silenced when Henarion kissed her.
“I was lucky enough, but unlucky yet; we’re still in danger,” the gruff stallion said as he greeted Wintermail.
“Indeed,” came the deep voice of Cardúnón, “The enemy in large part has withdrawn elsewhere, but a garrison remains inside, and from the looks of…unusual spectacles in Canterlot, so has Discord.”
The green alicorn then approached Stellara, the two seemingly wishing to embrace but too uncomfortable or shy to do so. Henarion smiled and patted Cardúnón on the back, “He’s a good one. Got a chance to know him through this.” Stellara blushed, while her “courtier” cleared his throat. In the background Rhílë could be heard snickered while unloading her equipment with the other alicorns.
Wintermail grumbled softly. “What was our plan? To take back the city?” she asked Coruscina.
“’Our plan’? Simply to survive. We all were hoping you two would return with the Elements.”
“And we have,” said Stellara.
“Right, Sister, so now we shall reclaim Canterlot and cast down that dreaded creature that writhes within its walls.” Wintermail announced, face hewn of stone.
“We cannot, not with the forces we currently possess,” said Cardúnón, “From our reconnaissance, it seems most of them have left, perhaps in search of you two. Even so, the numbers within Canterlot are still greater than our own.”
“Aye. That castle stood three-thousand years, and in the end it took a creature from Tartarus to finally capture it. Even when the walls and gates are broken, what can some scattered levies and knights do?” asked Henarion, his attitude colored further by his rough northern speech.
“I say we recall the Princedom’s forces we sent to join the other Equestrian Lords,” voiced the Princess. “I act in the stead of my Son, in the absence of…my hus—the Prince. I must look to our lands before any others.”
Stellara thought a time, eyes darting back and forth and brow furrowed. “No…no! I disagree. Recalling them will take too long. By the time Canterlot’s banners arrive, the enemy will have either realized Nikól and I are here, or given up the search and returned anyway. We have to strike now, and we have to strike hard.”
“But what are we supposed to do, Tabóna?” Henarion gave a pleading look with his good eye, “There are defenses, seasoned warriors, and Discord. We’d be chewed to bits before we made the inner walls.”
“You forget, Uncle, that in our midst are Alicorns.” smirked Dame Wintermail. Henarion raised an eyebrow; Cardúnón got a look of combined interest and confusion. “The Triple-Kin, the mightiest warriors the world has ever known. Even without magic our size and strength are formidable.”
“Maybe, Girl, but Discord’ll snap his little fingers and end it right there. That old bearded fellow held him off some, but he’s too tired to do it again.” Despite the pessimism in her Uncle’s statement, Wintermail’s heart still lifted knowing the Librarian, from the language at least, was fine, if a bit exhausted.
“You let Taberanyn and I worry about Discord.” Henarion backed away ever so slightly. He caught a glimmer of a dreadful, terrible wrath burning in Nikóleva’s eyes. He had seen such a fiery resolve in only one other pony: her late father.
Wintermail turned to the Princess, “Your Highness, if it pleases you, recall Captain Gendarmette, as well as any ponies unfit for combat. There must be thousands in these woods. And tell me where the Librarian is, I should like to speak with him—and young Lord Vale if you allow me.” Against such a powerful combination of authority and courtesy, the Princess had no choice to agree. She nodded and pointed before her to a tent guarded by two stallions in armor.
“Thank you, your Highness. The rest of you: tend to the young, sick, elderly, and injured. See that they are cared for.” Wintermail held no power to order this, but still they listened. With a gesture she bid Stellara to follow her into the tent.
Pulling back the flap, they found a room dimly lit by small candles. Wrapped up in blankets and pillows were a multitude of fillies and colts, poor and frightened refugees in the aftermath of their city’s fall. Many, many more were likely huddled in tents or crudely-erected shelters across the hundreds of acres of Canterlot’s diaspora.
The foals looked frightened for a moment, large eyes fixed on the Wintermail and Lady Stellara. “Now, Children, these are friends. Show them kindness,” came a familiar voice. Delbedasir, looking older and more worn, but alive, sat at the head of the tent. He rose and smiled at the white mare, “I’m sure I lost a bet.”
A half-laugh chuckle came from her lips, “Nice to see you too.” The sisters bowed slightly before the Librarian.
“Right. You know enough about what’s happened, I’m sure. I trust your search was not in vain.”
“Not entirely; we have the talismans. The hour approaches, but we’re not sure how to use them.”
“Well…I wish there were an instruction manual, because I cannot tell you.”
“So we fly in blind, eh?” Stellara groaned.
“You’ve gotten this far,” The Librarian winked at his younger and more preferred pupil, “There isn’t much left I can teach you.”
“No, but we can thank you. You enabled everypony to escape, didn’t you?” Wintermail asked.
“Not everypony…,” the ancient alicorn replied, face crestfallen. He then perked up just as quickly, “There is more to the story, if you’ll suffer it. Once everything is through, of course.”
Wintermail’s smile was bittersweet. She then noticed amongst the foals sitting together and softly chanting songs there sat Lord Vale, and to his side little Eldowas. Stellara was patting her “nephew” on the mane as Wintermail studied the young Prince-to-be. “Does he know? Lord Vale, I mean.”
The Librarian did not speak. A heavy sigh left his lips, telling Wintermail all she needed to know. The alabaster alicorn then craned her neck for the colt, “May I ask you something?” Lord Vale nodded.
Stellara didn’t hear what it was, only seeing her sister whisper in the colt’s ear. When she rose back up, Wintermail bowed to the Lord and the Librarian, “If…we don’t see each other for a while…I want to say, despite your canings and attitude, you’ve done much for us. Thank you so much.”
Lady Stellara smiled and nodded in agreement. The blue mare had been so accustomed to the Librarian’s sharp and dry wit, and thoroughly expected some sort of quip directed at her sister. But Stellara was surprised to put it lightly when the old stallion wrapped his forelegs around the two. He said nothing more, and the sisters crept back and left the tent.
“I…did not know…he was a capable of actual feelings.” a stunned Wintermail muttered.
“Enjoy it while it lasts,” replied Stellara.
The elder mare grinned. “I’m relieved Eldowas is fine. What of his mother?”
“Primrose is out tending to the others, as he told me. He’s quite brave for only being three years old.”
“He’s an alicorn,” Wintermail smugly said.
In the open now, the white pony shed her jovial demeanor and replaced it with a far graver one. Stepping to the center of the clearing, she fired up her spirit with a grand conviction. Henarion and the other alicorns and ponies were hauling and distributing out supplies, unmindful of the royal sisters. Wintermail would not allow that state of affairs to continue.
Charging her voice with magic, she dove right in. “Your ears, Friends,” she spoke, clear as a bell and mighty as a mountain; mere seconds passed before everypony around was listening. Satisfied with their attention, she resumed, “Some of you know me, some of you have seen me. Dame Wintermail Flamecaster, Knight of Canterlot. This is a name I have worn for many years, ashamed of or otherwise unwilling to reveal my true heritage. For I am called Nikóleva, daughter of Maiëlindir of the ancient blood of King Sun Flare, of old Alícor.” Her heart was pounding, and she finally realized she was about to take a momentous step she had heretofore avoided at all costs.
A deep breath came through her nose. “I am the true Heir of Equestria, its Rightful Queen. Canterlot, by the laws set so long ago, is held in my stead by Canterlot’s Prince.” Whispers abounded, some startled, some upset, some simply annoyed. But Nikóleva’s charged voice kept their attention. “But I shall not order any of you today. Yet by my blood, my honor, and my duty, I shall fight against that fiend and his legions. Alone or at the head of a hundred-thousand—either way, I shall fight. Those that love justice, peace, family, and home, and who’ve no fear of death, are welcome to join me.”
A yellow glow gripped Eónadin’s hilt, and its blade shone black and deadly sharp. “Today, Discord will be sent back to the foul pit he crawled from, or I shall breathe my last. I swear this in view of God and Ponies. I shall not order, but I shall ask, for all ponies who will stand, and not let their world bow to evil and despair, to fight beside me. Who shall raise their blade with mine?”
The odds were terrible. Even with primeval talismans hope was frail and fading. Most ponies weren’t quite sure what to say or do. Lady Stellara Nightwrath however did. “I shall!” the midnight mare called out, raising Ailéránen, “I am Taberanyn, of the same ancient blood. Where my sister goes, I shall go as well. Out here we will linger until we’re hunted down; fight for Canterlot, and at least we have a chance!”
Princess Coruscina’s heavy gaze summed up the sentiment of everypony. Within her eyes was great conflict. Henarion saw this, and rose to the occasion, “Henarion Dragonsbane. My sword cleaved off the fell god’s hand; this time I’ll aim for his neck!”
Cardúnón then advanced with his weapon, announcing his name, his pride in alicorn blood, and his resolve to free this land from its cruel and vicious oppressor. Rhílë joined too, sharing a determined look with her brother. Soon others in the crowd grew bold, and alicorn and tulicëai alike joined with the band of brothers and sisters that would shake their hooves to the last.
The Princess-Regent approached. Wintermail met her halfway, “Your Highness, I ask now for what Prince Petrafyrm had wanted all along. The Age of Princes is over.” A new and vigorous royal confidence shined from the Knight—no, Queen-to-be.
Coruscina looked pensive, “I cannot grant you a crown, Dame. I can give you only one thing. Yet I still remember the conversations you had with Peter. You sing a different tune, as though you are a different instrument.”
“To speak as a smith, more like iron tempered with hammer and fire. I spoke as the Wanderer, then as the Knight. The Prince’s words brought me ever closer. And now his death has brought me all the way; I am a Queen. I will not beg nor demand; I ask for the Scepter and Hosts of Canterlot.”
Coruscina’s breathing wavered, and she wiped a tear, “It was his greatest dream; the black borders of the map washed away. Very well, Wintermail, you are Regent now. You command the armies of Canterlot; lead them to victory.”
Wintermail bowed, “They shall conquer, Your High—“
The Princess wrapped her foreleg around the giant alicorn’s neck and pulled her down, “Your first concern is protecting my son.”
“Not a hair on his head,” Wintermail smiled. Coruscina released her, and soon most everypony was joining the assembled group charged with retaking a city thought impenetrable for nearly a millennium. Fervor and battle-prowess would serve well, but it would also be sound to prepare a bit more. Wintermail bade the others to calm and sheathe their weapons, calling them to gather around a nearby table.
Now her own master, and with the confidence of the Princess, Wintermail called for the devising of their grand strategy.
With the brilliant military mind of Lady Stellara, the sheer ferocity of the Wintermail, and hundreds of ponies fighting for their homes and lives, not to mention no small help from six magical artifacts, nothing could save that wicked Draconequus from such righteous fury forever.
*――――――――――S――――――――――*
It was a good plan, devised under scant resources and dire circumstances though it was. Lady Stellara repeated this thought to herself all the while the thousand or so war-ponies fumbled through the mountain labyrinth. Princess Coruscina and several other survivors had intimate knowledge of the tunnels that afforded the midnight alicorn enough information for her so-called “talents”. Word had gotten around in the weeks following the Battle of Windhock Vale that what won the day was the clever and quick thinking of Stellara.
This had since become a burden. It was one thing to take a chance during a battle already in motion, with well-disciplined troops and commanders; it was quite another to be responsible for the absolute success or failure of despondent ponies freshly bereft of their beloved sovereign. And possibly the continued existence or utter destruction of Equestria too—Stellara didn’t forget that part.
Dozens of entrances into the tunnels could be found in Canterlot, many sealed by magic doors or hidden under stone slabs. The idea was simple: parties of warriors would ambush strategic positions where concentrations of the enemy were greatest. Cut them down or otherwise subdue them while they patrolled or lazed away in song and drink, consolidate and fortify positions, and pincer objectives still being contested.
Henarion’s debriefing revealed the heaviest of Noblesse’s warriors had withdrawn, and very likely their commander with them. Their great beasts of battle, Zebrican elephants and dragons, had mostly either been killed in the Siege or fled. Thestrals remained to guard the sky, some mustangs to provide speedy scouts and couriers, and minotaurs to defend. It was a standard garrison arrangement, just enough to ensure the castle could withstand a siege until relief forces arrived.
But not intended to drive off foes that could sneak inside.
The dark stone corridor dripped and howled, a brooding cave somehow more discomforting than the one in the Everfree. Stellara’s hoof jittered as she followed her sister, the dim glow of unicorn and alicorn horns cut short by the abrupt turn in the tunnels.
“You don’t suppose we’ll find anything crawling in here, do you?” Henarion softly asked from behind the blue mare.
“That’d be unfortunate…for them,”Wintermail smirked, following Fallowtail, a Quartermistress who’d been wandering these halls since fillyhood.
“We should not,” replied Fallowtail, “These entrances are well-hidden; to even find them could take months of searching, should those savages and brutes even know of them.”
“Their chief is clever enough, though,” Cardúnón said, hoof splashing in a small standing puddle. He grimaced and wiped his fetlock on the stone.
“Mhm…it’s a good plan, isn’t it?” Stellara thought aloud, nerves bright and clear in her voice, “Soon every other group will emerge and engage, whereas we have the greatest honor of all: we get to go right into the Keep with Discord!”
“Don’t sound too excited, Sister,” Wintermail said dryly, “We aren’t totally helpless.”
“You better not be!” Henarion laughed, Wintermail joining; Stellara did not.
The group, comprising of the Quartermistress, the Royal Sisters, their Uncle and his Wife, Cardúnón and Rhílë, as well as about a dozen other alicorns and soldiers, finally came to a large antechamber. They spread out and drew weapons, both anxious and eager to avenge their city.
Fallowtail pressed her horn against the far wall, “On the other side is the lower Castle. Once we’re through, that’s it.”
“No turning back,” Wintermail grimly intoned. She turned to face her party, “Ponies, when we find our foes, hold them off, fight them, kill them if needed. My Sister and I shall find the Draconequus and at last put a stop to his cruelty. Do not attempt to follow us, or allow us to be delayed, for our confrontation will be the only thing keeping the Hellfiend from blinking in front of you all and willing your skin away from your bones.”
Gasps and gulps of fear came from the ponies. Cardúnón stepped forward and called out to the others, “Do as your Queen commands; they are the only ones that can tie him down. At the slightest turn of the tide Discord will try and slither away like the snake he is.” His grey eyes then found a look of satisfaction and appreciated from his Exilarch.
Henarion placed his forehoof on Wintermail’s shoulder, “That fancy sword of yours ought to keep him busy enough. We’ll do our part; see you when you get back.” Uncle embraced both nieces, kissing their foreheads and brushing their manes with a hoof. “You know, Nikól, I think you’ve earned the right to show your eye again,” he said, pushing Wintermail’s pink mane aside to reveal the right eye she kept covered.
“I’ve grown fond of it this way,” she smiled.
Wintermail was immediately pushed aside by her smaller sister, whose eyes were starting to grow red, “Careful, Uncle! If…things to don’t turn out well, please don’t blame me too hard.”
Henarion’s good eye narrowed, heavy with confusion—the thought hadn’t crossed his mind. He then softened and came to a warm and caring countenance, cradling her head in the crook of his neck, “Never, Tabóna.”
Wintermail looked down at Henarion’s small Tulicë wife, garbed in armor and with her lance, “Primrose, I—“
“Send that fork-tongued bastard to Hell! Make him sorry he ever crawled out of his hole!” Wintermail blinked a moment, then burst into a fit of laughter with the pegasus. Primrose and Stellara shared no words, sealing their regard and love for one another with a firm hug and kiss on the cheek.
The Dame, no…Regent of Canterlot, gazed upon her other warriors, many alicorns who’d sworn their service to their leader. This proud race, few though they were, still had the conviction to stand and fight against a primordial evil beside their younger kin. Wintermail softly regretted not being able to have been present at the siege, for many painful reasons, one of which was to see her kindred battle as valiantly as the survivors had described.
Cardúnón was to her side. “Your alicorns are strong and brave, more than enough to justify your pomposity,” she said. The green alicorn opened his mouth but was cut off, “But as arrogant as you are, Cardúnón, you’ve got substance—staying here with us when you could have fled. Maybe in a hundred years I’ll finally like you enough to tolerate you courting my sister.”
He ignored the last statement and puffed up his chest, “I would not abandon my Queen, nor refuse her call.”
A wistful, bittersweet grin crossed Wintermail’s lips, “I’m surprised you and the Prince didn’t get along better; you had more in common than you thought.”
From behind her brother Rhílë rose up, “Thank you! Finally somepony else notices it! Happy hunting, Nikóleva; we certainly will.”
The white and lavender mares shared their laughter while Lady Stellara shyly approached Cardúnón. He bent his sight from her sister and smiled. “I…um…hope you…uh…,” he stammered.
“I…er…when we come back, would you…pick flowers in the garden with me?” asked Stellara, rubbing the back of her head.
“Of course, er…My Lady. As you wish…and if your Uncle…um—“
“Oh for the sake of dignity…this is excruciating,” mumbled the Wintermail.
Irritated by her sister, Taberanyn grit her teeth and mustered an uncommon amount of courage, “You’re right.” And without second thought she pulled Cardúnón in for a kiss on the lips. It was quick and suffered derision by the two alicorn’s respective sisters. Henarion and Primrose, romantic as they were, shared a grin.
Cardúnón was speechless, stuck with a big stupid smile on his face. Stellara breathed in deeply and stomped a hoof, “We’ve waited long enough; let’s go!”
A dark grin of bloody anticipation curled on Wintermail’s lips. She drew steel, and everypony else followed her mark. Quartermistress Fallowtail looked at her Regent, who then nodded. With a flash of her horn, she subjected the wall to a spout of magic. Soon a square of faint blue light appeared and the stone slipped back, into the black recesses of Canterlot’s tunnel. The revealed hall was lit with torches now, still far from windows and the dim twilight that enveloped the world under Discord’s designs.
And out they all galloped. Like a cascade of foaming water the ponies crashed upon the castle’s garrison. Small patrols and stations before doors proved little challenge for this strongest war-party. And when the fighting brought them all to the courtyard, swords were notched and spears splintered. The bulk of the castle’s defenders gathered there, the threat of these interlopers seemingly arising from the mountain walls too great to ignore.
Scores of mustangs and minotaurs and thestrals poured from halls and doorways, viciously seeking glory. They found something else; fully-grown alicorns proved utterly dangerous opponents, alongside younger ponies with just as much spirit and fervor. Dragonsbane merely had to raise his blade to cause many who’d heard the slaying of Telnarakh to hesitate long enough to be speared by the imperceptibly-fast Lady Thunderlance.
Back to back, Cardúnón and Rhílë cleaved heads and limbs as soon as they crawled from the doors, both heaving and straining against their burning muscles—but nary a scratch assailed the siblings in full battle-fury. And around them their comrades struck down their stunned opponents, helms bloodied. Their fighting would become legendary in tales and songs to come, made mythic as those that remembered became older and the young grew in a world bereft of an ancient sort of hero.
Other detachments of Canterlot’s liberators were gaining ground on the lower levels and outer streets and courts, a few finding their way into the Castle and striking their hammers upon the anvil of alicorns. The situation grew dire, and it was not long until the garrison’s commanders called other units for aid. This left the path to Discord’s throne defended only by a small number of highly elite warriors.
A brisk, refreshing challenge for the Royal Sisters. As they turned from their friends and allies, Dame Wintermail and Lady Stellara galloped along marble floors and archways, instinctively heading to the grand chamber they’d visited a thousand times before.
But as they grew closer, the masonry of Canterlot changed. From stony white it darkened until it looks as though onyx had become mixed with blood and porphyry. Pillars and arches took on a violet-black-reddish tone—really a color that baffled explanation, and grew taller and less…straight. Columns began to curl and snake as the two alicorns came closer. The roof receded, revealing the dark dusky sky, until the chambers seemed a tangled bramble of thorns and vines. The ancient stained-glass illustrating great history was morphed to show that accursed Draconequus aggrandized in so many ways: as a warrior, a judge, a poet, and a minstrel. Ponies cowered in terror in each, while his diseased maw twisted in a devious smile, arms outstretched in supreme arrogance.
At last, as Wintermail and Stellara emerged, they were given show to a mere taste of the world Discord wanted to bring forth. As stones hovered about, unbound by natural law, they grew bloated and…bubbly, melting in an otherworldly liquid that strewn across the upper heights of the room.
Against the violet-red sky and the dark, formless clouds stood statues of Canterlot’s new master, some reclined in leisure, some slithering like a snake. One was in fact balanced on a massive globe, perhaps the Earth itself, like a child might to impress his friends. An arc of lightning flashed, and there the true horror of Discord’s new regime came to Wintermail’s eyes. All these works, statues, architecture, windows, all spoke of a grand desire to simply…play. Creation was Discord’s toy box, its inhabitants figurines to set up and knock down as he pleased.
Every effigy to the Fell God bore some sort of costume, the raiment of whatever role he wished to assume in each; armor, robes, aprons, tunics. Yet not a one bore a crown or scepter. A gloom, an encroaching chill of despair and evil crept, using unseen claws to try and bore into the hearts of the Sisters.
Before them was a tall wire gate of a red metal, emitting a glow like an exotic fire unseen in mortal lands. Arranged by the snaking metal was the likeness of Discord’s smiling head, his paw and talons capping the hinges on either side.
Stellara drew a breath through her teeth, letting it back out with a slight tremble. “Are you well, Taby?” asked the elder mare.
“I’m simply…having a few misgivings about charging headlong into the den of a god. Though we’ve gotten this far; what’s a little further?” she replied, ending in a nervous chuckle. “I’m simply…a tad frightened. And you, Nikól?”
The Wintermail tensed her throat and narrowed her magenta eyes on the gate, “Terrified.”
Along their sides, braziers flickered to life, flaring with a fire that burned all colors of the rainbow, in no particular order of course. A deep sinister laugh echoed above, laced with cruelty. Both alicorns could recall his toothy grin, and feel his hot breath baring down their necks.
Swords and axe were drawn, and they took stance. Eyes bolted around the chamber, but he could not be seen. His voice continued, “Well…I was not expecting guests. I missed you at the house-warming, but we can make up for lost time. You’ve brought many guests with you, however—don’t you know it’s rude to not announce this beforehand? I fear I might not be able to accommodate them all.”
“I’m sure they’ll manage,” spat Wintermail, venom heavy on her lips. She began taking her step, either to push open the gate or cleave it in two.
“Oh oh oh…not so fast, my Dear,” came Discord’s voice again, but now coming from the metal image of the beast upon the gate. It coiled up and out of its shining prison, hands letting go from their perches. The red-metal Discord loomed above the alicorns, “What’s the rush? Fancy a game, for a little leisure in such serious times?” They both glowered, surely intensely enough to strike a mortal dead.
Discord’s puppet took note, “Well it seems some enjoyment is sorely needed. So…,” it snapped its avian fingers, flashing into existence a dark stony labyrinth of brick and mortar, overgrown with vines and thicket, alive with traps and pitfalls. The metal figure pushed open the gate, outstretching its arm to present the Draconequus’ latest devisement.
“Come, my friends! I know you want me, but first you have to prove yourselves!” He danced his red-metal fingers, miming the strings of a puppeteer, “Twists and turns, boils and burns; If what you seek lies—“
And then, after so long containing, restraining herself, learning control and poise, Wintermail let loose a latent burning fury deep in her heart. Anger at her dead liege, her dear friend, and for all the ponies this damned war had taken, and all the ponies still to be taken…this anger rushed to the surface. Wintermail flashed her horn, and the black steel of Eónadin glowed white-hot. “No!” she called, voice heightened by magic. She swung once, then twice, and with primeval power the illusion was shattered, the stones cracking and blazing from sight.
“I have had enough of riddles, mazes, tricks, and games. We shall face you, Discord, and serve justice so long overdue. When we finish, you’ll have wished you stayed in that burning hole in Tartarus.” The long strides of the giant alicorn brought her through. A purple-green haze cleared away, and she saw the renovated throne room of Canterlot, now purposed for this serpent.
Four large minotaurs stood guard, clad in armor with a golden glint and bearing long weapons halfway between sword and glaive. Wintermail and Stellara matched them across the distance, adorned in their own steel plate and mail. Their crested helms rustled in the breeze; Wintermail grinned, for she spotted Discord on his lofty throne just behind his guards.
The minotaurs readied their weapons. Stellara raised Ailéránen and Nocadecoë, sword and axe ready to lay waste upon these guards and their Master. She ensnared both blades in her nightly shroud, as was her fashion since Windhock Vale.
Wintermail though, blood boiling and rage coming to light again, flared up her blade. Bathed in magic fire, burning bright and searing, she approached the minotaurs with it. Appearing the very image of an ancient Alicorn Queen, a confident sovereign of the World with all the power to vanquish any foe, Nikóleva Daughter of Maiëlindir bore down on them with her towering height. She raised Eónadin, but withheld her first strike.
“Go, now. Remain here, Minotaurs, and you shall be slain. By blade or fire, I shall arrest all my enemies should they stand in my way. Throw down your weapons, and leave with your lives.” The guards stirred, shaken by this powerful new opponent. For the moment fear of the Master was matched by sheer awe for the Wintermail. But then she continued, “You need not serve such a cruel liege. Discord has poisoned your hearts and minds with promises he has no intention of keeping. When Equestria is won, he will turn on you and your lands, and reduce your families to bondage and servitude.”
“We hold no bad blood with you all,” Stellara began, “So we grant this courtesy: find shelter, for what shall ensue shall not be pretty nor kind.” The midnight mare finished with an icy glare at Discord.
The minotaurs looked at one another, then at Discord. It was unclear what they would choose—perhaps even to themselves. But Discord seemed to tire of such indecisiveness, and with a flick of his wrist he sent them all flying off the edge, like walnuts from a windowsill. They all survived—their master did not care enough to kill them. The four elite guards then departed elsewhere, beyond the knowledge or interest of the Royal Sisters and their Fell Foe.
“That is the last time I do someone a favor,” the serpent chided, sitting up on his throne. Ready for the grandest fight since Elder Days, the sisters came closer. There they saw Discord in all his “splendor”: appearing the same Draconequus they had encountered back west, seated upon a silver-yellow chair adorned with motifs of skeletons and abstract patterns. It hovered above the floor, drawing debris up with its unseen field. Faint screams of agony sounded from him; poor miserable Canterlot ponies that had not been killed or escaped were settled to being his furnishing. Several were contorted into shapes that fit the pleasure of Discord best, either as footstools or side-tables. One was his neck pillow, periodically adjusted with palpable cries.
Wintermail could hardly stand the sight of innocent ponies being tortured so, and burned with fury. Stellara swallowed, less hardened to such terrible sights. Both raised their weapons, fire and lighting pulsing through alicorn steel. From the quiet whispers to the march on Canterlot, Discord had masterminded the entire war, the entire troubles to befall Equestria. Six elements now were ready and willing to end his reign of blood and terror, of chaos and cruelty. But those cards still remained hidden.
For Discord looked at his two new guests, narrowing his misshapen, mismatched sickly yellow eyes, and grinned wide. Wringing his hands, he took the moment to wonder about all the fun the three could have. “How kind of you to bring me that sword. I had sent for it, but you know how the post can be.”
Dame Wintermail said nothing. She only surged magic into Eónadin and angled it downwards, as one would before a high strike. She swung her forehoof across the floor and crouched ever so slightly, ready to pounce. A final snort from her snout came, as if to say to her greatest foe, “Come and take it.”